Little Stalker

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Little Stalker Copyright © 2012 Erica Pike

First Edition

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Cover art by Dakota Trace

Published in electronic book format November 2012

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This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any persons alive or deceased, locations

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I want to thank my critique partners: Savannah Chase and Ann Riley. A very special

thanks to my readers for encouraging me to write more. To my adorable little twins, who give

me a reason to (try to) work hard every day, and to my ever-supporting parents: Love you!

Erica Pike

Little Stalker

by Erica Pike

The cold window feels like a soothing rag against my thudding head. It dampens the

piercing ache behind my eyelids as I watch a lean boy, half hidden behind a tree, two stories

down. I’ve been watching him for the past ten minutes. It’s barely dawn, and the kid is

standing right where I saw him last, just before midnight, wearing only a red, wide-necked

sweater and tight black jeans over a pair of badly beat-up sneakers. His white face looks even

paler than usual where he jumps up and down, flapping his dangling sleeves around his body

in the faint morning sheen. His dark, boyish-cut hair droops into his eyes and sticks to the

skin around his ears as he exhales a mist of cold from his full, red lips.

My sigh leaves a big foggy circle on the window before I slide back under the covers.

Why is he still there, and what does he want with me?

As I try to get comfortable, I bump into something warm that’s not supposed to be in

my bed.

Not again...

I push at the slumbering body lying next to me.

“Hey,” I grumble, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. When the body doesn’t move, I

raise myself up to see a mane of blond hair covering a face I think I recognize. Sandra?

Sandy?

“Sarah,” I risk in a barely coherent mumble, pushing harder on her bare shoulder.

“Cindy,” she mumbles back and brushes the hair out of her face. Brown eyes framed

by black smear gaze back at me as her eyelids part. A small smile plays upon her pink lips.

“Hey Coby,” she coos, her smile turning into a catty grin when she crawls upward and

hovers over my face. The perfume she must have bathed in before going out last night blends

with my own smell on her, and it’s making me nauseous.

“I had a great time last night,” she says, voice a bit raspy as she slides her body on top

of mine, small hands sliding to my dick. The early-morning wood I woke up with had already

deflated, but now would be a good time for it to return.

But of course it doesn’t.

I have to make a conscious effort every time I’m with someone...and sometimes I just

can’t get it up. It was easier a year ago, but the more I do this... Actually, I’m hoping it’s a

medical condition, but I’m embarrassed to go see a doctor. I just want to dig a hole and die

whenever I think about it. How can I explain something like that to this girl? I don’t know

her. She might very well go out and blurt it to other people. Guys, especially my age, are

given a hard time for erectile dysfunctions.

I swallow hard as she plays with the flaccid tool that might as well be lying in a

casket. Maybe if I close my eyes... God, if it wasn’t for this headache...

“What, did I over exhaust it last night?” she says with a tease in her voice and a little

laugh.

When I open my eyes I see a frown on her face.

“I’m just tired,” I say and push her off. “Drank too much.”

My stomach turns when I move to lie on my side. I definitely did drink too much.

Was she making fun of me just now? What if she compares notes with the other girls? I

mean, one dead penis could be considered normal, but almost every morning?

“Coby...”

I jerk when her tiny hand touches my shoulder, sending these weird, uncomfortable

goosebumps over my skin.

“Could you just leave?” I ask rather bluntly. “I need to sleep, and you’re not making it

possible.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll let you sleep,” she says, her voice oddly wary. She’s beginning to

suspect... This is why I never do the same one more than once. If the same girl notices the

dysfunction every morning, she’ll
know,
and then everyone else will know. Thing is, my

cock’s all perky and ready to rumble when I’m by myself. That’s another reason why I’m

afraid to go and see a doctor...in case he tells me this
isn’t
a medical condition.

“No, you need to go,” I say, raising my upper body, I push her back toward the edge

of the bed.

She pulls the covers around herself as she slides off to the floor, landing hard on her

ass. The harsh bump makes me cringe.

“What the hell?” she yells.

“I said you need to go.” I fold my arms in front of my bare chest, trying to look

confident with a piercing headache and stomach content threatening to come out.

“It’s not even seven AM,” she yells, voice rising into a pitch, spiking my headache.

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose. Just how much did I drink last night,

and why didn’t Ray stop me before it got to this point – again?

“Just because you have a problem with your penis doesn’t mean –”

“I don’t have a problem with my penis!” I yell, just barely managing to swallow down

the sour liquid that came up. I clench my fists, and my body breaks out in cold shivers as I try

to calm my stomach. But no matter what, I feel like I’m about to spew my guts out.

She stands on the floor like a perched owl, just staring.

“Go,” I urge harshly, pointing to the door.

“Well, fuck you,” she spits, her small face scrunching up in a grimace. “They said you

were a jerk, but –”

“I don’t
fucking
care what they said,” I yell, but my throat clogs up at the thought of

them
talking about me. What exactly are they saying; and who exactly are ‘they’? Is it all of them? Is there an I-Hate-Coby club out there with all my ex-lays gossiping about my broken

manhood?

The slightest movement sends a series of sharp stings behind my eyes, so I close them

and very, very slowly slide back under the covers. Once I’m settled, I finally hear her yank up

her clothes, stomp towards the door and slam it shut behind her. I stay still until I hear the

outer door slam shut as well.

Easing onto my back, I rub my face with a groan. Ray was supposed to make sure I

didn’t do anything stupid last night. I should call him just to wake him up.

As I reach for my mobile, it rings loudly, sending another onslaught of needles

through my brain.

“What?” I growl as I pinch the bridge of my nose.

“Morning sunshine. Had fun last night?”

“Ray,” I grunt and settle back on my soft pillow.

“Is she gone?”

I give a grunt of a response, flailing a hand around my nightstand for a glass of water.

In a drawer, I find a couple of painkillers and swallow them down with a slurp of week -old

liquid. As I move, I rustle the sheets and the smell of sex wafts to my nose. My stomach turns

again. I’ll have to change them ASAP.

“God damn it, Ray, I told you not to let me get this drunk again.”

“Hey, I told you to stop several times, but you just kept drinking. I even tried to stop

you from leaving with that girl. You know, you have some serious problems with alcohol – to

the point of alcoholism.”

“Shut up. I’m young and in college. I’m supposed to go crazy with alcohol,” I say,

glancing toward the window again. He’s right, though. I do have trouble stopping once I start,

but I can’t allow myself to think about the reason
why
.

“Yeah? Well, then stop blaming
me
for your drinking.”

“Mmh,” is my non-existent retort because my mind shifts to the guy outside. I tumble

out of bed, one arm clamped over my stomach and drag myself toward the window. “What

are you doing up so early?” He was always an early riser, but anything before ten AM on a

weekend is an ungodly hour – I’ve told him that before.

“Got an early practice,” he says around a crunching mouthful of cereal. “Whatcha

doin’?”

“Watching my stalker,” I say, rubbing a hand over my face as I watch the boy slide

his small hands roughly up and down his arms. Maybe I should just invite him in and 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