That's right, my friend.Tara's antithesis at his best!
sslovoe
Well-Known Member
- May 11, 2017
- 1,355
- 5,169
have some model chang skin or face and hair to test
model tall can make him little shorter and tummy big or faty
option 01
option 02
make him older
model tall can make him little shorter and tummy big or faty
option 01
option 02
make him older
The part that was published in parts until now has been compiled in one piece. There are very minor changes. New episodes may take a while, maybe 1-2 weeks.
The Great Transformation
Tara was born into a world that blended opulence with high expectations. This world wasn’t merely an oasis of luxury—it was a sanctuary of confidence, a place where self-worth was cultivated from the very beginning. Her mother, a talented psychologist with an stunning beauty, could easily have been mistaken for a supermodel or a movie star. With every step she took, heads turned, and her presence effortlessly commanded attention. Tara's father, a distinguished and successful lawyer, was equally captivating—not just for his professional acclaim, but also for the magnetic charm that radiated from him. Together, they formed a power couple, their allure undeniable and their influence far-reaching. Their financial standing was impeccable, their lifestyle the epitome of success.
Talented, fiercely intelligent, and free-spirited, Tara grew up believing that excellence was a birthright. She attended only the most prestigious schools, her education shaped by some of the brightest minds. For her, success was not a goal, but an inevitable byproduct of her natural rhythm in life. It was something that came with ease, as intrinsic to her as breathing. But there was another reason why Tara effortlessly got everything she wanted. Her breathtaking beauty was devastating.
The symmetry of her features was so perfect that it almost seemed unreal. Her eyebrows arched, lashes impossibly long, casting shadows on her porcelain skin, and full lips that parted just enough to make each breath feel like an delight. Her deep blue eyes didn’t merely observe—they scanned, disarmed, consumed. Men who met her challenging gaze found themselves undone, forgetting reason, morality, and loyalty. Her golden hair, long, wavy, and voluminous, cascading like a waterfall, catching the light, making it impossible to look away.
Her body... It was incredible. At 5'9", her figure wasn’t just attractive—it was crafted to torment. Her fit body, shaped by strict yoga and gym discipline, was a perfect balance of muscle and elegance. Her legs were long and sculpted, her belly were flat and tight. But it was the curve of her hips and the fullness of her breasts that drove men to madness. Those curves—impossible, unyielding—were not just seen, but felt. Her ass... just wow. Perfectly round and full, any item of clothing she wore simply highlighted it, clinging to the firm, perky, well-formed cheeks, while giving a hint of the delightful crevasse in between. Her each stride a visual promise, a silent invitation.
The fact that she had massive, perky double D-cup breasts was just... She was perfect, and they were perfect. They were real and they were jaw-droppingly firm and perky. They vaulted off her fit frame in almost cartoonish fashion, with zero sag. They were so massive and so firm that they rode close together, forming a natural cleft of eye-popping cleavage, while the outer sides of them remained visible from behind her. There was no way to hide them no matter what she wore.
Tara wore her beauty not as an ornament but as an extension of her will. Each movement she made was deliberate, as if she was orchestrating her own reality. Her hips swayed with a calculated ease only a goddess could achieve, every step an undeniable assertion of power, every glance a silent command. She didn’t need to seduce; she simply existed, and the world bent silently, obediently, around her.
Wherever she went, attention followed—unstoppable, like a tide that swept everything in its path. She didn’t simply walk into rooms, she dominated them with her presence. No one could remain indifferent to the aura emanating from her. Some claimed they could feel her even before she appeared—like an invisible force that reshaped the very atmosphere. At every school she attended, she was the one everyone looked to—the unchallenged captain of the cheer squad, the reigning queen of every dance, the center of every gaze. Her popularity wasn’t just a status; it was an empire built on beauty, charisma, and an undeniable presence. Among her peers, she was more than just a name; she was a legend and it was a privilege to be in her orbit.
Tara was aware of the impact her own existence had on her environment. This situation amused her from time to time. Especially seeing how men get themselves into stupid situations trying to impress her. Even the most confident ones often stuttered in her presence and had difficulty finding the right words.
Tara, now 22 years old, could have chosen any path she desired—a supermodel, an actress, or anything her heart dreamed of. The world was at her feet, ready to yield to her every command. But despite the endless options before her, she was unwavering. With the same cold precision that defined her every move, she chose to follow in her father’s footsteps. Law wasn’t just a career for her; it was a challenge—one that would demand as much power, control, and intellect as she could give. So, she enrolled in law school, determined to carve her own path, not as a beauty or a legend, but as a force to be reckoned with in a world that demanded more from her.
It was during her second year at university that she met the love of her life—Mike. At that time, he was pursuing his master’s degree. He, 26, was an very handsome, charismatic and wealthy young man, but this was because of family money. His father owned a lucrative manufacturing and distribution company. The future had already been written for him—Mike was destined to inherit and lead the family business, his every move carefully orchestrated to prepare him for that inevitable fate.
Their connection was instant—magnetic, undeniable, as if the universe itself was trying to bring them together. From the moment they met, something shifted in the air around them, an invisible current pulling them toward each other. Falling in love was effortless, as natural as breathing. Soon, they became the kind of couple others both admired and envied, the epitome of perfection that others only dreamed of. As the days passed, their love only deepened—more intense, more certain, like a fire that refused to be extinguished.
Just before Mike’s graduation, he proposed. In that moment, Tara felt as though she were living in a dream—a dream made entirely of joy, where every waking moment felt like a perfect reflection of the future she had always envisioned for herself. There, in his eyes, she saw the promise of forever—a life built on a love that had already stood the test of time in the span of their months together.
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For Tara, life had been nothing short of perfect from the day she was born—until it all came crashing down. Just months after Mike’s proposal, a scandal erupted that shattered the flawless world she had always known. Her father, the man she had admired and trusted above all others, had been having an affair with a young intern at his law firm—a girl barely older than Tara herself. The image of her family, once a beacon of strength and unity, disintegrated before her eyes.
The couple she had always viewed as the embodiment of love and loyalty—her parents—had turned into bitter strangers. Their arguments, raw and venomous, echoed through the house, tearing apart the quiet dignity they had once shared. The man who had been her rock, her moral compass, became a shadow of himself—unrecognizable. He was no longer the man who had built their world; he was a liar, a betrayer. She was filled with anger.
She felt the very foundation of her world tremble, the ground beneath her split open. The unshakable security her parents had always provided, the unwavering certainty that had been the bedrock of her existence, was gone. It left behind only an anger, a hollow feeling that nothing could seem to fill. The values she had once embraced so wholeheartedly—family, love, trust—now felt like empty promises, words drained of their meaning, their substance, their weight. It dawned on her that her entire life had been built on a polished illusion—a perfect family portrait, carefully crafted, meticulously displayed, but a deep fake beneath the surface.
Tara began to question everything: had she truly become the woman she was by choice, or had she been shaped, molded by the expectations of those around her? Had her path, her success, her confidence all been products of her own making—or had she simply been living out a script written by others? For the first time in her life, everything she had believed in—her identity, her path, her purpose—felt like an empty vessel, something imposed upon her, not something she had chosen for herself.
And in that moment, Tara felt adrift, untethered, a ship lost at sea in a vast and uncertain world where nothing felt solid, nothing felt secure. She was wondering who she truly was, and who she was meant to become.
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Mike’s situation added yet another layer of chaos to Tara’s already unraveling life. He had finally graduated and was poised to step into his role as heir to his family's business.. But his father, a man whose expectations were as rigid as they were unyielding, had other plans. Instead of passing the reins of the family business, he demanded that Mike start at the bottom—learning the ins and outs of the business from the factory floor to the boardroom, a process that could take years.
As part of this grueling initiation, Mike was sent to manage one of the company’s remote manufacturing plants in the gray-skied town of Brackmoore, a place that felt as cold and distant as the decision itself. He was expected to remain there for an entire year. The decision wasn’t up for discussion. It was tradition—a tradition as old and inflexible as the family business itself, passed down from father to son like scripture, with no room for rebellion.
Anxious and uncertain, Mike finally explained the situation to Tara, his voice faltering, afraid his stunning fiancée might refuse to follow him into the unknown. Tara’s reaction was immediate—a sharp stab of disappointment that lodged itself deep in her chest. The weight of the news hit her harder than she expected. This unexpected twist had torn apart the future she had so carefully planned. She had always been focused, driven, ready to complete her studies and forge a life of her own, on her own terms. She was one year away from graduating. But now, she stood at a crossroads: follow Mike to Brackmoore, abandoning her ambitions for the sake of their relationship, or stay behind and risk growing apart. The thought of abandoning her path, of putting her dreams on hold for someone else, felt like a betrayal—not just of him, but of herself, her potential, and everything she had worked so hard to build. Yet, the idea of losing Mike, of letting go of the man she loved, was equally unbearable.
Tara replayed the scenario in her mind a thousand times, turning it over, analyzing every angle, trying to find a way to make sense of the impossibility of her situation. Her mind told her to stay and pursue her own future, but her heart, raw and yearning, whispered for her to follow him, to be with him.
