Page 7

7

REMY

I enter my trailer, the familiar creak of metal steps beneath my boots—something’s different. The air feels disturbed, like ripples in a still pond. My senses heighten as I scan the space, noting subtle changes invisible to most.

A delicate hair tie rests near my laptop, its dark elastic a stark contrast against the metal desk. Beside it lies a pair of black lace panties, the damp fabric—Eden.

The little stalker has been here, invading my space.

My jaw tightens as I press the power button on the laptop. The screen flickers to life, revealing exactly what I suspected—my private photo collection left open on display. She’s been through my dick pics, feeding her obsession.

The chat window with “Baby Girl” is open, too. My lips curve into a smirk as I imagine Eden’s face when she was reading those messages. Seeing those flirtatious exchanges and intimate photos, the jealousy must have eaten at her.

Truth is, “Baby Girl” is just another distraction—some random woman I’ve never met who likes to play at being dangerous. We trade photos and engage in light dominance games through chat. Nothing real. Nothing that matters. Just a way to pass the empty hours between jobs.

If she’d been thinking clearly, she would have cleared the browser history and deleted any trace of her snooping. Still, jealousy makes people sloppy, and Eden’s clearly lost her careful control where I’m concerned.

The irony isn’t lost on me. Here she is, obsessing over meaningless online flirtations while breaking into my private space. My beautiful stalker, so consumed by possessiveness over someone she barely knows—someone she claims to be “studying” for her podcast.

I pick up her forgotten panties, running the delicate lace between my fingers. The evidence of her arousal only confirms what I already knew—Eden’s fascination with me goes far beyond professional interest.

A smirk plays on my lips. Her desperation amuses me. This need to possess pieces of me to violate my privacy. However, she’s made a critical error, leaving such obvious evidence behind.

Eden thinks she’s the hunter, the investigator piecing together her theories about the carnival. She has no idea she’s walking right into my web, leaving breadcrumbs that will lead to her undoing.

My cock hardens instantly as I bring her panties to my nose, inhaling. Her scent hits me like a drug, making my blood rush south.

“Fuck,” I growl, unzipping my jeans. My cock springs free, already rock hard. I wrap her panties around my length, the wet lace clinging to my skin. The same fabric that was pressed against her pussy now grips my shaft as I start stroking.

My head falls back as I imagine her riding me, her curves bouncing, those perfect tits in my face. The way she’d moan my name, desperate and needy. I tighten my grip, increasing my pace. Her scent surrounds me with each stroke, driving me wild with need.

My hips thrust up into my hand as I picture bending her over this very desk, making her scream. Claiming what’s mine. Because she is mine now—she just doesn’t know it yet.

I grunt, stroking faster. Knowing she came here and touched herself while looking at my photos pushes me closer to the edge.

“You like that? You like thinking about me fucking you hard?” I growl. One of my favorite fantasies is imagining her listening to my voice and touching herself while thinking about me.

I grip my cock tighter, giving it a few more hard strokes. I can almost feel those soft lips around me, sucking and teasing. Her hands wouldn’t be able to reach me because she’d be restrained.

“Such a naughty girl, coming into my trailer. Going through my things. But I can’t blame you. You couldn’t help yourself, could you? Got all worked up, needed some relief.”

I imagine her tied to my bed, those gorgeous tits exposed, ripe for my mouth. I’d roll her sensitive nipples between my fingers, watching her squirm and teasing her until she begs.

“Would you beg, Eden? Would you plead for me to make you come?” I picture her face, those green eyes locked on mine. “Probably not. You’d try to act tough, but your body would give you away. Those tits would be heaving, and your pussy would be soaking wet.”

My breath quickens. “I bet your pussy tastes so sweet. I’d love to lap up all that arousal, but first, I’d spank that perfect ass until it’s rosy and warm. Teach you a lesson for sneaking into my trailer.”

I groan, thrusting my hips up. My balls tighten as I get closer, the head of my cock swollen and sensitive. “Then I’d bend you over and fuck you so hard, you’d feel me for days. You’d scream my name, wouldn’t you, baby? Scream for more.”

I don’t need to close my eyes to picture her skin flushed while she writhes beneath me. She’d try to hold back, but the pleasure would overwhelm her.

“Come for me, Eden. Let me hear you.” My balls draw up, and I thrust harder into my grip. “That’s it, let go. Imagine it’s my cock inside you, my hands all over that sexy body. I want to hear you scream my fucking name.”

I roar as I explode, my cum hitting my stomach and chest. My hand falls away from my cock as I catch my breath. “Damn, little stalker, next time, I won’t be imagining it.”

I tuck myself away and zip up, moving to my laptop. Time to learn more about her than when I looked the first time. Eden Love’s digital footprint spreads before me as I type her name into search engines.

Her bio photo shows striking green eyes and a perfect smile, concealing what I know are her darker impulses. The episode list reveals her obsession with serial killers, each title more provocative than the last.

I clicked through her social media. Instagram showcases a curated life—coffee shops, book stacks, and recording equipment… There’s something calculated in each frame like she’s building a character rather than sharing part of her true self.

X gives me more insight. She posts late-night about criminal psychology and responds to true crime fans. She engages differently here and lets slip hints of her real nature. References to her “collection” catch my eye—souvenirs from killers she’s interviewed.

LinkedIn details her credentials and confirms what I know, that she has a forensic psychology degree and has written research papers on criminal behavior.

Her personal Facebook is locked down tight, but her podcast page offers behind-the-scenes glimpses. Video clips show her interviewing subjects, that mask of professionalism firmly in place. Still, I see the hunger in her eyes when they describe their crimes.

Recent posts mention investigating carnival-related disappearances. She’s getting closer, thinking she’s the hunter. My smirk returns as I save her information to a secure folder.

I open another browser and access deeper channels: property records, phone records, and bank statements. The real Eden Love emerges through data points and transactions: regular payments to prison commissary accounts, multiple storage unit rentals, and late-night drives tracked by toll cameras.

My beautiful little stalker has been busy, but she’s not the only one who can hunt.