Disclaimer: This content is intended for adult readers (18 yrs. and older.) 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 – Where The Obsession Began
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. I will tell you how my little crush became an uncontrollable obsession.
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 gasp. It was 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 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-boys 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 get 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 easily to me and brought on a sort of arrogance. I tested perfectly on the ACT, 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, Ms. 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 interact with, on a day-to-day basis. And oh my God, she smelled so damn good.
It started off so innocently, just a teenage boy having a crush on a woman, a real woman. She was probably somewhere in her late twenties, maybe early 30s. 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 Ms. Palmer would literally make me her teacher’s pet. Sounds like the plot of a porno, hoping to be punished for my bad grades and made to please her. This fantasy began to take hold of me, and I got to the point where I needed more than just the vision in my head.
Eventually, I found myself in the back of the classroom, 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, lusting and obsessing over Mrs. Palmer. Fuck I never even knew her first name, but that never mattered to me.
It was always, “Yes, Ms. Palmer, whatever you say, Ms. Palmer.” She would always turn me on so much. From the simplest call of my name in class for attendance, to the way she would hand out our daily assignments. It was like she was teasing all of us or maybe it was all in my head.
It was during my senior year when it hit me that I may never see Ms. Palmer again after graduation. I might not ever get to smell her again! I would never inhale the smell of her perfume mixed with the scent of her shampoo. Even though she constantly runs through my mind, the thought of not seeing her in person drove me crazy.
I knew her every routine, from her morning coffee, how she wrote the date and assignments on the whiteboard, hell I even knew her schedule for getting her mani/pedi. She kept her little nail clippers in the bottom slide-out drawer of her desk, after all.
The urges started to overcome my thoughts and feelings. Being obsessed and running through these scenarios just wasn’t enough anymore. I had to take action, and at that time, I realized I had hit rock bottom when it came to my sick thoughts.
I noticed Ms. 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 the time I had her in 6th period. 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.
I made a shrine in my closet of Ms. Palmer that now includes her Michael Kors open-toed heels. I would close my bedroom door, making sure I wasn’t disturbed by my parents, get on my knees, and like a Muslim during prayer, worship the shoes that once held my Goddess’s foot.
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, Ms. 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.
I wrote a poem for my love, and 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 to finalize the letter. I dropped it off on her desk on a Friday, knowing that I would at least have a few days over the weekend to prepare for any consequences of getting caught.
I had never seen someone so freaked out. Not at that point in life, anyway. The look of fear displayed on Ms. Palmer’s face on Monday told the entire story. I can’t even describe it, there 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. Like she was on edge, almost like she was trying to figure out my little creepy riddle. The thoughts that must’ve been going through her head. Was the person in the classroom at the moment? Which student was it? Was it a student or could it be a fellow staff member? That is the first time I felt it. I realized, in some way, I liked it. Her fear of the unsolved mystery had my heart beating fast. I mean, how would she ever find out who it was? That in itself was a rush.
Then I remembered in a panic that 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, taking off too much, too fast. I had to take deep breaths to avoid a full-blown panic attack.
I managed to keep my bandaged finger out of sight of the entire class. I did not even allow myself my usual daydreams 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?
Ms. 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. Thoughts of confusion, concern, and a slow-moving shock that quickly turned into a look of fear as she was in a near tremble, staring me in the face.
The next day, I was pulled into the administrator’s office while on my way to lunch. Mr. Paul, Mr. Thompson, and Ms. 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 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, Ms. Palmer and I locked eyes once again.
I gave her a huge smirk and winked at my love as I walked back towards the lunchroom, thinking to myself, “You are my little obsession, aren’t you!”
Be on the look-out for The Obsession Confession: Part 2.
Disclaimer: This story was written for another website by Bobby Kaboose. Since Bobby’s departure from the company, his name has been replaced by the owner of the website.
