by Amanda Fox
(04/04/07)

It was out of necessity that Marcus became my stalker. For me, it had nothing to do with attraction; I burned for him incessantly, like an old fire spitting embers late into the night. My pussy called to him of her own free will: "I am heated and ready for your entry, my lord, I have made myself nice for you."

I wanted him more than anything, and it was obvious that the feeling was mutual, though he tried hard not to let it show. Whenever we were together however, his gaze was hungry and alert, a wolf staring down a plump, unsuspecting chicken. I could almost see a look of terror in his eyes, the whites showing just a little too much. His nostrils flared, taking in unnecessary amounts of oxygen, and occasionally a flash of pink would poke out through his pursed lips, his tongue a sucker for anticipation. Sometimes he would let a low and ominous growl escape from his throat.

In reality, our lives could not include each other -- at least not in the regular way. Both of us already had families, and it would have been smart to leave well enough alone. My heart, however, was a fool, a grinning clown who could only see the length of his limbs. I had no fear, no rationality when it came to needing this man. I wasn't strong enough to let him go, so I created space for him in my imagination. He was always there, in some alternate reality, loving me.

Marcus, on the other hand, was a man who prided himself on self-control, and I knew that it was torture for him to want me. It was wearing him down, and he partially blamed me for his falling. "You know say mermaid dem real een?" he asked me out of the blue one day, his gaze riveted to my lips. "Dem real fi true." It was his Caribbean upbringing coming out.

He thought himself a helpless sailor perishing at the hands of a beguiling siren. True or not, his dissolution was apparent -- when he spoke to me, he rattled, his words broken and jumbled. The more we were together, the more he fell apart.

So, as any good man would, he tried to stay away. He rationed me out, like the last scraps of food on a starving man's plate. He would only call every so often, all courteous and cool; he visited even less, a man of steel who was melting inside.

But in his own secret world, Marcus stayed close. Anonymous phone calls, mysterious cars parked outside my house late at night, strangers lingering in places that I frequented...he watched; he listened; he kept track of where I was going and with whom.

Oh, I knew what he was doing, but I wasn't about to stop him. I liked it. I counted on it. I even found myself encouraging him, allowing him to learn things that he couldn't ask. And so a relationship developed, however dysfunctional, when it shouldn't have -- in the "in betweens" of our lives, in his inability to follow his own rules, and in my impotence in dissuading him. In our hearts, beyond a casual friendship, the rumpled and stained sheets of a lover's bed pilled from bodies rubbing against them night after night. I accepted the stalking as a main part of it.

It was six months before we realized that our boiling pot would eventually erupt. There needed to be some kind of release for all the tension and anticipation, and it happened when the weather took a turn for the worse, when the heavens rocked the earth with frustration and need. It was as if a storm created a portal, an open door to freedom where we could actually taste the corporeal other, not the ghosts that we had grown so accustomed to seeing. After our first encounter, when I knew what would be coming on those days of heavy rain, I prayed that I wasn't about to be struck down by lightning for my sin. At the same time, I thanked God for the tumultuousness that brought him to me.

So that morning, when I looked out, I focused on only one thing -- the sky. It hung in the distance, a heavy blanket of what seemed like smoke waiting to settle down and smother the city. "When it rain so, people dem get tyard..." he would always say. I was never quite sure what he meant by that. Did he mean that on those days he was tired of pretending not to want me? Or was he just tired of stalking me? Either way, I knew he would come; he always did when the weather got riled up.

The early part of the day slithered past, taking its own sweet time, taunting me with the expectation of pleasure that I could hardly wait to receive, and after what seemed like an eternity, the afternoon, with its heavy noon-hour heat, pushed out the morning. The storm was finally rolling in, a lumbering grizzly scavenging food on the outskirts of town, pushed from its habitat, swinging its giant head from side to side, growling warnings to onlookers: "Take shelter humans. Don't come close, and don't take me for granted."

One thing I never did was take those days for granted. I held onto them like I had plucked the most precious pearl from the shallows of a warm sea. Those were the days I lived for, and tried to bank to memory, even the parts before we were actually together. I savoured the anticipation even as it drove me insane.

After labouring through a morning of work, I headed out onto the street. I noticed that moisture had swathed the necks of the people milling around me, their opened collars dark with sweat. It was a day when it seemed like the population of a town tripled, the closeness of the air piling bodies on top of one another.