After days of wrestling with doubt, Tara made the hardest decision of her life: she would leave behind everything that was familiar, everything she had ever known, and follow the man she loved into the unknown. The fact that this was a temporary process made it easier for her to decide. After all, they would return after a year and continue their glorious lives. Also her family’s collapse had left her feeling unmoored, like a stranger in her own life. Maybe she thought, a change of place, a change of scenery, could help rebuild what had been broken inside her. She didn’t know what lay ahead but somewhere deep within, a voice whispered that this journey could be useful for rediscovering herself and establishing her identity.
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After a relentless, exhausting journey, the couple finally arrived in Brackmoore. As their car slowly meandered through the sun-bleached streets, Tara felt a suffocating weight of disappointment press heavily on her chest. She hadn’t expected paradise, but this place was worse than anything her lowest expectation had envisioned. The air was stagnant, heavy, as though even the town itself were holding its breath, waiting for something that would never come. The faded storefronts, their windows lifeless, lined the main road, with signs barely legible—a whisper from a forgotten past. It was as if time had stopped here.
Mike, too, felt the knot in his stomach tighten as he took in the grim surroundings. He could feel the silence radiating from Tara beside him, and when their eyes met, the truth was undeniable—disappointment, discomfort, and disillusionment reflected back at him. He hated this. He hated bringing her to a place that already felt like failure. But he forced a calm smile, clinging to the hope that somehow, things would improve—that Tara would find something to hold on to here.
Finally, they reached their new home. For the first time since arriving in Brackmoore, Tara felt a flicker of relief. The house was an old, two-story structure, with a faded elegance that seemed to stand as a defiant symbol against the desolation surrounding it. In the backyard, a modest pool shimmered beneath the late afternoon sun, its still surface catching the light like a forgotten treasure. It was something familiar, something real—a small piece of luxury tying her to the life she had left behind. But even this fleeting comfort didn’t last.
Tara couldn’t shake the overwhelming feeling that she didn’t belong—not in this house, not in this town. Everything about it felt alien, detached from the future she had once imagined with Mike, from the dreams that now seemed impossibly distant. The silence within it was deafening, louder than any words. This was not the life she had prepared for—it was something else entirely. A single, faint echo of beauty—a reminder of the luxury she once knew—wasn’t enough to soothe the unease gnawing at her.
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The day after their move, Mike plunged himself into his new role. When he returned home that evening, it was late, and his energy had been completely drained. At first, Tara chalked up his exhaustion to the demands of his first day, but it didn’t take long for her to realize how wrong she was. Each day, Mike returned later, his fatigue so palpable it seemed to cling to him, the heavy thud of his steps, the distant look in his eyes. He was consumed by the crushing weight of his family's expectations, giving everything he had to earn his father’s approval, yet no matter how much he sacrificed, it was never enough.
Even on weekends, Mike vanished into the unforgiving pull of his responsibilities, leaving Tara alone to face the expanding emptiness that consumed her. The loneliness seeped into her like the biting silence of Brackmoore, a chill that settled into her bones, growing colder with each passing day.
She threw herself into trying to create warmth, desperately attempting to transform their house into something resembling a home. But no matter how many times she rearranged the furniture, no matter how many delicate touches of beauty she added, the house never felt like anything more than four walls. The oppressive air of Brackmoore had seeped into every corner, every room, suffocating everything in its indifferent grasp. No matter how much effort she put in, no matter how sincere the intention, the discomfort of the place clung to her, weaving itself into the very fabric of their lives.
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Almost a month had passed since their move, and Tara had yet to make a single friend. The townspeople, like the town itself, were dull, sulky types. The neighbors were cold and distant. They had only ever seen someone of her beauty and class on TV or magazine covers before. They had no idea how to communicate with someone like her. All they could do was admire and scrutinize her. Tara had always been aware of her effect on people. But this was something else. It was different from the elite social circles and their standards that she was used to. The curious gazes of these people made her feel like an object.
Tara’s days became an endless blur of monotony. Every morning, she would wake and stare out the window, her gaze lost in the vast, empty landscape stretching endlessly before her. It felt more like a prison than an open world—a silent, desolate expanse frozen in time. There was no hurry, no noise, no life. Everything outside seemed to be suspended, frozen in place, waiting for something, anything, to shift, but nothing ever did.
The only moments Tara found any relief were during her workouts and yoga sessions, when she could force her body to move, to feel something—anything—other than the creeping emptiness that threatened to consume her. But even in those fleeting moments of physical exertion, her mind was a storm, restless and chaotic, spinning in a relentless whirlwind of thoughts. Afterward, she would dive into the cool pool, its water offering a brief escape from the suffocating heat of the day and the ever-present swirl of her thoughts. The contrast of the cold water against her heated skin was soothing—momentarily—but it couldn’t calm the storm inside her. The emptiness remained, lurking just beneath the surface, like a shadow that refused to leave. The calm was fleeting, a thin veneer over a void that nothing could fill. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t outrun the deep, nagging dissatisfaction gnawing at her soul.
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Tara knew she couldn’t remain trapped in the suffocating cycle she had found herself in. It wasn’t leading anywhere, and she could no longer pretend she was content. The life she was living felt hollow, drained of purpose, and she was desperate for change. There had to be something she could do for herself, something that could reignite the fire she once had.
Determined, she began to research local law firms online, hoping to find a way to bring meaning back into her life. It might do her good to do something for her career. However, when she found only a handful of law offices in town, disappointment crashed into her like a cold wave. The options were scarce, but there was one that stood out: Jones Law Firm. The fact that the owner was a woman felt like a small yet empowering connection to her own aspirations, a lifeline in a town that seemed to stifle her spirit.
That evening, she waited for Mike to come home. As usual, he returned late, drained from the weight of his day. She told him about her decision to intern at a law firm, hoping it would make her time here more purposeful. She needed something that was hers—something she could control, something to feel like she was moving forward. But Mike’s reaction hit her like a slap. He didn’t say it outright, but his silence, his coldness, spoke volumes. He didn’t want her to work. They didn't need the money, and Mike hoped she would stay home and be the perfect wife he dreamed of.
For Tara, it wasn’t about the money. It was about holding on to a piece of herself, about maintaining her independence, about having the power to make her own decisions. Mike’s selfishness, his complete disregard for her needs, ignited a searing anger inside her. For the first time, she found herself questioning everything about their relationship—wondering if she had been living in a dream, one that wasn’t hers at all. That night, their argument erupted like a violent storm. The disagreement grew so fierce that, in the end, Mike ended up sleeping on the couch in the living room.
The following days felt unbearable. The weight of the constant, suffocating routine pressed down on her. Each passing moment felt heavier, like she was sinking deeper into quicksand, stuck in a life she hadn’t chosen. The sense of helplessness was overwhelming, and the emptiness gnawed at her like a constant ache in her chest. She could return to the city, to her elite environment where she belonged, and leave Mike and this damned town behind as a memory she wouldn't recall. However, this would be an escape, a giving up and for The Blonde Goddess, failure was not an acceptable option.
One morning, Tara woke up with a sudden, overpowering urge to act. She couldn’t wait any longer. She couldn’t let herself drown in this miserable town, in this miserable life. She had to break free. Without a second thought, she grabbed her phone and dialed the number for Jones Law Firm. The decision felt like a jolt—a freeing break from the relentless pressure that had been suffocating her. It was like a fog lifting, the first breath of fresh air she had taken in months. As she hung up the phone after scheduling the appointment, something inside her stirred—an ember of excitement, a flicker of hope. For the first time since arriving in Brackmoore, she felt alive. It was the exhilaration of doing something entirely for herself. It was the sensation of taking control again, of no longer being tethered to a life that didn’t belong to her.
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As the pale light of morning bled across the silent streets of Brackmoore, a cheap plastic alarm clock unleashed a shrill screech from an old-fashioned nightstand. With a grunt of frustration, a calloused, hairy hand emerged from beneath the stained, crumpled covers and slammed the offending device silent. It was the sixth time. Terry mired in stagnant existence—had no real intention of facing the day. Or any day, for that matter.
He rolled over on bed with a wheezing exhale, his shapeless body peeling off the stained mattresses. He was, at most, 5'6" and the view was a disaster. His head was a patchy landscape of greasy, unkempt hair, desperately clinging to the sides while the crown remained bald. His chest hung loosely over his bloated beer-belly. His arms and legs were a little thin compared to his torso. His belly, chest, back, and butt cheeks were covered with thick curly hair.
His teeth, crooked and yellowed, peeked out from behind cracked, sullen lips as he yawned. He scratched absently, then stumbled towards a pile of dirty clothes scattered across the floor, pulling on a worn pants and a wrinkled shirt that reeked of stale sweat and mildew. His smell was an entity in itself: sour, oppressive, unmistakable. He showered rarely—once every few weeks at best—and only when his own stench became unbearable, even to him.
