Disclaimer: Please be aware that this creative story is a work of fiction, and not based on any one person, show or movie. Please always be advised that this content may have triggering verbiage and situations.
Part 1
Do you ever wonder why you are the way you are? I ask myself all the time, “Why are you like this?” As I sit here, cracking open another beer and chain-smoking cigarettes one after another, I’m here to tell my story before it’s too late. Sitting in my basement with my laptop and a microphone ready to press record.
Shit, maybe they will make my story into a podcast, or better yet, maybe I’ll end up on a Netflix Series. Well, I guess I have delayed this long enough let me hit record so the world can know my story firsthand from the perverted mind of a serial stalker. I hit record and took another swig of my beer, I let out a big gas- time to tell my story.
I guess I’ll start by introducing myself. My name is Sebastian Porter, and I am 24 years old. I have a very unique story to tell. I would like to believe that I wasn’t always like this but I really can’t remember before these obsessions started.
I’m recording this right now because unfortunately, I can’t go to the local bar that I usually go to. Something about some root legal reasons, but I’ll have to get to that later. Well, if I’m going to tell the story, I might as well start at the fucking beginning.
I’ll just come out and say it – I’m a 24-year-old virgin and I blame my no-good parents. They sent me to an all-boy Catholic school, thinking I would get a better education. In reality, all it really did was cause me to become obsessed with the opposite sex.
I never fit in there. I wasn’t a jock, wasn’t in the band, or anything like that. I wasn’t popular or anything. just the awkward, smart kid who would constantly got picked on. Unless, of course, I was doing someone’s homework.
My intellect must have intimidated others, I guess. Now that I am looking back at it, I’ve always been the smartest in my classes. Funny though, because I never tried. School came easy to me, and brought on a sort of arrogance. I tested perfect on the ACT’s so you can go fuck yourself with your meaningless grades.
For the most part, I consider myself a loner, probably due to the lack of female interaction in high school. I was always shy and timid when it came to the opposite sex, to be honest. Eventually, I started having very vivid dreams about one of my teachers. I mean very, very vivid sexual fantasies of my English teacher, Mrs. Palmer.
I had one of her classes, three out of four years in high school, and I always had fantasies of her completely taking advantage of me and making me a complete sexual servant to her. I became obsessed since she was one of the only females I would on a day-to-day basis. And oh my God, she smelled so damn good.
It started off so innocent, just a teenage boy having a crush. A woman, a real woman. She was probably somewhere in her late twenties, maybe early 30’s. I would sit in the back of the room for the couple of years that I had her classes. Each year, I always made my way to the back of the classroom, just like the year before.
I would just sit there, visualizing and fantasizing about being asked to stay after class. Where Mrs. Palmer would literally make her teacher. Just hoping to be punished for my bad grades and made to please her. This fantasy began to take ahold of me, and I got to the point where I needed more than just the vision in me head.
Eventually I found myself discreetly trying to rub myself, over my pants, unable to stop. Eventually, she was all I could think about, even during other lessons and classes. I couldn’t go a waking moment without thinking of her, no, lusting and obsessing over Mrs. Palmer. Fuck I never even knew her first name- but that never mattered to me.
It was always, “Yes, Mrs. Palmer whatever you say, Mrs. Palmer”, she would always turn me on so much. From the simplest call of my name in class for attendance, to the way she rose from her seat at her desk in two simple, fluid movements.
It was during my senior year when it hit me, I never may see Mrs. Palmer again. I might not ever get to smell her again! Never inhale the smell of her perfume mingled with the smell of her shampoo, her hair shifting slightly near her ear. This really only ever happened when she turned her head if she was walking around the classroom.
Turning the corner of the last desk on each row, stopping to pause by the front seat of each each time before starting down the next one. I knew her every routine, from turning the light switch on or off with only ever the palm of her right hand, to what week she would clip her nails again. She kept her little nail clippers in the bottom slide out drawer of her desk, after all.
When the realization hit me, it really hit me. There was no question about it, I instantly new what I had to do, what do you call it again? That’s right – all time low! That day is when I stooped to my all time tow. Once I never would have thought I would do what I did, now it’s really more that I can’t believe I’m admitting it to you! Times have changed.