I thought about my hands stroking Marcus's bare chest, about how he too would be tacky and warm. I imagined dipping my fingertips into the waist of his jeans, looking for the premature encouragement that he seemed to spill so easily for me. I cruised through the crowd, my brain on autopilot, my thoughts busily creating scenarios of his tongue's taste, of how many times he would make me come. I trudged up the steep rise to my bus stop, counting each step to my erotic destiny.

Once I reached the shiny silver pole of the stop and placed my bags by my feet, I looked out over the town. A river divided it in half, a crooked vein through its centre. From the hill, I could see the other side, rising up, an unfolding of many lives -- rooftops and chimneys, high-flying apartments, blocks of strip malls.

I wondered how many people would make passionate love that day. I stood, face glistening like a wet, cherry lollipop, and waited for the number 17 to take me home. Other buses rolled past, spitting pebbles at me as they whipped by. One stopped; its doors whooshed open, welcoming a man in a worn out trench coat, a woman with a shiny black wig, and a kid with change in his pocket that he probably stole from his mama. I saw them all as lovers -- some smelly, some deviant, and some untouched.

At last, I spotted my bus. As it slid to the curb, the wind suddenly turned savage. It whipped up my skirt, twisting the fabric around my waist. My white cotton panties peeked out at the woman standing next to me, and for some reason my mind shot six months back in time. I was remembering the gift I had made for Marcus to mark our third year together as lovers. It had been a cold afternoon in December when I had prepared it, fantasizing that day with a singular purpose. I had spent hours in bed, lazily stroking myself, glazing my torso and limbs with all the juice that flowed endlessly from my vagina at just the thought of him. Finally, exhausted and sore, I decided to finish it. I rubbed hard around my clit, and visualized his cock shoving at me, chipping away at the walls of my "goldmine," as he called it. When his imagined penis jammed into my very core, my body convulsed. My pussy wept onto my fingers.

I then transferred the product of our spectral love from my hands to the neck of the man-sized, white cotton t-shirt that I wore. It was a gift that I knew I could never just give to him, so I had left it on the floor of the laundromat where I did my washing; left it lying between the machines, a little lost dolly waiting for its rightful owner to reclaim it. I knew that Marcus would get it, and I knew that he would smell me. He always went in there after I left, undoubtedly looking for stuff just like that. He never said about it, but then, he never would.

I untwisted my skirt, boarded the bus, and sat near the back. I immediately stuck to the burgundy vinyl seat, smelling the tangy hope that rose from between my legs. A cat's eye crack in the cushion gave birth to some dirty, moth-hewn fluff that bothered the inside of my thigh, and as the bus bumped its way through town, I could hear his voice calling out to me, "Me a wait long time fi touch you. You ready fi me?" That twenty-minute ride felt like an hour, as I repeatedly peeled my sweaty limbs off of the seat, anticipating our sweet sojourn.

A block from my house I dinged the bell, and the bus chugged to a halt. I stumbled toward the opened doors. "Thanks..." I called to the driver. My foot hit the pavement in time with a violent crack of thunder, and startled, I almost fell underneath the bus as it pulled away. Barely avoiding a rather untimely death, I gathered myself back together and stood stunned in the middle of the sidewalk, trying to will my heart back to a regular rhythm.

The clouds of deep purple that had hovered in the distance only an hour before now loomed directly overhead, a bruised heaven, a sign to me of a long and constant battering of the soul. I could hear its rumbling closing in. Rain was imminent, the swelling belly of Mother Nature ready to deliver a torrent onto her children. My chest contracted painfully. Usually, I had things under control: I knew that what I wanted was unattainable. But now, my need was getting the best of me. When my utopian world became reality, I became a mess.

As I turned up the walkway to my house, big plops of water began spotting the grey pavement. I sped up, hoping to avoid getting drenched, but it was no use. The rain came down harder. The virulent sky opened up. That meant he was close, that my months of waiting would be over within hours. I almost didn't want it to happen, because then the waiting would have to start all over again. Just as I wiped wet strands of hair out of my eyes to unlock the front door, my cell phone rang. My hands began to shake, and I fumbled for a moment to answer.

"Hello?"

"Is me...where you deh?" It had been two months since I had spoken to him directly.

"Just getting home. And you?" I knew what was coming next.

"You wan' meet now?"

Within five minutes, he was parked in front of my house. "Come nuh baby, get in quick. Me cyan let the storm swallow you...that is fi me only to do."

The trip to the motel was silent. It always was. He drove like a man on a mission, while I sat in the passenger seat, a hostage trying not to notice the hard muscles of his thighs flexing as he pumped the clutch in and out.