Terry—58 years old, was the epitome of a lonely loser. His life was full of failures and disappointments. His education life was almost non-existent. He had never been successful in anything he tried. Even though he had lived in this town his entire life, he didn't have a single real friend. This was because of his character, which was as repulsive as his appearance and smell. Empathy, manners, basic decency—these were foreign concepts to Terry. In a constant exercise in selfishness, he judged people solely by what he could get from them. He had no respect for any value, anyone or anything. If a flower came his way, he would not bother to change his path but would indifferently crush it under his foot.
When he shuffled into the kitchen, the cockroaches scattered from the light, disappearing into the shadows. The sink overflowed with dishes, cemented with the remnants of forgotten meals, while a half-eaten donut lay abandoned on a plate. He grabbed it with two fingers, sniffed it briefly, and then shoved it into his mouth, chewing with messy, open-mouthed bites.
As he stepped out from home to work, lighting a cigarette, he spat a thick, yellow glob of phlegm onto the ground, the wet splatter echoing in the silent morning. The bitterness within him oozed from his pores, leaving a foul trail wherever he went. It was almost impossible to imagine anyone ever having loved him— even his mother probably didn't like him. But Terry seemed utterly indifferent to such thoughts. Shame was not on his scale of emotions.
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Tara sat in her car for a few moments, her eyes fixed on the address she had entered into the navigation system. The building before her was nothing like the grand, polished office she had imagined when she thought of a law firm. It stood on the ground floor of a dilapidated four-story building, the upper floors abandoned. The exterior, its paint peeling and faded, the windows grimy and fogged over, screamed neglect. Tara blinked in disbelief—how could a place of such professionalism, at least in her mind, appear so utterly uninspiring? For a brief moment, doubt crept in, and she wondered if she had made a mistake. But that thought quickly dissolved. She had come here with purpose, and she wasn’t about to turn back now.
She opened the door, stepping out of the car. Her heels clicked decisively on the cracked pavement, each step echoing in the air. She wore a black skirt, a crisp white blouse, and a custom-tailored blazer that highlighted her grace and poise. Her presence was striking—out of place in a town like this. The contrast between her polished exterior and the run-down surroundings was jarring, almost enough to make her second-guess the authenticity of her mission. But Tara wasn’t here to blend in. She was here to create change, to transform this place, to carve out a space for herself. Every movement she made was deliberate, and there was an undeniable confidence in her posture.
The first thing that caught her eye when she entered was the narrow, rusted iron stairs leading down to the basement. The office was was tasteless and unpleasant, sparsely furnished with mismatched desks and old, battered file cabinets. The air hung heavy with silence, broken only by the hum of an old, outdated computer. Dim lights cast long shadows across the room, making it feel like she had stepped into another time—a forgotten place, lost in the past. Tara hesitated for a moment, a fleeting thought about whether she could thrive in such a place. The silence was pierced by the sound of approaching footsteps. A short, plump woman emerged from the kitchen area, a cup of coffee in hand.
“How can I help you?” she asked, her voice high-pitched with surprise. The way she looked at her, like she was staring at a stranger from another world. It was clear that she had never seen anyone as beautiful and charming as Tara in Brackmoore before.
She introduced herself quickly, mentioning her scheduled appointment. The woman, still trying to process the sight before her, nodded and pointed toward the door behind the desk. "Ms. Bridget is expecting you."
Inside the room, Tara was greeted by a warm, welcoming smile. Bridget, the owner of the firm, was in her early sixties and a seasoned attorney who had spent many years in the fast-paced world of Chicago before moving to her hometown of Brackmoore five years ago in search of a quieter life. Although the transition had somewhat dulled her, she still carried the fire of a seasoned attorney who had fought for civil rights and handled important cases. When she looked at Tara, she couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast: Tara’s flawless beauty, her impeccable style, and the massive diamond ring on her finger against the backdrop of the humble office. Bridget’s curiosity grew with every passing second, and she couldn’t help but wonder what had brought this striking woman to such a place.
“So, darling, what brings you here?” Bridget asked, her tone warm and inviting.
Tara briefly explained her situation and shared her desire to do an internship. She added that she had no salary expectations. Bridget paused for a moment, taken aback—working for free wasn’t something she encountered often. But after speaking with Tara for a while, understanding the drive behind her decision, Bridget found herself intrigued and impressed. She saw something in the young woman—an ambition and purpose that made her stand out.
“Welcome to Jones Law Firm, Tara,” Bridget said with a firm handshake.
As Tara smiled, her perfectly shaped white teeth lit up the atmosphere. “Thank you, Ms. Bridget.”
“Please, just call me Bridget,” she replied with a friendly.
As they continued to talk, Bridget couldn’t resist pointing out Tara’s formal attire, noticing how out of place it seemed for the town. “Darling, this isn’t Chicago,” she said casually. “You don’t need to dress like that.”
Tara’s shoulders eased at the suggestion. The oppressive heat of Brackmoore had a way of weighing down on her, and the thought of being able to dress casually, to feel comfortable in something less formal, was like a small breath of fresh air.
Later, Bridget took Tara to the office entrance, where she was introduced to Betty, the secretary, who welcomed her. Betty, while not particularly well-educated or skilled, managed to get things done. She was more than enough to meet the low standards of this forgotten town.
Meanwhile, the door creaked open, and in walked a short, chubby man. His balding head gleamed under the light, beads of sweat dotting his broad forehead. His shirt was stuck to his body with dark stains under his arms. He stared directly at Tara with an intensity that felt almost overwhelming. It was a gaze like no other, raw and unfiltered. He was obviously trying to absorb her beauty and grace, questioning in his mind whether she was truly here. Was this a dream?
“This is Terry,” Bridget said, her voice casual, almost indifferent, as if introducing him were no more significant than pointing out a piece of furniture. When she returned from Chicago, this old building she had inherited was in need of repair, so she hired Terry, who had some experience in the field. Over the time, his duties had expanded to managing the office’s more menial tasks. He had been around since the beginning, fixing the leaks and cracks in old plumbing, maintaining and handling mail and simple paperwork.
As Tara looked at him, she couldn’t help but compare him to a troll. She had never met anyone like him before. She was used to attention, used to commanding the room. But this felt different—his stare wasn’t admiration; it was something far colder, like an examination. There was something about him she couldn’t quite place: something disturbing, something wrong.
Bridget, completely unaware of the tension that was now thickening the air, turned to Tara with a welcoming smile. “So, when can you start?” she asked, as if it were the most natural question in the world.
Tara blinked, trying to clear her mind from the disturbing intensity of Terry's gaze. “Monday,” she said, her voice steady.
“Great,” Bridget said with a warm smile, before turning back to her office.
As Tara walked out of the office, Terry's lingering gaze felt like an invisible weight on her back. Despite the promising start with Bridget, a shadow had been cast, a subtle yet distinct warning that Brackmoore held more than just faded buildings and stifled dreams. As she reached her car, the image of Terry's unwavering scrutiny flashed in her mind, a silent question mark hanging over this unexpected new chapter.
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When Mike came home later that evening, Tara was eager to share the news of her internship. She imagined his supportive smile, a shared moment of optimism in the grayness of Brackmoore. But Mike’s disinterest was palpable, a thick wall between them. His responses were clipped, almost begrudging, his gaze drifting around the room, never quite meeting hers. He seemed miles away, lost in some internal landscape, his eyes distant as if she were speaking a language he no longer understood.
For the first time, a coldness formed inside Tara. It wasn’t just the oppressive atmosphere of Brackmoore that was alienating her—it was Mike, too. The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow, stealing her breath. He seemed like a stranger now, his familiar warmth extinguished. A disquieting thought flickered through her mind: how long had this been brewing, this silent drift, without her noticing? The anger settled deep inside her.
What Tara didn’t know was that Mike’s indifference wasn’t because of his feelings for her. He still adored her, still looked at her like she was the center of his world. But the weight of managing the factory had become unbearable. Workers were on strike, deliveries were delayed, and his father’s constant berating had pushed him to the brink. But none of that mattered to Tara. She was a Goddess. She had been treated that way her entire life. And to feel neglected was as unbearable as suffocation.
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That evening, Terry tore down the backroads of Brackmoore in his sputtering, rust-bitten car, the engine coughing like it wanted to die. The cracked windows rattled with every bump, and the driver’s side mirror was held on with duct tape and a prayer. His destination loomed at the edge of town—an old shack, half-swallowed by weeds.
The car screeched to a halt, dust mushrooming behind it, then he staggered out, red-faced. Sweat poured from his scalp, darkening the collar of his shirt. He slammed the door behind him and quickly took off his shirt as if it were suffocating him—yanking his pants down before he’d even reached the stained couch.
Terry, 58, had never known peace. His body was a furnace of ceaseless craving, a machine wired wrong. He had an innate quality that could be considered a gift to some and a curse to others. His testosterone level was almost five times that of the average man. He also had trouble cumming, and even when he did, he couldn't feel satisfaction. His mind was never quiet. His urges never slept. Most days, he drowned them in hours of filthy porn videos and magazines, chasing a satisfaction that always disappeared the second he found it. But now, he didn’t need them. He had another thing.
