Little Stalker by Erica Pike Page B

ask
    why the hell he’s been tailing me for a month.
    “You’re so full of shit, Coby. There’s no stalker – there never was.”
    I grind my teeth and tighten my hold on the phone. “Get over here and see for
    yourself.”
    “Oh,” Ray laughs. “I’m so not falling for that again.”
    “I’m telling you! He’s standing right across the sidewalk! Just get over here, jerk-off.”
    “Fine,” Ray puffs out after a yawn. “Let me finish my breakfast, and I’ll be over in
    fifteen.”
    I snap the phone shut and make my way to the shower. While I’m not my best in the
    mornings, I’m twice as bad after a night of drinking. I don’t even know why Ray puts up with
    me. If I were him, I’d stay the hell away from me.
    The warm water hits my cold body, and I groan appreciatively as it slowly – with the
    aid of the painkillers – soothes my aching head and settles my stomach.
    That boy... I don’t even know his name. I’ve never seen him up close because the
    bastard is faster than a ferret. He doesn’t just stand outside my dorm room – he’s there all the
    time; snaking between students while I walk to classes, tailing me when I go shopping. He’ll
    even follow me into clubs and pubs. Whenever I plan to catch him, I’m either unable to find
    him or I see the kid jump behind trashcans, and then he’s gone by the time I reach the cans.
    That’s why Ray doesn’t believe I have a stalker – Ray, being a slow-moving whatever-dude
    sort of guy, has never caught sight of him.
    Sometimes I wonder if my stalker is a ghost, but then ghosts – if they even exist –
    probably don’t have to jump up and down to keep warm and probably don’t have a skimpy
    wardrobe either.
    With eyes closed, I fumble around for the bar of soap and lather my hands.
    Last night was the first time I saw the guy in a wide sweater. He’s always wearing
    clothes so tight that every little line on that thin body is clearly visible, even from a distance.

    Soapy hands slide over my torso, cleaning away the stench of sex from my encounter
    with Sandy. That stalker-kid probably never wears cologne. He probably walks around
    smelling like soap and shampoo – or just his own smell.
    My hand slithers downwards to my rising cock, lathering soap on the stiffness.
    At first I thought he was a girl with his petite build and the soft, feminine shape of his
    face. Even with his flat chest and slender waist. I’ve slept with more than a few girls like that.
    In fact, they are my type, unlike last night’s Sandy. But I now know the stalker is a boy after
    discretely watching him from my window many times. I take notice of his posture, his
    movements, and the way he gestures with his hands as he speaks to the few people who stop
    to ask directions and such. Effeminate, yes, but still a boy.
    A deep moan passes my lips as I stroke my hardness back and forth.
    I almost wish that guy was a girl because his full lips are so kissable and his white
    skin so smooth-looking that I want to run my fingers all over it. His hair – on a dry day – is
    shiny and floppy and looks soft to the touch. I have wondered what it would be like to link my arms around his waist, to pull him closer, to taste his skin. Yeah, I would have taken him
    to bed weeks ago if he was a girl.
    Cut-back grunts ricochet off the walls in the compact shower stall while I pump my
    erection harder, savouring the building fissure in my groin and sack of balls. I brace my hand
    on the wall over my head and lick my arm as I imagine myself licking the boy’s chest. I graze
    my teeth on my skin as I would the stalker’s neck and then suck hard with a muffled moan.
    My hips buck into my rhythm, faster and faster until I’m at the brink of my climax.
    That’s when my concentration is interrupted by the phone ringing from the counter
    next to the sink. I try to ignore it, but the sound is distracting, and I lose the building pleasure that coursed through my groin towards that one