Previously part of THE VAULT Volume ONE...UNCONVENTIONAL is now available individually!
ENJOY a SNEAK PEEK!
Copyright by Aleatha Romig
People try to keep their private information secret, but they don't succeed.
She's in the public eye, available to everyone with the flip of a switch. Turn on the TV and there she is—Erika fucking Ellis. Her face, her legs, her entire body there in UHD in everyone’s living room, kitchen, or bedroom. Being in the public eye, she should have known better, been more careful. She should have taken precautions.
Her carelessness pisses me off, infuriates me. Yet without it, where would we be?
She let down her guard and spoke without thinking. She isn’t the only one who has, but she’s the one I’ve been watching. She’s the one who matters.
Obtaining bits and pieces of her life story takes time, but as my mind fills with the possibilities for our future, I know the patience will be worth the reward. The process isn't difficult. It's as simple as standing near her in the coffee shop line.
She concentrates on the menu or the screen of her phone, acting as if I’m not there. But I am, taking it all in.
“Name for the order?” the barista asks.
Close enough to smell her sweet perfume, I hang on her every word.
Suddenly her name is not only announced, but written across her cup.
“Telephone number?” the man at the dry cleaners asks.
A room full of customers and she speaks loud enough for the elderly man to hear.
There it is.
Ten digits that open a wealth of information.
The rest is easy. An Internet search, not even one as comprehensive as done by law enforcement, and much of her information is at my fingertips, just like her hard nipples will soon be.
I dig for more.
Her passwords aren’t difficult. The name of her first pet. The dog was mentioned in a personal interview posted by her news station: Get to Know Erika Ellis.
That’s my plan.
“Ma'am, can you confirm your date of birth?” With a slight change to my voice, I become an account specialist, in need of clarifying her order. “Why, yes, we have this order scheduled for delivery on Tuesday. Will you be available to sign? ...No ...Is there anyone else over the age of eighteen at your residence...?”
Simple questions that in her preoccupied world she answers without thought. Her recklessness is her downfall, and while I appreciate it for the success of my plan, I plan to punish her for it. If I could learn her life secrets, so could anyone, someone, another man. That thought fills me with rage, propelling my blood downward, away from rational thought and straight to my dick. It's painfully hard with the need to take her, mark her, and make her mine. After all, she is. She always has been. I’ve known it for some time. It’s time she accepts it—all of it.
It’s difficult to hide my erection as I patiently plan, day after day, week after week, following, listening, and paying attention. Like in the coffee shop, most of the time she doesn't even notice me. Like the song ‘Mr. Cellophane,’ it’s as if she looks right through me, walks right past me. Doesn’t even know I’m there.
She’s too busy—too preoccupied—to comprehend that I’m her future, present, and past. Nevertheless, I’m not deterred. I listen to every word, seize every opportunity. I’m paying attention and learning even when she’s unaware. Of course, those times she takes for herself, in her apartment, lost in an erotic novel, she doesn’t realize I’m watching. She’s too lost in the story. At work, she’s too busy meeting everyone’s demands. Her priorities are skewed, and it’s my job to show her the wrongs of her ways.
Then again, there are other times when she smiles and even says a word or two to me. Times that she’s close enough to touch, that our skin brushes over one another’s. I live for moments such as those, knowing there will be so many more in our future.
There isn't any question in my mind. With every fiber of my body, I know she wants me too. When our eyes meet or as she brushes past me in a crowded diner, I feel her desire. The connection, no matter how small, is like lightning, radiating off of her like heat from the sun, warming the air and stoking my desire.
In one such encounter, we stand face-to-face, and her pink tongue darts to her lips. Her blue eyes disappear as her lids grow heavy with desire. I hear her message loud and clear. I understand what she doesn’t allow her words to say. It's her silent acceptance of what will be—what our future holds. Soon, that pink tongue will dance with mine. Soon, it will beg for my attention as she kneels at my feet.
I know her wants and needs. With those same passwords on every account and every device, I’ve taken my time to insert myself in her private world. I know the books she reads and the videos she watches on her Tumblr account. No wonder she sometimes seems aloof. She has desires and fantasies that have gone unfulfilled, ones she hasn’t shared even with her husband.
Her loneliness is about to end. But like everything in our future, the timing is up to me. I'm the only man for the job.
She's a public figure, and it fucking pisses me off to think that she stars in other men's wet dreams. It's part of the game she plays for the station—perceived availability. It boosts the ratings, but it’s fiction. Her availability isn’t real. She doesn't belong to them, not to any of them.
She’s mine, all mine. I’ll be the one who fulfills her desires. I'll be the one to bind and control her. No one else will take my woman to ecstasy. No one else will bring her desires to life—no one but me.
The first day she looked my way and spoke to me—the day our connection forged—I knew we were meant to be together. I've worked my way into her predictable world, and yet she has no idea of my plans, of our future. Her combination of ignorance and arrogance fuels my desire. Erika thinks she has control, she thinks she calls the shots, but just like her appearance of availability on the evening news, her power in our relationship is a delusion, one I’ve allowed to fester for too long.
I’m a man who needs control. I’ve allowed her misconception to run its course, but now it’s over. My entire body quakes as I imagine the scene: Erika fucking Ellis on her knees, tears falling from her beautiful eyes as she relinquishes her illusion and embraces our new reality.
Staring through the lens at the screen before me, I watch her tits bounce and her perfect white teeth shine. Her lips are full, glossy, and red as they part with laughter.
How am I supposed to keep this camera steady as her giggles ring through the air? Even with my headset covering my ears, the pitch of her laughter can’t be missed. The man in makeup with slicked-back hair beside her is a prick. He doesn't deserve her laughter or her words.
It isn't a real laugh that I’m hearing, I reassure myself. It's part of her act, part of her TV personality. It's simply for the cameras, for the audience. Her real rings of laughter, moans of desire, and screams of pain are for my ears only.
My chest fills with pride to know that I'm the only one to hear those, the only one to love her. Let the chorus begin.