The moment he saw Tara this morning, something inside him had detonated. Her skin, tanned and glowing, like silk stretched over warm curves. Her scent—fresh, intoxicating, the deep trace of perfume mixed with something uniquely her, a scent that made his groin throb. And her eyes—deep, like a storm waiting to swallow him whole. The way she moved—fluid, effortless, the subtle sway of her hips that promised untold pleasures. The elegant curve of her neck begging to be touched. The tension in her posture as she walked, highlighting the proud lift of her breasts under that crisp white fabric—it was like watching a flame flicker in the wind, unpredictable and hot. She was a waterfall of pure, unadulterated desire in his twisted mind. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way her black skirt hugged her long legs, the precise curve of her ass as she moved, how her white blouse strained ever across the fullness of her chest, hinting at the perfect, ripe mounds beneath. His mind was a relentless slideshow of her body. She couldn’t be real. But she had spoken. She had breathed the same air. Her soft, perfect voice still echoed in his skull, each syllable like a lewd suggestion.
He setted onto his stained couch, his breathing ragged. His greasy fingers trembled as he conjured her image, focusing on the way her breasts must feel, the firm, yielding softness. He imagined the smooth, tight curve of her ass under his palm. The room around him—the moldy walls, the stench, the buzzing flies—disappeared.
In his mind, she was there. Close. Untouchable. Untamed. And every thought, every crude image of her only fed the hunger that clawed at him. His chest tightened, his pulse quickened. Her imagined form made him burn with a desperate, animalistic need.
He pulled down his stained, torn boxers with trembling fingers. The sight that emerged was shocking. He was genetically trash, but his cock, rising like a pole from the forest of pubic hair, was an absolute beast. It was at least eight inches long, maybe nine inches, and very thick. It was extremely gnarled with thick purple veins running along its entire length. The giant hairy sack that contained his tangerine-sized testicles hung between his legs. It was inhumane in every way. He gripped his massive cock in his calloused palm and began to rub it like crazy. He had only one thing on his mind: The Blonde Goddess.
************ ************* ********************
It had been two weeks since Tara began her internship. Most of her time was spent buried in case files, trying to absorb every scrap of knowledge she could. Her desk sat directly across from Betty’s—the overweight, overly chatty secretary whose words poured out like a leaky faucet that couldn’t be shut off. Betty had a talent for turning the most mundane detail into an epic saga, often gossiping about people Tara had never met and would likely never meet. Tara would nod absently, eyes on the pages, though her mind was usually miles away.
But it wasn’t Betty’s endless chatter that truly disturbed her.
On her very first day, Tara had noticed Terry hovering near her desk. He looked like he was about to say something, but no words came. He just stood there. Staring. His silence loaded with something unspoken. It pressed on her skin like humidity, thick and inescapable.
Eventually, she couldn’t take it anymore.
“Did you need something?” she asked, voice sharp and professional.
The question jolted him. He blinked as if coming out of a trance, muttered something she couldn’t catch, then turned and shuffled away. Tara watched him go, unease prickling down her spine. Something about him felt deeply wrong, like what she’d seen so far was only the tip of something darker.
In the days that followed, Terry's presence became a persistent shadow. No matter how hard she tried to focus on her work, she always caught him in her peripheral vision. Even though his place was the archives room in the basement, he was always finding excuses to be on the main floor—checking a broken light, organizing supplies. But it was obvious. He wasn’t there for work. His eyes were always on her. And there was no mistaking the intent in his gaze. His bulging eyes were filled with crude, unapologetic lust. They didn’t look at her—they devoured her. His gaze stripped her down layer by layer, consumed her. It wasn’t the look of a man. It was the look of a hyena imagining how she might taste. It disgusted her. She had only known him for a short time, but it was long enough to grow a deep, visceral loathing.
************** *************** ********************
Tara’s weekends were no better than her weekdays—just lonelier. Mike was often nowhere to be found, buried under a mountain of stress that he rarely spoke about. And even when he was home, his presence felt distant, like a fading shadow rather than a lover. The pressure of managing the factory and living up to his father’s impossible expectations was taking a toll on him. It was hollowing him out from the inside, leaving him drained and emotionally unavailable.
Their moments of intimacy had dwindled to almost nothing. The few times they attempted closeness, it fizzled before it could ignite into anything real. The silence afterward hung thick in the air—awkward, heavy, unresolved. For Tara, who had always been adored, pursued, and admired, this indifference was more than a disappointment. She was definitely not a woman to be ignored. She was young, vibrant, and alive. And with each passing day, the emptiness and anger inside her grew.
To keep herself grounded, Tara had doubled down on her routines. Her workouts grew more intense, her yoga sessions longer. The burn in her muscles, the ache in her limbs—these were things she could control. She welcomed the pain, let it drown out the anxiety and resentment that gnawed at her mind.
That morning, she pushed herself harder than ever. After the final set, she dove into the pool with an elegant arc, the cold water wrapping around her like a blanket of relief. She swam until her body gave out, then pulled herself onto a lounge chair, soaking in the sunlight. For a brief moment, she felt calm. But the peace didn’t last.
A strange sensation crept over her—subtle at first, then slowly growing, like a shadow sliding across her skin. She sat up, scanning the yard. Everything seemed normal: the trees swayed gently, birds chirped overhead, the sun beat down without mercy. Yet something was off. She felt watched. Touched by something invisible. She gathered her towel and went inside, her stomach tight with unease.
Soon after, her phone rang. It was Rachel—her best friend since childhood, the one person who still felt like a tether to her old life. They had grown up side by side, shared everything, and even though they hadn’t seen each other in a while, their bond hadn’t changed.
As soon as she heard Rachel’s voice—witty, sharp, familiar—Tara felt a crack form in the wall she’d built around herself. They talked for a long time. Tara spoke about Mike, about the cold silence between them, about how disconnected this town made her feel.
Rachel, who was a bit of a flirtatious and always sarcastic person, listened and offered just humor. By the time they hung up, Tara felt lighter. Not fixed. Not whole. But not entirely alone either. Rachel had a way of reminding her who she was—someone strong, someone real, someone who didn’t belong in the shadows.
************** ************ ********************
Over time, Tara had worked her way through most of the case files in the main office. But the remaining documents were stored in the basement archive room—a place she had intentionally avoided. And for one reason only: Terry. She hated him. Countless times she had caught him staring at her with disturbing boldness, his eyes roaming shamelessly over her breasts and hips.
One afternoon, when Bridget sent Terry out on an errand, Tara saw her chance. She stood at the top of the narrow staircase that led down to the basement, hesitation twisting in her stomach. She took a deep breath and went downstairs, the rusty iron stairs creaking under her feet as if they too did not want her to go.
The moment she opened the archive room door, the smell hit her—thick, musty, and offensive, like the air hadn’t been changed in years. Her nose wrinkled in disgust. She turned on the light because the windowless room lacked natural light. The only light came from a single dim bulb, casting long shadows across the cramped space. The shelves were overstuffed with disorganized case files. In the corner, Terry’s desk sat like a monument to chaos—papers, wrappers, and tools strewn carelessly across every surface. The entire room felt wrong. Claustrophobic. Heavy.
Tara moved quickly, scanning the shelves for the files she needed, determined to be in and out as fast as possible. However, as she searched, she muttered in disappointment. There was no order to the system. Files were shoved haphazardly onto the shelves with no labels, no logic. For a moment she thought, "This place needs an overhaul." But the idea quickly faded. "To be here with him? Forget it."
After some time, she finally found what she was looking for. She was ready to leave, hand already on the folder—until something pulled her attention sideways.
It wasn’t a sound or a movement, just a creeping sense of curiosity that slithered under her skin. Her gaze shifted toward Terry’s desk. She told herself to leave, to ignore it. But her feet were already moving.
The closer she got, the more the atmosphere shifted. The stains came into view—large, yellowish smeared across the desktop and soaked into the seat of the old chair. Suddenly the room felt smaller to her, the air heavier. The sight turned her stomach.She knew, instinctively what those stains were—the residue of a primal, desperate depravity that mirrored the man himself. A surge of nausea rose in her throat, hot and bitter.
She turned on her heel and climbed the stairs with haste, her breath shallow, her mind reeling. She didn’t stop until she was back in the open, away from basement. She was in a state of complex emotions: disgust, hatred, but surprisingly, excitement. It was as if she had secretly entered a forbidden zone and escaped without being caught.
************** ****************** ***********************
That evening, when Tara got home, Mike was nowhere to be found. After a long shower, she didn’t bother getting dressed. She remained wrapped in her bathrobe, the soft fabric clinging to her damp skin. The time she had spent in the archive room that day still lingered in her nerves like static electricity, buzzing just beneath the surface. She poured herself a generous glass of wine. She needed to unwind—badly. She called Rachel.
They spoke for a long while, like they always did. From Mike’s growing distance to how suffocating Brackmoore still felt, Tara laid it all bare. At some point, almost unconsciously, she started talking about Terry.
