Unethical

Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Maxim

S arah’s shoulders drop the moment she locks the office door, as if the weight of her clients’ lives presses her down. Her eyes show that same heaviness. She doesn’t look up from the ground as she walks toward her car.

She’s been working past nine every night since our session four days ago. Like a well-trained dog, she repeats her routine again tonight. She gets inside her fancy little BMW and pulls out of her reserved parking spot. The placard with her name on it made it exceptionally easy to figure out which car belonged to her. Not a good safeguard from people like me who are predisposed to obsession and subsequent stalking.

I turn on the engine and follow her. Not too close, though. I don’t know if she’ll recognize my car or if she’s in too much of a haze to do so, and I don’t want to take any chances. I tail her to her home, though I already know the way and could follow the route in my sleep at this point.

When she nears her driveway, I hang back and park a little ways down the dark suburban street. Then I walk toward her house, hiding among the trees that decorate either side of the unlit street as I near my destination.

Her house sits further from the road than the others. Tucked away in the woods at the end of the dead-end street, it’s the perfect setting for what I plan to do. How fortunate for me.

How unfortunate for her.

I take my place behind the drooping oak tree so I can watch her. Sarah does the same thing every night when she comes home. Her quirks are so fucking cute. She waits in her car for one to three minutes as she finishes the song on the radio. When she gets out, she checks her car handle three times, then tucks her purse beneath her right arm before she unlocks her front door. She’s regimented.

But now, so am I. This is what I do every night.

I watch her.

It’s become a necessity. Just as necessary as the stringent rules outlined on my paperwork from prison.

Go to therapy? Check.

Become obsessed with every breath my therapist takes? Check.

Obsessively watch her from the fucking bushes? Check.

Imagine how afraid she’d be if she saw me? How tormented she’d feel? Check and check.

Sarah enters the house and turns on the living room light, illuminating her form as she passes the window. She sheds her suit jacket and hangs it up. It’s the only time I get to see the lacy undershirt that I think about during our sessions. Her breasts draw the fabric down, bunching it beneath their full curves.

Fuck, I want to rip those buttons off with my teeth. I want to take those clothes off her body and devour her. Hopefully, she tells me no. To stop. Because that would be delicious.

I stroke the front of my jeans, anticipating my favorite part of my nightly routine. The heat of excitement courses through my veins as it maps its way to my dick. I ache for her. She keeps me hard, even when I’m away from her, but nothing makes me throb like seeing her through the window. Invading her personal space. Pleasing myself to her blissful ignorance.

The upstairs bathroom faces the woods. The seclusion gives her the confidence to leave her curtains open. The light turns on, and I snap my attention to it. She comes into view and strips off her shirt, slowly, almost as if she knows I’m watching her. Like she’s putting on a show for me. But I know that’s not true.

She would freak out if she saw me, not put on a show. She’d clutch that shirt to her body to hide what I’m so desperate to see.

Her breasts relax as she unfastens the back clasp on her bra. Her tits squeeze together again as she tugs down each strap. After she removes her bra, she drops her hands to her skirt. The stiff material glides past her ass and slips down her thighs. I imagine how the fabric might feel in my hands as I unzip my jeans and pull my cock from the slit.

I have wanted little more than to have my hands on her. I don’t even care in what form. I don’t even care if she’s awake to feel my touch.

She gets in the shower and closes the door. I see only the pixelated outline of her body through the glass. I lean back against the tree and stroke myself. My imagination runs wild.

I imagine sitting on the flimsy couch in her office, my thighs spread and her head bobbing on my dick as she sucks it. I imagine choking her with my cock. I’d call her doc, mock her weakness for fucking a client, and impale her throat afterward. I envision the drool all over her pretty chin as she sucks me off.

She comes out of the shower with her hair slick against her neck. As she reaches for a towel, her big, beautiful tits pull together before spreading again as she dries herself off.

She hasn’t smiled once since leaving the office. It’s kind of sad. The woman needs to be dicked down, but she’d never let me be the one to do it.

Sarah looks out the window. I sink against the base of the tree, even though I’m pretty sure she can’t see me, but I’m not positive she can’t. That’s what I love about jerking off out here. The risk of getting caught by her. The anger and fear on her face would be so worth it, even though I know her fear would precede lights and sirens and a return trip to prison.

Honestly, I won’t mind returning to prison if I can go back with my mind full of her and my balls empty. And that’s a dangerous thought.