Fixated by Lola De Jour Page A

reasoning made sense. Scarlett knew how important
she was to me, how much my mental daily functioning depended on
her, and yet she just left me. No explanation, hints, or dear
fucking john letter. Without a doubt, she knew the effect her
abrupt disappearance would have on me. If she ever loved me, or
even cared for me as a friend, would she put me in such a terrible
situation? No. It was clear to our family and friends that there
was a certain vindictive string to her departure, and it was aimed
at me.
    Then, it was only right that I play the
offense and prepare myself. Because for all I knew, Scarlett was
now married with kids, a minivan, and would appear soon. Only to
laugh at me and flaunt her kids and her fucking husband in my
face.
    So yes, I would marry Nicole. I would fuck
her, and every time I do, I would think of Scarlett. I would
imagine what it felt like to have my dick swimming inside her sweet
dripping pussy. I would come hard. Then I would tell Scarlett to
fuck off and die for doing this to me.
    After all, there wasn't a night I didn't go
to bed wondering who Scarlett was giving my pussy too. Yes, what
was between her legs was mine. My pussy. I owned it. I was the only
man with the right to suck her pussy. To stick as many fingers as I
wanted into her tight hole. To fuck and touch ever corner of her
pussy with my tongue and dick for as long as I wanted.
    If Scarlett was giving my pussy to another
man, I hoped that if there was a God up there, he punished her.
    Because I was being punished. Every. Fucking.
Day. The sexual hold Scarlett had over me was soul crushing. It
paralyzed my senses, stripping all control out of me. Scarlet's
pussy was my cocaine. I needed it to function properly. I shivered
just from remembering the euphoric rush that went through me the
first time my dick felt the insides of her wall, the heat and
friction between our moist, strained muscles. She’d moaned and
squeezed, and I’d felt as if I was dying, a sweet delicious
death.
    The ecstatic high I got from being inside her
pussy was unlike anything else in the world. It went straight to
the top of my brain, sending waves of rapturous pleasure through my
body as it made its way to my feet. It was spiritual. It always
brought me to my equilibrium. When I was having problems with the
businesses I was starting up at the time, all I had to do was find
my Scarlett and fuck her, and tada! Absolute mind clarity. Fucking
serious. Whenever I felt ill, all I had to do was bury my dick in
Scarlett, and I would be fine.
    I was fully dependent on her, and that
increased the disastrous impact of her sudden departure. I went
from having my fix of cocaine three to six times a day, sometimes
even a dozen times, to having nothing. Yes we fucked that much.
Scarlett withdrawal shattered me. There was a reason the medical
profession had a cocaine withdrawal treatment. Sudden cessation of
any altered chemical to the brain could lead to serious irreparable
body damage, even death.
    Scarlett, you hear that? You want to kill me,
don’t you? Bitch.
    I lost my mind. My heart burned for her. My
cock yearned for her, my balls red and heavy, all wanting to return
to their beloved home between her legs.
    Why did she leave me? Why?
    I woke up from nightmares screaming her name,
shedding tears as I masturbated furiously. I slept with her dirty
underwear on my pillow, a lock of her hair around the chain on my
neck, and her name tattooed on the right side of my chest. She
haunted me. Her memories. The most mundane memories were the ones
that hurt the most: Her sipping beer and burping while lying on the
beach in a bikini. Her jumping in jubilation when her favorite
soccer team won. The confusion on her face those first few moments
after her eyelids open from slumber.
    So uncouth, yet so fucking sexy to me.
Everything about her was mind blowing sexy to me. All it took was
for an image of her tits to flash in my head and I would start
masturbating. It was never enough.