Smut Stories Collection

Stalking My Man

I first saw him when we were sixteen. He was two years older, the kind of boy who made girls giggle and stutter, with messy brown hair and a laugh that sounded like summer. I never spoke to him. I was too shy, too invisible, too convinced a creature like him would never notice a mouse like me.

But I noticed him.

Every day.

I watched him in the hallways, memorizing the way he chewed his pen during exams, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled at his friends. I built a world inside my head where he knew my name, where he held my hand, where he kissed me under the bleachers after the football game he always won.

I called it love.

Now, fifteen years later, I still call it love. But I know the right word is obsession.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

His name is Daniel. Daniel Reeves. Thirty-five years old, divorced, no kids. He works as an architect, drives a silver BMW, and lives alone in a two-story house on Maple Street with a garden he never tends. I know all of this because I've been watching him for six months. Every day. Every night.

I drove past his house this morning, like I always do. I parked three blocks away, in the lot behind the abandoned pharmacy, and I walked to the coffee shop across from his office. I ordered a latte I never drank, sat by the window, and watched him walk in at 8:47.

He looked tired. He always looks tired now. His hair is shorter, his jaw harder, and there are creases around his eyes that weren't there when he was eighteen. But he's still beautiful. More beautiful. There's a sadness to him that makes my chest ache.

I know about the divorce. I know she left him for a real estate developer. I know he drinks too much on weekends and that he sometimes cries in his car. I know because I've sat outside his house at night, watching the glow of his TV through the curtains, imagining I was inside with him, wrapped in his arms, promising him everything would be okay.

I followed him home today. That's not unusual. I do it three, four times a week. But today felt different. There was a heaviness in the air, a charge that made my skin prickle. He stopped at the grocery store, bought a bottle of bourbon and frozen pizza, and drove home with his windows down. I caught the scent of his cologne as we passed at a red light.

I wanted to breathe it in forever.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

He didn't notice me tailing him. He never does. I'm good at this now—good at slipping through shadows, at disappearing before he turns around. I've learned his routines, his habits, the way he leaves his porch light on because he's scared of the dark. The way he jiggles the key in the lock because it sticks.

Tonight, he didn't jiggle. He just stood on his porch for a long moment, staring at the door, and then he walked inside without turning on the light.

I waited.

The windows were dark. No TV flicker. No sound.

Something felt wrong.

I circled around the back, my heart pounding. The gate was unlocked, the same way it always was. I crept through the overgrown grass, my sneakers silent on the damp earth. The back door was slightly ajar. Not broken, just not fully closed.

I should have run. I should have turned around and driven home and never looked back.

Instead, I pushed the door open.

The kitchen was dark, lit only by the moonlight filtering through the blinds. I could see the shape of the table, the counter, the bottle of bourbon sitting on the island. I could smell something metallic in the air.

Blood.

I froze, my breath caught in my throat. A sound came from the living room—a low groan, followed by a thump.

My legs moved before my brain could stop them.

I found him on the floor, crumpled beside the couch, his face pale and slick with sweat. His hand was pressed to his side, and even in the dim light, I could see red seeping through his fingers.

"Daniel!" I dropped to my knees beside him. His eyes fluttered open, hazy and unfocused.

"Who—" He tried to sit up, winced, and fell back.

"Don't move. You're bleeding. What happened?"

He stared at me, confusion warring with pain. "I... I know you."

Of course he did. He'd seen me before. In the coffee shop. In the grocery store. Maybe he'd registered me as a familiar face, a background character in his life. But now, with my hands on his chest, my face inches from his, the recognition hit him.

"You're the woman who follows me."

I didn't deny it. Couldn't. The truth lay between us, raw and ugly.

"Yes."

He laughed, a choked sound that turned into a cough. "I thought I was going crazy. Thought I was imagining things."

"You're not crazy."

"What are you doing here?"

I didn't answer. Instead, I reached for his hand, pulled it away from the wound. A long gash, ugly but not deep. A shard of glass lay nearby. He must have fallen, cut himself.