She described his strange behavior—the way he lingered near her desk without saying a word, the way his eyes didn’t just look at her, but seemed to consume her.
“I hate him,” she said, her voice tinged with heat.
“Are you sure about that?” Rachel asked playfully.
Tara blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Girl, you’ve been talking about him for, like, an hour. Maybe he’s gotten under your skin more than you think,” Rachel teased.
“That’s disgusting,” Tara snapped.
But then they both laughed hard. Rachel always had a way of pulling her out of her head with her sarcastic attitude. When they finally hung up, Tara felt a little lighter.
But when the quiet settled over the house, a shadow returned to her mind. She didn’t want to admit it but something in Terry’s gaze had stuck with her. It wasn’t admiration. It was something darker. Something that made her skin crawl... yet refused to let go. She walked to the bedroom, the wine warming her blood, her steps slow, slightly unsure.
The sleep wouldn’t come easily. Each time she shut her eyes, strange and fractured images flashed through her mind—like distant memories from a life that wasn’t hers. When she finally slipped into sleep, it was restless. Her body twisted beneath the sheets, caught between waking and dreaming. Then suddenly, she woke, gasping. Her skin was damp with sweat, her heart hammering wildly. Her entire body trembled—a strange cocktail of excitement and something she dared not name. She curled, her nipples hard, her breath ragged, the heat clinging to her. Mike’s side of the bed was empty.
The silence in the house pressed down on her, heavy and absolute. She tried to remember the dream, but it was gone, slipping through her like water. All that remained was a feeling—raw, electric, inescapable.
And somewhere deep inside, she knew: Her dream wasn’t about Mike. It was about this place. This damn town.
*************** ******************* ***************
When Tara woke that morning, the soft click of the front door shutting told her Mike had left for work. A familiar wave of anger surged through her chest. Moving to this miserable town had been one sacrifice—but now, enduring his cold silence on top of it all? It felt like mockery.
Than her thoughts drifted to the dream—the one from the night before that still clung to her like a humid mist. It was disturbing, haunting... and yet, undeniably arousing. She couldn’t shake the sensation, nor the way it left her body humming.
Without fully thinking about it, she reached for an outfit that was bold, almost confrontational. It wasn't exactly the right fit for the job, but who cared. A form of unspoken rebellion. She pulled on a pair of worn, ripped denim shorts—soft from countless washes, snug at the hips, accentuating the lines of her figure with casual ease. She added a plaid button-up shirt, red and black, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, the bottom tied loosely at her waist. The kind of outfit that sends a message: I see everything and I'm still here.
When she arrived at the office street, she noticed a rust-covered car parked a little farther down. Its patchy paint was unmistakable. She had seen it before—near her house, more than once. A flicker of discomfort crossed her mind, but she brushed it off as coincidence.
Inside, Terry was hovering in the office kitchen, pretending to organize something. He had memorized her routine—the time she usually arrived, her favorite mug, the way she always smoothed her hair before starting her work. He was terribly obsessed with her. When Tara walked in, something hit him like a jolt of electricity. She was not just beautiful and hot—undeniably.
The denim shorts hugged her hips with sinful precision. The tied-up shirt revealed just enough of her flat-stomach to drive him mad. Her blonde hair fell loosely over her shoulders, and her confident stride made the entire office feel like her runway. She didn’t need to speak to be in control. She was the atmosphere.
Terry stood frozen, his eyes glued to her like he was watching a vision. Her presence overwhelmed him—every line of her body, every bounce of her step was imprinted in his mind like a brand. He couldn't stop staring. And the worst part? Tara hadn't even noticed him. Or maybe... she did, and just didn’t care. She walked right past him to her desk.
All day, Terry found excuses to come back into the room—checking shelves, fiddling with equipment, pretending to fix what wasn’t broken. But Tara wasn’t fooled. She knew why he kept showing up. Every time, his eyes devoured her like a starving animal. His stare was gleaming with wild desire. And Tara, though she pretended to ignore it, felt it. She didn’t say a word. But in fact, this silence was fuel.
************* *************** ******************
The stifling atmosphere of the morning had slowly given way to a quieter afternoon. Terry had vanished for a while, and Betty was in Bridget’s office. Tara decided to make herself a cup of coffee in the kitchen. As she waited for her coffee to brew, she didn't realize she wasn't alone there.
Terry was there—watching her. Silent. Motionless.
He stood at the entrance like a shadow, his eyes fixed on her without blinking.
When Tara instinctively turned her head, she froze.
"When did he even get there?" she thought.
"Ah... I didn’t realize you were here," she said, forcing the words out as casually as she could.
"I was just coming for a cup of coffee," Terry said, raising his empty mug as though that simple gesture explained everything. They both knew it was a big lie.
"Of course," Tara replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
As Terry moved into the kitchen, the air thickened with the overpowering stench of him—stale, sour, rancid. It was an assault on her senses.
As she poured her coffee, she could feel him creeping closer. His presence was undeniable, like a dark cloud hanging over her, pressing in on all sides. When Tara turned around, his proximity made her skin prickle with unease. Terry stood far too close—too close.
She couldn’t escape the sickening details of his appearance—his nostrils flaring with unruly hair, the wiry tendrils of hair curling out of his ears, bushy eyebrows in a single thick line. He didn’t look like a man. He looked like something of a little troll—something that should never have been allowed near her.
Meanwhile Terry admired her beautiful face once again, but not in a romantic sense. The only thing he could think about at that moment was to push her down on her knees and fuck every inch of her beautiful face and her sweet mouth. His cock, which was almost always erect, turned to steel in his pants. He was crazy about her.
Tara moved to return to her desk. But as she passed him, their arms brushed. The contact was brief, but it felt like an eternity. Her body recoiled, every nerve on fire with revulsion. She needed to leave. She had to leave. But as she stepped toward the door, something stopped her. The movement was involuntary; she turned her head over her shoulder and looked back as if some unseen force was pulling her gaze back.
Just as she predicted, his eyes were locked on her hips, tracing the curve of her ass. He wasn't even making any attempts to disguise the hunger that burned in his gaze. She could feel it—like his eyes were ripping through her clothes, peeling her apart with his stare. And then, her gaze, for reasons she couldn't understand, dropped downward. She stunned by what she saw. Through the thin, worn fabric of his pants, there was a huge bulge—a grotesque, obscene shape that stretched the fabric to its limits. Her mind went blank.
"No, this can't be what I think it is…" passed through her mind.
She wanted to look away, to deny what her eyes were telling her. But the image had already been burned into her mind. It really was huge. It was dirty. It was inescapable. And it was odder than anything she could have imagined.
When she finally forced herself to look away and turn back to her desk, the world around her seemed to spin. Her thoughts tumbled and tangled, her brain unable to process the strange image and disbelief that filled her mind. She was aware of the effect her beauty and hot looks had on men, and it amused her sometimes. But in her eyes, Terry was not a man, just a dirty pig. But she still couldn't help but ask herself.
“ What the hell was this?"
*************** ************** ******************
Terry could barely contain himself as he descended into the archive room, his steps hurried, almost frantic. The scent of her perfume still lingered in his nostrils—sweet, warm, maddening. His pulse throbbed with the memory of their brief encounter in the kitchen. He needed relief, urgently. Just like he had done countless times everywhere since he first saw her —at home, in the archive room, in car.
Before Tara, his desires had been numbed by endless streams of pornography—cheap, empty visuals that fed an insatiable void. But she had changed that. She wasn’t a fantasy. She was real.
That weekend, when Tara had felt the weight of invisible eyes on her, she hadn’t been wrong. Terry had become drunk on obsession. The glimpses he caught of her at work were no longer enough. The weekends were unbearable stretches of deprivation. He had to know where she was. What she was doing.
He had found her address—probably from a document she had carelessly left on her desk. That morning, just after dawn, he had slithered through the edges of her yard like a ghost and buried himself deep in the bushes.
The way she moved during yoga—the fluidity of her posture, the way her body bent and tightened—was burned into his brain like a curse. The curve of her back, the slow stretch of her limbs, the sheen of sweat on her sun-warmed skin. And later, how she lay outstretched on the lounger, skin glowing, eyes closed in the golden light.
Every replay in his mind dragged him deeper. The need to relax was overwhelming like an animal in heat. Again. And again. Three rounds of frantic, unthinking jerk-off. His shirt clung to him with sweat, his chest heaving. Still, it wasn’t enough. He was crazy about her.
*************** ************** ***************
As Tara drove home that evening, a strange, almost senseless excitement buzzed beneath her skin. She couldn't pinpoint its source, but it lingered—an electric hum that refused to be ignored. The earlier encounter with Terry in the kitchen, his unsettling presence, the way he had watched her—it all replayed in her mind, each detail sharp and vivid.
She tried to shake it off, focusing on the road, but the sensation persisted, gnawing at her. She reached for her phone, dialing Mike's number, desperate for some connection, some semblance of normalcy. But it was not answered.