We arrived. He always booked us ahead of time.

Once safely inside, safe from the weather, safe to be together in the way we needed to be, hurrying stopped. Marcus tossed his keys on the bed, and I let my bag drop. We stood facing each other, hands casually mingled, until we couldn't stand it any longer.

Once our fingers linked, our torsos followed. Our lips met. We breathed into each other, cautiously at first, then our mouths picked up speed, runaways downhill, tasting and teasing, wicked tongues twining like snakes coiling together to find warmth.

As our bodies warmed, as my nipples began to punch through my blouse to get to his chest, as his cock jumped inside his pants, thrumming against my thigh, things went from lustful to violent. He would inevitably turn me around and push me down onto the best available surface.

That day, it was a desk. He wanted me lying flat, legs straight and squeezed together, as if he was trying to prevent himself from entering. As if. He climbed on top, a cowboy on his horse, one foot balancing on the upholstered chair next to us, declaring my pussy hole open for business by prying my cheeks apart with his hands, then dipping his thick post down. "Me love de way you oil mek you wet fi me." He spread my juice around, his fingers struggling to hold on. He dove in, bobbing his cock in and out of my heated pool; drowning himself, sending himself to hell for a sin that he couldn't help but commit.

He continued for another minute or two to fuck me in this position, and then in an instant, pulled my hips up, lining his rod up with my tunnel for easier access. At some point he always gave up trying to make things difficult. The time he waited depended on how guilty he felt that day. But guilt be damned, he eventually surrendered, ready to rip and tear at my body, leaving me a used carcass, soulless. My soul, he was going to take with him. Every time.

He never admitted to actually fucking me.

According to him, he only ever made love, but this first time was always fucking. The savagery was inevitable after our long wait.

"You wan' me fi keep it up all day?" he groaned, his cock pulsing more rapidly than even the furious count of his thrusts. "You mek me buddy a 'hop gyal." He uttered a laugh so feral that I wondered if it was the devil himself ramming me.

I closed my eyes and took the assault, visualizing the storm outside, thrashing and shaking, whipping loose garbage into mini-cyclones, mimicking our bodies. Did the storm bring on our loving, or the other way around?

When the desk proved too much challenge, Marcus picked me up by the hips, careful to keep his body notched inside mine, his pubic hair scratching my lily-white behind, and transferred me to the bed, where he could continue more comfortably. We started at the foot of the mattress and fucked our way to the top. "You need...dis straight...punny bruckin'...eh gyal." His broken words punctuated each heavy lunge, until I suddenly slammed into the headboard. My pussy was blazing, stretched to the limit by his concrete cock -- and then his fingers abruptly penetrated the puckered chamber of my bottom.

There he worked dark sorcery, conjuring up all the ass-fucking dupeys that he could. He sent me over the edge, twisting his fingers, churning my insides. With a fire in both holes and my head cracking the frame, I needed some control. I needed to focus, for that first orgasm. Sometimes I was afraid that my head might pop off, or that I might throw up. Those things never happened, though I always braced for them.

I straight-armed the creaking bed with one hand, and reached under for the base of his penis with the other. I wanted touch the slickness that foamed up between us, but he grabbed my wrist and flung my hand away; I was impeding his progress. The tremors were building, and I knew that my ass would be swallowing his digits down to the knuckles.

I hooked my feet around his strong legs, trying to gain some fraction of control over the momentum he was building. He answered by slapping my cheek hard and digging deeper into my jellied flesh with his nails.

I whimpered, begging reprieve.

"Quiet now, baby! Be a good girl, tek it 'arder."

That seemed impossible, but he came at me like a freight train. Helplessly, my body slammed back to meet him. My pussy spasmed, opening and clamping on his steel pipe.

It was coming, and I was always amazed. Even as he rode me into oblivion, at the end he was again a man in control. Perhaps I was lost in my own bliss, but he seemed so quiet, his euphoric sonance so soft that I barely heard him. His thrusts slowed. He wound into me with a sobbing rhythm, replenishing me with his seed, plunging, over and over.

He filled me until his warmth trickled down the inside of my leg. When he was finally empty, he collapsed into a heap on my back, relaxing for the first time in months.

Late that night, when I stood in my kitchen doing dishes, watching the leftover rain drizzling down the windowpane, I saw a car parked diagonally across the street. It idled for what must have been ten minutes, never picking up or dropping off anyone.

He would be touching his fingers to his mustache, smelling what was left of me, and preparing himself to endure the next few months.

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