"We need to clean this," I said, my voice steady. "There's a first aid kit in the bathroom."

"How do you know that?"

I didn't have an answer. I'd been in his house before. Many times. While he was at work, while he slept, while he showered. I'd touched his things, worn his shirts, lain in his bed and breathed in his scent.

"I need to help you," I whispered.

I stood, walked to the bathroom by memory, and returned with the kit. He watched me the whole time, his eyes tracking my every move. I knelt beside him again, cleaned the wound with alcohol, wrapped it in gauze. My hands trembled, but I didn't stop.

When I finished, he grabbed my wrist. His grip was weak, but it was enough.

"Why?" He asked. "Why follow me?"

I looked at him. At the man I'd loved since I was a girl, the man I'd built my life around. The man who had never known my name until tonight.

"Because I've loved you since I was sixteen," I said.

The words hung in the air, heavy and ridiculous.

He stared at me, and then, slowly, his thumb traced the inside of my wrist. "Sixteen," he repeated. "That's a long time."

"Yes."

He pulled me closer. I felt the heat of his body, smelled the blood and sweat and bourbon on his skin. His hand cupped my jaw, tilting my face up.

"Show me," he said. "Show me how much you love me." A crazy whisper of love coming from his lips.

I should have run. I should have told him I was sorry, called an ambulance, disappeared from his life forever.

I didn't.

Instead, I leaned down and kissed him.

His lips were dry, cracked, but they parted under mine. His tongue met mine, hesitant at first, then hungrier. His hands found my waist, pulling me on top of him, and I felt his erection pressed against my thigh through our clothes.

"f**k," he breathed. "I don't even know your name."

"Amelia."

"Amelia." He said it like a prayer. Like I was salvation. "Amelia, I've felt someone watching me for months. I thought I was losing my mind. But now..." His hands slid up my back, under my shirt. "Now I think I've been waiting for you."

I didn't speak. I just kissed him again, harder, deeper. I fumbled with his belt, with the button of his jeans. He groaned as my hand wrapped around his c**k—thick, hard, hot.

"Show me," he repeated, his voice ragged. "Show me everything."

I lowered myself onto him, taking him inside me. We both cried out. He filled me completely, a perfect fit, like I'd always imagined. I rode him slowly at first, savoring every inch, watching his face twist with pleasure and pain.

"f**k, Amelia, yes—"

I sped up, my hips grinding against his, my c**t rubbing against his pubic bone. The sensation built, a coil tightening low in my belly. He reached up and grabbed my ass, f*****g up into me, driving deeper.

"Come for me," he ordered. "Prove you love me."

I came apart, a scream tearing from my throat as my orgasm crashed through me. He followed moments later, his own release hot inside me, his body shuddering beneath mine.

We lay there, tangled together, our breathing ragged. The blood from his wound had seeped through the bandage, but neither of us cared.

"I'm not going to call the police," he said finally.

"What?"

"I'm not going to report you. For the stalking." He turned his head to look at me, his eyes dark and serious. "Because I want you to keep coming back."

I blinked, confused. "You want me to keep stalking you?"

"I want you to keep coming to me." He pulled me closer, his lips brushing my ear. "I want to know everything about you. I want you in my bed, in my life. I want to love you back, Amelia."

Tears pricked my eyes. Fifteen years of waiting, of watching, of wanting—and here he was, offering me everything.

"Okay," I whispered.

He smiled, a real smile, and for a moment, he looked like the boy from high school again.

"Okay."

That was six months ago. Now I live with him. We're engaged. He knows about my obsession, my years of tracking him, my secret visits to his house. He doesn't mind. He says it's romantic.

Maybe it is. Maybe love is just a beautiful kind of madness, and we're both a little crazy.

But every night, when I crawl into bed beside him, I know I got what I always wanted.

I got him.

And I'll never let him go.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈ survey

Any suggestions about the stories? Do you want another trope like bxb, gxg, etc?