13. Augustus
THIRTEEN
AUGUSTUS
February 15th, 2019
She’s so pale and soft, her skin miles of succulent peachy-cream temptation. The kind of temptation that drives even a sane man crazy.
And I am no sane man.
For five years, I’ve watched my girl grow from a broken, beaten-down victim to a powerful and irresistible force. She is like a temptress, learning to harness her emotions, her desires, and her strength against the world. Her spirit is that of a wild filly, untamed and unbreakable, even in the face of devastating circumstances.
It has not been easy for either of us. As I’ve traveled across states rodeoing, trying to survive the wrath of my older brother who sees me as both his savior and his prisoner, I am constantly torn away from her. But every time I come back and see her growth, it makes every day apart worth it.
I want to be there for her in every way that matters. But I also want her to have her own strength, identity, wants, and needs. Because when the time is right and I can finally emerge from the shadows to claim her, she will need every ounce of who she is to survive .
My love for her knows no bounds or logic. It is not easy or convenient; it is consuming and chaotic. She is the only one who can make me whole again, like the missing puzzle piece of my soul. And I know that when I finally have her completely, I will consume her entirely.
I love her enough to offer her freedom. For now.
She smiles, her face tipped toward the pale morning sky. Her cheeks stain a bright pink from the crisp, winter Colorado air, and I fight off a shiver. It’s fucking freezing here, and I’m man enough to admit I hate mountains and snow.
But I will go wherever she is. Always.
Stetson is dressed in nothing more than a long tattered t-shirt and pink underwear that peeks out from the hem of the shirt each time she shifts. Her full body presses against the railing of the deck, and I can see the peaks of her nipples straining against the fabric. My mouth waters with the need to suck them.
It’s a simple, private moment, similar to ones we’ve shared many times before—not meant to be sexy or arousing. But I nearly spill in my jeans. Every. Fucking. Time. Stetson just does that to me. I am a ravenous beast, and being this close to her, yet too far to feel her skin beneath my fingertips, is enough to drive me mad. I feel both peaceful and murderous, and it’s a heady cocktail.
I’m not a pervert—stalking an unsuspecting girl who is helpless to my dark intentions—this is my future wife I’m watching, the mother of my future children, the only pussy I will ever fuck again. I don’t care how long it takes.
I’ve spent years watching her, never interacting or contacting her, allowing her to grow up and enjoy life; well, enjoy life the best she can for someone with such bleak circumstances. She is becoming her own person: hard-working, vicious, quick-tempered, stubborn, empathetic, submissive in bed, and dominant in life—my perfect equal. Stetson is not my perfect equal because everything she is matches me, but because everything she is, is perfectly her , and there can’t be anything more right for me than that. There is no darkness too dark, no flaw too flawed. Stetson is the beginning and end of my story. And soon enough, I will be hers, too.
I don’t know when the right moment will come, but I know it’s not yet. She’s still lost and unhappy with everything and everyone around her. And I refuse to taint our memories together by taking advantage of her vulnerability. I see her growing stronger day by day, and I hold nothing against her for how she handles the shitty hand she’s been dealt.
I’m patient when it comes to waiting for my Little Filly because I know, someday, we will have it all.
I lean against the cool wall, my body enveloped in darkness as I watch her. I run a hand through my hair, the tight ringlets pulling with the motion, and breathe deeply, hoping against any sane hope that I might be able to tell what she smells like from here. I picture fresh-cut grass and lemons and something minty. I imagine what she will say to me when she finally sees me again. Will she remember me from all those years ago? Will she be excited or nervous?
Stetson is sinfully beautiful, her long hair slightly wavy and the warmest of blonde. It looks golden in the sunlight. Her full breasts and apple-shaped ass fit perfectly with her many curves, full hips, and soft tummy. Gray-green eyes the color of the coldest mountain steam, always sparkling and watchful, and her lips—those fucking lips—bright pink, no matter the time of day, are always so plump and pouty I know my dick could rest there without having to hold it.
No, she might not be traditionally beautiful, but that’s just one more reason I love her. She breaks all the societal norms. People hate that they love her, that they want her and want to be like her. Not me. I’m hungry beyond a single rational thought for her— for even a scrap of her.
I’m not the only man drawn to her, not even close. And like I promised myself, I never intervene. Not right away, anyway. If she needs to fuck to find herself, who am I to stop her? I won’t give her a reason to resent me when we are old and gray. I want her to know I know every dark, deprived thing about her, and love her not despite it, but because of it.
I haven’t slept with a woman in five years, which feels less scary than it sounds. At first, it was a nearly impossible feat. But I’ve learned to embrace the pain, the torture of not having her. It’s my own version of adrenaline, my own reminder that I am alive and have a greater purpose. Stetson can do what she wants for now; I’ll just keep running my imaginary tally—one where she will pay for each cock she took and will beg me for her redemption. I am her Savior, all she has to do is let me into her heart.
Stetson is an especially dirty girl, far dirtier than any one person knows about her. Except for me, I know everything. I’ve watched guys make rules and then dole out punishments. I’ve watched boys chase her and scare her. I’ve watched guys edge her, spit on her, degrade her. I’ve seen it all and loved every dark, depraved thing she learned about herself.
Because they are the things that make up each of my fantasies. And Stetson is the star in every single one.