I noticed Miss Palmer early that morning, and of course, she is wearing the sexiest heels. Well, they must’ve hurt her feet because she was in sandals by six that morning. The heels remained under the desk the entire lesson. I already had the plan set in stone, ready to go before I even realized it. It was just that simple.
When the bell rang, and class was dismissed, I knew that was my moment. I thought about offering a foot massage to her, my urges taking over my train of thought again. Focus, focus! Instead of offering her a foot massage, I snuck back into the classroom and quickly put the heels into my backpack. I’m not sure if I ever got home so fast as I did that day! I couldn’t lose her scent.
The weird thing is, she never mentioned her stolen shoes ever in class. Not one single time, no hinted questions, no mention at all. Maybe she was turned on, but in reality, she was embarrassed. What you could tell though, was that she was freaked the fuck out. It was about two months later that I would strike again.
Hey, don’t get me wrong! I didn’t do anything physical to harm her. After class was dismissed, I slipped a folded-up piece of paper onto her desk. It was addressed to her Mrs. Palmer, and I hope that showed it was from one of her students. I didn’t know her first name anyway, and that would have sounded more casual than I wanted.
That is what we called her, and that was her name. I wrote a poem for my love, I had to get it to her. I needed her to know, she needed to know! I had to let her know that one of her students was willing to please her in every single way possible. The poem went like this:
A passion that runs deep inside
The level of lust that takes over the mind
Animalistic urges are getting hard to resist
Perfect smile and kissable lips
Excitement rushing, hopelessly nervous
Fantasizing about being your sexual servant
My identity may never be revealed,
Still turned on by the aroma of your heels
I signed “My heart and blood, your heart, my love” with my blood from my finger. I smeared it in the shape of a heart, sealing it true. Come the start of next week, that would be the real show. I’d made it this far, and the little did I know what I do now. What happened the following Monday, now – that was a brand new experience for me.
I had never seen someone so freaked out. Not at that point in life, anyway. The look of fear displayed on Mrs. Palmer’s face, mixed with something else. I can’t even describe it, there really aren’t enough words, or the right ones to use even. You could feel it, not just see it, but feel her tension and panic in the air.
She looked so disturbed, you could almost feel your own hair rising, but it wasn’t. It was hers, her hair standing on edge. It was just that intense, watching her reactions felt like your own. That is the first time I felt it. I realized, in some way, I liked it. I mean, how would she ever find out who it was? That in itself was a rush.
Then I remembered in a panic, I still had a band-aid on my index finger. It was my time to panic, feel afraid. My blood was on that poem, at the bottom. I had marked my work of art. Would she notice? Would I be exposed? Would she say anything? The excitement was skyrocketing, taken off too much, too fast. I had to breathe.
I managed to keep my bandaged finger out of sight for the entire class. I did not even allow myself my usual day dreams and fun that day. I stayed focused, I had to make sure I was being careful! I was doing good, just peachy. Well, that is until I picked up my books when the bell rang. Why did she have to focus in on me, then, in that moment?
Mrs. Palmer and I locked eyes when I walked towards the door, she then glanced down at my hand, seeing the wound, and her expression immediately changed. Expressions fan quickly over her face, but am pretty sure I caught each one. Confusion, concern, and a slow moving shock, mixed with worry? No, fear.
The next day, I was pulled into the administrator’s office while on my way to lunch. Mr. Paul, Mr. Thompson, and Mrs. Palmer were across from me as I was guided to a chair. The front secretary quickly backed out of the room, the door quiet, save for the latch catching. I knew what was about to happen, I just had to stay calm.
They started with simple, open ended questions. It quickly felt more like pointed accusations. They were sloppy, rushed and feeding off of each other’s own intensity. All they could do was keep asking about the poem, and somehow bring my single band aid into it. They were running in circles with their words, answering each other before I could speak most of the time.
It was a waste of time, anyway. Since they didn’t have any real evidence, they couldn’t discipline me, couldn’t prove anything really. I explained to them that I cut my finger while doing my woodshop project. As I walked out of the office, Mrs. Palmer and I locked eyes once again.
I gave her a huge smirk and winked at my love as I walked back towards the lunch room.
Be on the look-out for The Obsession Confession: Part 2.