Anger welled up inside her. This coldness, this distance between them—it was becoming unbearable. She needed him, needed his attention now more than ever, but he wasn’t there. Instead, his typical, hastily written message appeared on her screen: "I'll call you later."
The indifference in his words drove her crazy. She muttered under her breath, her grip tightening on the wheel. "you stupid"
It was as if everything she owned was slipping out of her hands. First the perfect family dynamic falling apart after her father's betrayal, then moving to this damn town and her fiancé's indifference... It was all too much. She felt like she was going to drown.
When she finally arrived home, she poured herself a generous glass of wine, the liquid sloshing as she moved with quick, angry motions. She dialed Rachel’s number, needing to vent, needing to share her frustration. Rachel, as usual, listened and Tara poured out her complaints about Mike—his emotional neglect, his detachment, how it was wearing her thin.
But as she spoke, she found herself talking about Terry. How had it shifted to him? She wasn’t sure. But there she was, recounting the unsettling encounter from earlier in the day, his presence in the kitchen, the way he had watched her.
Rachel cut her off mid-rant, her voice light with her usual sarcasm.
“Tease him,” she said casually.
Tara blinked in confusion, momentarily taken aback by the suggestion. "What nonsense are you talking about?"
"Tease him until consumed him. Drive him wild knowing he’ll never touch you. Besides, I think Mike deserves a little punishment too. Hit two birds with one stone"
The suggestion hit Tara like a jolt, leaving her stunned. But she recovered immediately.
"It’s easy for you to say. You don’t know him. He’s disgusting. There's no way I can do this without throwing up."
Rachel’s voice softened, but there was no mistaking the teasing in her tone. "You know best, girl, but a little fun wouldn’t hurt."
After a long pause, Tara sighed, her voice uncertain. "I don’t know... it’s too much."
They switched to other topics, but Tara couldn’t shake the thoughts swirling in her head. Rachel’s suggestion refused to be ignored, the idea gnawing at her like a forbidden taboo.
She finished her third glass of wine, the room spinning slightly. She tried to clear her mind, but deep down, she knew. Something had shifted inside her. The chaotic situation her family is in, her anger towards her father, moving to this damn town and the emptiness left by Mike, the unexpected tension with Terry, and Rachel’s words all seemed to be slowly drawing her in, pushing her into uncharted territory.
****************** ************** ****************
Later that night, Tara’s phone remained silent, no message or call from Mike. She tossed and turned restlessly beneath the covers, trapped in the suffocating grip of something she couldn’t quite name. She stood in a dim, unfamiliar hallway. The walls around her were peeling, the air thick with humidity, heavy and oppressive. Everything shimmered in soft, muted tones, like she was submerged in water, struggling to breathe. Her body felt exposed, naked, her skin hypersensitive, as if every nerve had been jolted awake.
Then came the sound—footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. The rhythm of them echoed from behind her. Her heart pounded in her chest as she turned, but no one was there. The hallway stretched endlessly ahead, too long, too empty. Just a flicker of movement in the corner of her vision. A shadow. A gaze. Heavy. Unyielding. Devouring.
A warm breath slid against the back of her neck. It wasn’t imagined—this was real. Her body responded without her command. Her nipples hardened instantly, the sensation sharp and electric. Heat bloomed low in her stomach, a wave of arousal that was sudden, unwelcome. She gasped, the breath catching in her throat, her body trembling.
Invisible fingers—rough, possessive—traced down her spine, over her hips, along the curve of her thighs. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t kind. It was primal. Dark. Uninvited, but maddeningly, undeniably arousing. Her thighs instinctively pressed together, her breath shallow and quick. Then, with a deep gasp, she woke. Sweat clung to her skin, her chest heaving, her heart pounding in her throat.
She lay there, her body still burning, her nipples stiff against the damp sheets, the weight of the dream hanging heavily in the air. The house was silent. She wished Mike was in bed. But he wasn’t there. He hadn’t been there—not really—for a long time. Not in the ways she needed. And now, once again, he was absent. His indifference, his neglect—it was suffocating her. Anger swelled in her chest, rising like bile. She lay there, trembling, overwhelmed by the emotional flood coursing through her.
She reached for the remnants of the dream, but it slipped through her mind like smoke, impossible to hold onto. All that remained was the feeling—a deep, raw, unrelenting sensation. And deep down, she knew. That shadow wasn’t Mike’s. It was something else. Something tied to this strange, suffocating town. Something invisible, but undeniably close. It repelled her, and yet, disturbingly, it drew her in.
*************** *************** ***************
When Tara woke up that morning, she noticed that Mike wasn't in bed. She assumed he'd fallen asleep on the living room couch, but he wasn’t there either. Apparently, he hadn't come home at all last night. A wave of anxiety washed over her, and she reached for her phone to call him. But she saw his message from the previous night:
"Don't wait for me, honey, there are urgent matters to handle at the factory."
The anxiety quickly shifted into anger. Moving to this damn town and her fiancé's never-ending work schedule had become a test that was pushing their relationship to the brink. She was losing her patience.
Tara hopped into the shower, hoping to find some relief, but it didn’t work. As the warm water streamed down her skin, she could feel how aroused her body was. Clearly, the disturbing and arousing dreams she'd had still held a grip on her. Once again, her mind wandered to the blurry images. That shadow... the shadow that had consumed her in her dreams. A terrible suspicion about who it belonged to was gnawing at her. She didn’t want to think about it.
Tara’s mood was a swirl of emotions as she got ready for work. She sighed deeply as she looked at her perfect reflection in the mirror. Her choice of outfit was even bolder than yesterday, in a way she couldn't explain to herself.
As she entered the office, she came face-to-face with Terry, nearly colliding with him. She rolled her eyes and walked past him, her expression stern. But Terry's gaze was fixed on her—shocked and hungry. Her fit body looked like a work of art, perfectly sculpted. He couldn't take his eyes off her as she settled into her desk. Tara was acutely aware of his gaze. Even when she wasn’t looking at him, she felt the weight of his eyes on her body. It made her feel strange, almost like the sensation she had experienced in her dream. Her suspicions deepened.
Terry continued to stare at her, lost in a trance.
Finally, Tara broke the silence with a sarcastic tone:
“Hey, are you okay?”
Terry didn’t even hear her. His eyes were fixed to her boobs. She called to him again.
"Hey Terry, is everything okay?"
Terry finally looked up, their eyes meeting. After a long, awkward silence, he turned away without a word and headed toward the archive room. Tara stood there, she had never had to deal with someone like him before. His shamelessness, raw and direct manner utterly surprised her.
********************* **************** *********************
The rest of the day unfolded in the same repetitive rhythm as the ones before it. Tara felt as if she were trapped in an endless cycle of déjà vu, unable to escape the monotonous grip of her reality. Each time Terry appeared on her floor, it was under some flimsy excuse—whether it was to “check something” or “grab a file”—but it was always clear: He was there for her. Each visit, each passing, brought a growing sense of tension. His presence lingered in the air like a heavy, unspoken weight, and there was something odd about it, something that set her on edge.
Terry couldn't control his desire for her. It wasn’t just a passing thought—it was an obsession that gnawed at him relentlessly, an undeniable pull that kept him tethered to her. Every glance, every movement he made, was charged with something electric, something Tara couldn’t ignore. He didn’t even try to hide it. His eyes, burning with hunger, swept over her every time he passed. She was all he could see, all he could think about. Every corner of his mind was consumed by her image, the longing that clawed at him from the inside.
And Tara could feel it. She could feel his eyes on her even when she wasn’t looking, could feel the heat of his gaze brushing against her skin like a physical touch. She wasn’t blind to it. She knew exactly what he wanted, what he desired. But more than that, she understood he couldn’t control it. The young blonde knew she was the object of his obsession.
As the afternoon turned into evening, Terry rose from his desk once again, his movements habitual, almost robotic. He reached for his empty coffee cup, that tired excuse, the same worn-out reason he used again and again to pass by her desk. It had become a ritual, a charade—one that Tara had come to expect.
She tried to focus on the case file in front of her. But no matter how hard she tried, the words on the paper blurred together. Her mind, weighed down by an invisible force, refused to cooperate. She couldn’t shake the nagging feeling at the back of her mind, that itch pulling her attention away from her work. And then, as if summoned by her distracted thoughts, the sound of Terry’s footsteps echoed down the hallway. Her head snapped up, her body frozen, as she recognized the rhythm of those steps. It was the same. Exactly the same. The recognition hit her like a jolt, and her heart skipped a beat. She had heard those footsteps before. In her dreams. A sudden, cold rush of awareness shot through her spine. The suspicions she’d buried deep inside her since the night of the disturbing dreams surged back, crashing into her thoughts all at once. The shadow from her dreams, the one that had haunted her sleep, was here. It was him. She shook her head sharply, trying to push the thought away. She didn’t want to face it. The truth was too horrifying to accept.
Terry’s gaze met hers as he passed, sharp and unwavering. His eyes didn’t leave her; they tracked her every detail. Tara could feel the weight of his gaze. The air between them crackled with something palpable, something she couldn’t escape.