I will do all of those things to her. Not because she asks me to. Not even because I know she likes them. But because that is the kind of man I am and always have been. And I will replace every memory, every touch from another man with my own.
We are made for each other—me and my wild Little Filly.
Stetson shifts her head, her eyes tracing over the shadows where I’m currently pressed against the wall. She can’t see me, she never does; I’ve gotten far too good at blending into the darkness.
But she wants to be seen. Deep down. And I’m watching, always watching.
Stetson turns around, her face falling just a fraction. She steps through the balcony door, and I release a ragged breath. My body vibrates with the need to go after her, to claim her, to comfort and be everything for her. It’s another birthday come and gone, another year spent apart.
I step backward, away from her building, away from the shadows that have become my closest friend. I have to keep waiting. I have to keep being patient. I will not ruin this, no matter how badly I want to ruin everything about her.
I have an appointment to make, anyway.
Turning on my heel, I quickly walk in the direction of the small twenty-four-hour tattoo shop, my heart hammering faster with each step—not with fear, but with anticipation. I love the pain, what it represents. The bell above the door rings, mixing with the low thumping bass vibrating the cluttered walls. The familiar smell of alcohol wipes and coffee fills my nostrils and I smile—only a little.
“Man! I was wondering if we were going to see you today.” Phil, a squatty, spiky-haired tattoo artist, who has done my tattoos every year, leans against the counter.
“Naw, my girl would be too disappointed if I didn’t get my yearly tattoo in her honor,” I state dryly and he smiles, a toothy grin far too bright for this early in the morning, waving me back.
Getting a tattoo on Stetson’s birthday has become my special tradition. Someday, she will see the patchwork of my love for her, my celebration of her life, our life , before she even knew me. Would others find that fucked up and creepy? I don’t fucking care. Stetson will love it—the devotion and obsession—and she’s the only person I care about .
“We’d hate to disappoint the Misses.”
I huff and nod, taking my jacket off as I step around the counter toward his chair. “You have no idea.”
“What did she think of the one we did last year?” I absently trace over the small black rearing filly on my calf and smile. My wild Little Filly. I just shrug. “Still didn’t top the one I got the first year.”
“Which is a damn shame! I hate that I didn’t do the first one for you—that you got it before you moved here.”
I grunt, slumping into the chair. I snap my jeans open, pulling my leg from the pants, exposing the canvas of our love story.
I can’t wait to show her someday.
“Enough talking, Phil. You know that’s not my thing.” I don’t like being a dick. But I also am not good at friends, and even worse at small talk. Plus, Phil doesn’t need to know my ‘girlfriend’ doesn’t know I exist yet. He chuckles, used to my abrasive nature.
“What’ll it be this year, boss?”
“I saw you had a heart made out of vines or some shit.” I point at the drawing on the wall behind me. “Can you do something similar, but in barbed wire?”
His eyes glitter down at me— always fucking happy, this one. “Strap in. It’s going to be a long day!”
“It’s been a long fucking year.”
March 30th, 2024
I know I shouldn’t have texted her. I hadn’t planned on “stalking” her once I moved onto her property, but she’s proven much harder to crack than I anticipated. I can barely be around her without wanting to bend her over and fuck her—with or without permission—so I’ve had to keep my distance. Even if it has made me a miserable bastard.
And then she took that as I hate her, and the thought makes me smile every time. I do fucking hate her, but in the most obsessive kind of way. I hate that I am no longer me without her. I hate that I am so close and yet feel so far from her. She’s pushing me away, which I expected. But I fucking hate her more for it.
I know by texting her tonight, I’m flirting with the line of blowing my cover, and I’ve only just started. But fuck!
I was sitting on the roof of the barn, innocently staring into her window, more to make sure she was really still right here in front of me— after all this time, it feels fake —and then I saw her roll over, throwing the sheets off, her naked body and motions perfectly highlighted by the hazy light, like she wanted to be seen. She was fingering her pussy like her life depended on it. Like she was on fire and the only thing that would put out the flames was for her to personally come all over everything.
And fuck—if there had been a fire, she would have been successful.
I’ve known a couple squirters in my time, but it’s been years since I’ve been with a woman, much less watched one come. Wouldn’t matter if I had fucked someone earlier today, Stetson puts them all to shame. She’s so sexy when she comes—brows pinched together, her mouth hanging open, legs quivering.
Even from fifty feet away, I could see the glistening proof of her arousal in the moonlight—on her fingers, on her lower stomach, on her sheets.
At first, seeing her fucking her hand had done nothing but send every drop of blood in my body racing to my cock, swelling it until it felt fit to burst against the seam of my jeans. It had been so hot, my own private show from my girl .
And then I remembered she wasn’t completely my girl—not in her eyes, anyway. And jealousy, hot and violent, bolted through me like a flash of lightning. Jealousy for the fact that she could touch my pussy without me present, that she could come without my permission , that she could finish without my name screamed from her lips.
Who the fuck had she been picturing to make herself come like that, anyway? Nathan?
I’ll fucking kill him if I find out that’s who she was imagining.
So, I texted her, reminding her who she fucking belongs to. Even if that puts my secrets in jeopardy. Even if that might confuse her between me and “stalker me”. I couldn’t help it. I had to know, had to stake my claim once more.
She is mine. Her pussy is mine. Her fucking cum is mine.