At Last We Can Be Together
He stole you from me, but I know how to get you back
CW: Dark, Menacing, Mature Content. This story was inspired by a Bruce Springsteen song (which isn’t so dark)
There’s a chill in the air. I watch her leave the house dressed in a dark skirt with her coat belted over the top. Her long mousy blonde hair is tied in a ponytail with a blue scarf, making my heart thud in my chest. I am hunkered down in my car, but she is aware I am here, watching her at all times. That scarf is her signal to me — blue means she has stayed true, kept herself pure and unsullied.
She walks away from the house, her yellow brick prison. It doesn’t fool me with its cheerful flowers in pots by the door, a neat square of grass at the front which he mows at the weekend.
Once her retreating figure is out of sight I open the car door and climb out.
I need to stretch my legs, my back, having slept on the rear seat all night. I toss my thin blanket into a corner and shake several empty drink cartons hopefully, seeking something drinkable. My reward is a few gulps of melted ice water from yesterday’s Seven-up. Walking around my piece of shit car, the rust on its panels only partly obscured by dirt, some feeling returns to my fingers and toes.
I badly want to void my bladder, but a dog walker is approaching. Their small, curly-haired pet is on its mission to smell every blade of grass. I turn away to hide my face, but I hear the stream as the dog relieves itself against the tyre of my car, which is exactly what I’m intending to do. When the owner and the dog have disappeared, I make quick work of my unsavoury needs
.
My stomach growls as I tuck myself back into my jeans, but food will have to wait. Now I have the opportunity to get closer to her, I’m on fire.
I check that the coast is still clear of neighbours and passing cars, then hurry up the path to the door she so recently closed. I study the lock, relieved to note it’s neither fancy nor new. I post a pizza flyer I’d grabbed from my car through the letterbox, as if that were the purpose of my visit. There’s still nobody around, so I move unseen down the side of the house, jiggle the bolt which is within reach over the top of the gate, and reconnoitre the rear of the property.
The back door lock is easy to bypass, plus a small window is open in the kitchen — child’s play for a guy like me.
I slip on gloves, pull out my tools, and in a few minutes, I let myself into the house, her home. Familiarising myself with the layout is important, but I am burning to see how she lives. What keeps her here when she could be with me. I hum to myself and take a look around.
The kitchen is ordinary, but spacious, with a large fridge that has an ice dispenser, something I’ve always wanted. The surfaces are bright and clean, the dishwasher is running and, in an annexed room, I see a washer and dryer. I sniff gingerly at the clothes I’m wearing, which smell ripe and are rumpled from my time in the car. I spent a fevered night parked outside so I’m seized by the idea of washing and drying them while I am here; I could take a shower too. I race up the stairs, two at a time, eager to investigate her bathroom.
This is where she gets naked. The realisation hits me hard. I’m unable to cross the threshold because of the powerful images I’m getting of her perfect body: soft curves and dimples, with curls of hair in intimate places. I finger the thick towels that must have enveloped her skin. Then I uncap the body wash and shampoo, to inhale the fragrances with which she anoints herself. Urges stir within me, sweat pops on my brow, and I’m gripped with a need that I must tamp down and ignore for a little longer.
The mirror throws back my reflection — gaunt cheeks under dark stubble and wisps of overlong hair.
My eyes are anguished and my mouth set in a hard line, I smile without showing my teeth. I want to look my best for her. Here’s something I have time to do. I snatch up the cerise toothbrush that must be hers, add a worm of toothpaste, then proceed to clean my teeth. The spearmint provides an explosion of chilly freshness to my mouth, and after I’ve scrubbed with her toothbrush, then rinsed and spat the blood-flecked foam into the pristine white basin, I realise I have let myself go.
I prowl into her bedroom, but I cannot look at that bed, their bed. I peer sideways and note it’s dressed like a wedding cake, bedecked with frilly pillows and a seersucker throw in shades of white and pink. She sleeps there … with him … and they … No, I can’t entertain those thoughts. Yet they rampage around my consciousness like charging elephants until my knees feel weak and my temples tighten uncomfortably. Sometimes it’s like someone has carved into my skull with a blunt knife, and whatever they cut out has left this roaring need for her.
I lean on the nearest piece of furniture to steady myself — her dressing table. It grounds me.
Everything there is neat and orderly, my good girl is so pure and innocent. She has a hairbrush and a matching clothes brush plus a small box with necklaces and bracelets inside. She doesn’t need to daub herself with make-up or tart herself up like a red-light whore.
When my eyes fall on the laundry hamper I can’t look away. Sweat pricks under my arms and my gut tightens — I try fighting it, but succumb to temptation. Just lifting the lid, has my body humming with desire. A white noise between my ears blocks out everything as I reach to grasp the panties, her underwear, from the top of the pile of worn clothes.
They are white like the angel she is and soft like her skin. I rub their smooth fabric between my fingers before bringing them to my nose to inhale. The intimate smell of her presses against my senses while endorphins flood my body. That urge is back, hot and insistent, it’s like a freight train running through my brain. It’s too strong to wrestle with, so I submit.
As I press those scanty knickers to my nose and mouth, I am already fumbling with my flies.
My cock rises to greet my questing fingers, unfurling like a sleeping lion. Once it stretches to full length, I begin stroking its sheath up and down, causing sensations of heat and pleasure to run the length of my spine. Growing excitement takes possession of my concentration while the slightly fruity fragrance from the gusset of her panties drags heat up from my balls.
I snatch at a pair of discarded tights. The ball of tangled nylon is feather-light in my hand, ideal for adding texture to how I’m tugging myself toward completion. I arrange the tights in my fist, around my throbbing dick, then I pump, thrusting my pelvis into my hand. I’m imagining it is her mouth, and that she is sucking me, while looking up with limpid eyes, imploring that I spurt my essence for her to swallow. Even though it is a filthy task she seems compliant, obedient.
She would do it for me, because it pleases me and she wants to make me happy.
While I imagine the sensation of her mouth, warm and wet, tightening around me, I wonder if she does this for him. No, I can’t think of that — she is unwilling, trapped with him. But I’m here now to set her free, love her differently. I am better than him, I know what she needs. I can make her happy, take her higher, and worship her.
Her face is so beautiful, her body so compliant … that soon I come … and come … with my hips thrusting like a bronco rider. I groan with release as hot white fluid flies out of my tip. My tribute to her has coated the pantyhose in sticky, opaque spurts.
There’s no true satisfaction, while she’s still with him. But I intend to rescue her, she’s been waiting patiently for me to track her down. My face twists thinking how he tried to keep us apart, one way or another. But now I’ve found her, she will leave him and we can be together.
Their wedding photo stands on the bedside table, taunting me. His arm is around her, his smug face grinning. He thinks he won because he stole my girl, but he’s underestimated me, just like he did in high school. I swipe at the glass with the tights, smearing blots of semen that obscure his face.
He took a taxi to the airport, I watched him leave. She’s all alone.
There are still a few hours before she is due home from work. I toss the soiled panties and tights in the hamper. Maybe I will take that shower, and meet her at the door in just a towel, she’ll be so surprised.
I hum a tune as I head back to the kitchen.
What tune is he humming? Did you recognise the line?
This story originally appeared on Medium. The song was I’m On Fire