After filling his cup, Terry made his way toward the door but didn’t leave the kitchen. Instead, he stood deliberately at an angle where Betty couldn’t see him. Even though Tara wasn’t looking directly at him, she could feel his gaze on her, sharp and penetrating. From where he stood, he was watching her—devouring her with his hungry eyes.
In an instant, Rachel’s suggestion flashed through her mind: “Tease him. Drive him crazy knowing he will never touch you.” The words twisted in her thoughts like poison, urging her toward something she wasn’t sure she could stop.
Tara let her pen slip from her fingers, watching as it clattered to the floor. The sound seemed deafening, as though the world had frozen for just a moment. “Oops,” she muttered, her voice soft, almost mocking. She bent down to pick it up, her loose T-shirt dipping lower as she reached for the pen. The movement was deliberate, slow. Terry’s eyes followed her, mesmerized by the sight of her breasts, partially exposed by the cleavage of her T-shirt. The world seemed to move in slow motion as Tara felt the heat of his gaze, hot and relentless, tracking her every movement. Her gaze caught his, and she saw it—unfiltered, raw desire burning in his eyes. Lust, unapologetic and consuming. Tara didn’t rush to sit back up. She lingered, clearly aware of his gaze, posing for him in a way that deliberate.
And then, almost against her will, her eyes shifted downward. They followed the misshapen lines of his body until they landed where she knew exactly what was happening. The huge bulge in his pants was unmistakable, its prominence undeniable. It seemed even larger than before, as though it had rampant with the intensity of his desire. The worn fabric of his old pants was about to burst.
A shiver ran up her spine, but it wasn’t one of revulsion. This time, it was different. It was a wild, electric current of something darker—something thrilling. She wasn’t sure what it meant, but she knew it felt undeniable. Just then, Bridget left the room, and Terry reluctantly made his way to the archive room.
************ ************** ***************
As Tara drove home that evening, she couldn't believe what was happening ... and not only that, she couldn't believe how aroused she was. She found herself thinking about how wrong everything felt—how twisted her own thoughts had become. She felt a pang of guilt, a sharp, nagging voice in the back of her mind telling her she was in dangerous territory. But the hardened nipples beneath her t-shirt, the growing ache between her legs, the burning desire—these things told her a different story. In her mind, she attributed this to not having had sex for a long time and her raging hormones. There was no way she could find an repulsive troll like him attractive. How could such a thing be possible? She hated him to death.
When she got home she started to put the plan in her mind into action. She was able to keep her mind off her Terry as she changed into a fabulous black dress. She was determined to get things back on track with Mike. She was supposed to have sex with her fiancé. This was what would make everything okay. At least that's what she thought.
As Tara left the bathroom after applying makeup, she noticed her voicemail beeping. She saw it was her fiancé on the call log, so she opened the voicemail with concern.
"Hey babe, I'm just calling to tell you I have to work the night shift, so I won't be home tonight. I'll see you in the morning. Love you."
Tara threw her phone down and took her earrings out in frustration.
************* ************ ********************
Meanwhile, Terry was sitting at his desk in the archives room, out of breath and covered in sweat. What had happened today had really turned him on so bad. That's why he didn't even wait to go home. His three rounds of crazy jerking off without a break had had made a terrible mess. There were thick ropes of cum on his stained wet shirt and worn pants, and large pools of semen had formed in clumps on the table surface and the floor. The air in the stuffy, cramped room was very heavy. The smell of sweat and cum was undeniably strong.
Terry's desire for her was unbearable and his obsession with her wasn't just fueled by lust. He had been jealous of successful and rich people his entire life, and Tara met much more than these criteria. In his eyes, she was a city-dwelling, smug college snob. For him to achieve anything he could only dream of, she just had to snap her fingers. It would happen instantly. These thoughts fueled his jealousy.
After a short smoke break he started the fourth round. He probably wouldn't stop until morning. He desired everything about her unbearably. He was crazy about her.
*********** ************** ****************
The weight of the day pressed down on her chest as Tara crawled into the cold expanse of the bed that night. But sleep remained a distant shore. Hours bled into one another as she tossed restlessly beneath the sheets, haunted by feverish dreams that blurred the fragile line between reality. Her body ached with exhaustion, yet each fleeting return to consciousness brought only the scattered fragments of those disturbing visions, like shards of a shattered mirror. None of it made sense.
Then, with a sudden, she found herself plunged into the suffocating depths of another dream. She was in the oppressive stillness of the archive room, and she was not alone. That familiar, chilling presence loomed behind her, an invisible weight pressing down on her senses. Her skin prickled with a visceral unease as she felt a phantom warmth against her ear, the ghost of a breath that sent shivers down her spine. A gasp escaped her lips as unseen hands, rough and possessive, clamped down on her breasts, a brutal touch that stole her breath. A suffocating heat radiated from the space between her legs, spreading like a wildfire through her belly. Suddenly the scene changed. She was bent over the table and being fucked relentlessly. She didn't dare turn her head, a primal instinct screaming the identity of him: Terry. She could almost taste the foul stench of his being but still her mind did not accept it.
Then, with a violent start, she jolted awake. Her eyes snapped open, her body slick with sweat, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. For a moment, disorientation held her captive as she frantically scanned her surroundings, the familiar contours of her bedroom slowly registering. The dream had been so real. The lingering effects were undeniable. Her breathing remained shallow and erratic, her body trembling uncontrollably. Her nipples were hard and aching beneath the damp fabric of her nightgown, and an unbearable, insistent throb pulsed between her legs. Driven by a desperate, primal urge, her hand instinctively sought purchase between her thighs. Her panties were soaked, a testament to the vividness of the dream. She was on fire, consumed by a raw, untamed desire that demanded release. A few tentative touches were enough to ignite a devastating orgasm that ripped through her body, leaving her gasping and writhing on the bed for what felt like an eternity.
When the tremors finally subsided and a semblance of clarity returned, she stared blankly at the ceiling, her blue eyes wide with a shock.
"Damn it!" she whispered into the silent room, her voice raw with confusion and a burgeoning self-loathing. "What the hell is going on? What's wrong with me?" She couldn't make sense of what was happening. It was as if some dark urges deep inside her that she didn't even know existed were trying to surface.
************** ************** ******************
In the morning, Tara's movements were almost mechanical as she got ready for work. She seemed to be trying not to think about anything. But her choice of clothing was another act of defiance—not just against Terry, but against herself. She wore a tight, form-fitting pencil skirt that hugged her hips and a blouse that was deliberately unbuttoned one button lower than her usual. This was not a random choice; it was clearly a premeditation.
The atmosphere in the office was so tense as always. She tried to busy herself at her desk, but the words on the files danced on the page, meaningless. Every nerve was hyper-aware, her senses on high alert. Her gaze, almost against her will, kept drifting toward the entrance to the stairs. When would he appear? After what she had done yesterday? The thought both repulsed and thrilled her.
She didn’t have to wait long.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs was like a drumbeat in her ears. She froze, her breath catching in her throat, the familiar rhythm echoing the dream that had consumed her. Her head snapped up, her eyes locking onto Terry that emerged from the basement.
As he shuffled past her desk, his movements slow and deliberate. The stench of him—that familiar, repulsive mix of sweat and stale air—seemed even more potent today. As he passed, Tara felt the weight of his gaze. The one that had stripped her bare and devoured her.
Suddenly Rachel’s words echoed in her mind once again: “Tease him. Drive him wild knowing he’ll never touch you.”
Without thinking, she leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms above her head in a languid, deliberate motion. The movement pulled the fabric of her blouse taut across her breasts, stretching the neckline lower, giving him a glimpse of her cleavage. She held the pose for a beat longer than necessary.
Terry froze in his tracks. The desperate hunger in his gaze was palpable.
That's what Tara had lost in her life. The excitement. The hate and disgust was still there, but it was drowned out by a thrilling surge of control.
Terry's breathing ragged, and stumbled toward Bridget’s office. He wasn't even making an attempt to disguise the prominence of his member. The fabric of his worn-out pants strained against his massive cock.
Tara’s eyes dropped to the bulge. The sight, so surreal and yet so real, sent a shiver of a different kind up her spine—a jolt of raw electricity. Its entire length, thickness, and outline were clearly visible. It was so real, so weird, and so… big.
When Terry finally entered Bridget's room, Tara let out a long, shaky breath. Her heart was riumphant beat. She had provoked him, and he had reacted just as she had expected. This was madness. She was going insane. This was a man she hated with every fiber of her being, a man she found utterly disgusting. The thought both disgusted her and filled her with a thrilling sense of power.
Tense encounters continued between them throughout the rest of the day. Each one was fuel for the next. More deliberate, more provocative.
*************** ******************* ***************
The drive home was a blur. The adrenaline from her confrontation with Terry in the office still surged through her veins, a dizzying mix of triumph and unease. She replayed the scene in her mind—her deliberate pose, his heavy reaction, the undeniable evidence of his arousal straining against the thin fabric of his pants. A wild, reckless thrill coursed through her, so potent it drowned out the usual anxieties about her life.
She walked into the quiet house, she felt alive, vibrant, and dangerous. Mike’s car was not in the driveway. He had not come home last night, and from the looks of it, he wasn't planning on coming home tonight either. But this time, it was different. It didn’t feel like suffocation; it felt like a door being unlocked. It was as if his absence was a permission slip for what she had done. She didn't feel guilty. She thought he deserved it.
Tara went to the bathroom and stared at her reflection. Her eyes were wide and bright, a feverish glint in their blue depths. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted slightly. The woman staring back at her was a stranger—she was a woman who found disturbing pleasure in the lustful, hungry eyes of a man she hated and loathed to death.
She showered, but the water did little to wash away the feeling. Her body, still humming with the electric tension from the office, felt like a live wire. Every touch of her own skin, every stroke of the towel, only intensified the lingering sensation of his gaze. She found herself imagining him watching her, his hungry eyes devouring every inch of her body. The thought, once horrifying, was now a source of perverse arousal.
After wrapping herself in a plush bathrobe, she poured a glass of wine. She didn’t bother calling Rachel this time. Now, Tara was in a new, uncharted territory, and she wanted to explore it alone.
She moved through the house, her steps slow and deliberate, the silence amplifying her thoughts. The living room, with its pristine furniture and perfect decor, felt sterile and cold. It was her world, a world of quiet normalcy that now felt utterly boring and suffocating. She found no comfort in it, only resentment.
As the wine warmed her blood, her mind returned to the basement. Not the archive room with its musty files, but the image of Terry’s desk, covered in stains and filth. The grotesque bulge in his pants. The raw, unfiltered look of lust in his eyes. Her body responded instantly, a jolt of heat low in her belly.
She felt a powerful, almost desperate need for a release, a release that Mike had denied her for so long. But the image that came to her mind was not of him, but of Terry—that beastly, unfiltered desire.
Tara walked to the bedroom, the moonlight streaming through the windows casting long, eerie shadows. She lay down on the bed, cold and empty without Mike beside her. But for the first time, she didn't feel lonely. She felt… liberated. She closed her eyes, letting the darkness of her mind take over. She didn't have to control herself. She didn't have to pretend. In the silent house, Tara reached down, her trembling fingers finding the hem of her bathrobe. The shame was there, a dull throb in the back of her mind, but it was nothing against the roaring hunger that consumed her. For a long time, the only sound in the house was her ragged breathing and deep moaning in the silence of the night.
********************* *************** *******************
That morning had a new edge to it. Tara arrived at the office with a deliberate poise. The night had been a blur of fractured sleep and scorching dreams, leaving her both exhausted and strangely wired. As she walked in, her eyes, with a will of their own, immediately sought out the kitchen.
And there he was, just as she knew he would be.
Terry was leaning against the counter, a worn-out, stained rag in his hand, meticulously wiping down a surface that was already spotless. His movements were slow, almost a parody of work. He wasn’t there to clean. He was waiting her. The scent of him—that musty, sour aroma—filled the air, and a familiar jolt, a mixture of revulsion and something else she refused to name, shot through her.
She walked directly to the coffee maker, her movements fluid and unhurried. The silence between them was thick, a charged vacuum waiting to be filled.
“Morning, Terry,” she said, her voice smooth and conversational, a stark contrast to the sharp, sarcastic tone she had used before.
He stiffened, his hand freezing on the counter. His eyes wide and hungry.
“Mornin’,” he grunted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.
She placed her mug under the machine, the soft whir of the grinder filling the silence. “So,” she began, turning to face him, a small, genuine-looking smile on her lips. “How long have you been working here? Bridget said you’ve been around since the beginning.”
The question seemed to short-circuit him. He blinked, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. It was a normal question, one a colleague would ask. But it was the first time she had ever asked him anything personal. He was used to her condescending look, not her curiosity.
“Oh, uh… a while,” he said, his voice hesitant. “Since the place was… a fixer-upper.”
“A fixer-upper, huh?” Tara’s smile widened, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “So you’re the one who fixed all the leaks and cracks?”
He puffed out his chest a little, there was a slyness in his eyes. “Yeah. I did. You won't find anyone better at fixing leaks than me. If you have such a problem at home, I will handle it for you.”
Tara didn't miss his suggestive insinuation. Even though it made her feel sick, she couldn't deny that she was strangely excited. “Thank you” Tara agreed softly, her gaze holding his. She took a step closer, leaning against the counter beside him, the scent of her perfume a heady, intoxicating cloud in the small kitchen. “What did you do before? Before all the fixing and… this archive works?”
Terry’s eyes darted in hers, a flash of suspicion in them, as if he were trying to figure out her angle. But the question was too simple. “Jus’… random jobs. Sometimes I worked on construction. But most of the time I just wandered around aimlessly. Well, I can't say that I'm a hardworking person.”
His gaze was locked on her, a blazing intensity in his eyes. The hunger was there, raw and unapologetic, but now it was mixed with a sense of wonder, a disbelief that this perfect woman was actually talking to him like this.
He spoke with a raw simplicity, his language lacking the polish she was accustomed to. He didn’t use big words or clever phrases. He just… was. His sentences were short, his tone rough. And Tara found herself strangely affected by it. It was a dangerous, wicked feeling. It was so direct. So unfiltered. So primitive. There was no social mask. It was just Terry, ignorant and rude. He was the opposite of everything she was, and yet, in his raw lack of refinement, she saw a kind of freedom that was utterly alien to her suffocating world.
Suddenly, Betty’s voice echoed from the hallway, signaling Bridget’s arrival. The sound broke the spell. Terry stiffened, his trance shattered. Without looking at him again, Tara strode slowly out of the kitchen. Her heart was hammering.
As Terry watched her go from behind, his hungry gaze fixated on her ass. He was having a hard time not grabbing his huge cock that was throbbing relentlessly in his pants. Large drops of sweat had formed on his forehead and bald head. He gritted his teeth. He was crazy about her.
***************** ************ **************
As the days progress, Tara's behavior began to change dramatically. While Mike was crushed under the weight of work and stress, she had stopped caring about his absence. Her mind was filled with something else. With something dangerous, naughty and dirty. Her superficial conversations with Terry had now become longer and more frequent. In fact, to some extent, a friendship had begun to form between them. But each chat a descent into the bottomless pit of his ignorance and sleazey. She couldn't believe how corrupt and rude he was. In her eyes, he was nothing but a disgusting pig. She hated him to death. And yet, an odd curiosity, a dark excitement, kept her tethered to this game. She was acutely aware of the potent effect she wielded over him. It was as if a lifetime spent basking in the spotlight had forged within her a twisted addiction to attention, and his almost surreal interest in her, however disgusting, offered a strange, unsettling satisfaction.
Every interaction with him morphed into a twisted, thrilling game, a dangerously dance she seemed incapable of ceasing. The sheer intensity of his obsession, the deep lust of his gaze, delivered a perverse thrill fueled by his desperate, raw hunger.
Tara's every move was meticulously calculated, clearly arousing, designed to ignite an intense ache within him. She posed him in heart-stopping poses.She reveled in the knowledge of the torment she inflicted—how his eyes would stalk her, lingering with a hungry, possessive intensity. His gaze wasn't merely a look; it was a physical violation, burning through her clothes, carving invisible paths onto her skin, branding her with the searing mark of his lust.
Perhaps, deep down, a twisted part of her reveled in being the epicenter of his pathetic universe. Maybe it was the intoxicating thrill of knowing she possessed the power to drive him to the brink of madness, the perverse satisfaction of wielding such absolute control—of making him grovel and chase her like a desperate, rabid animal. The more he craved her, the more she instinctively recoiled, yet simultaneously, a dangerous part of her reveled in the chase. The game was intoxicating, perilous, and she was playing it with reckless abandon. With each calculated move, each deliberate manipulation, each instance of toying with his base emotions, she felt an unsettling shift within her own psyche. Tara too was becoming ensnared in the sticky web of his perverse obsession.
*************** ************* *****************
Terry's mind, filled with jealousy and inferiority complexes, tried to interpret Tara's changing attitudes from his own distorted perspective. Before, she would ignore him, her expression icy and condescending. Tara's conversations had become softer, more inviting; she would even ask him personal questions. He couldn't understand why a woman he saw as so superior and arrogant would talk to him like this, why she would show "interest" in him. This situation made the chaos inside Terry even greater.
That provocative move... The way she leaned back in her chair, the way her blouse exposed her cleavage... Those moves played over and over in Terry's mind. Was it a conscious move? Or just a coincidence? Normally, it would have been impossible for a "perfect" woman like Tara to make such a move. But she had. And every neuron in Terry's brain played that image on an endless loop.
Tara's every deliberate move unleashed the monster of desire inside Terry, blinding him even further. He was analyzing her every move, every facial expression, and tone of voice, combining them with his own twisted inferences. This analysis was both pushing him to follow Tara more closely like a hunter and making his own sexual urges even more out of control. His endless, wild jack-off marathons were concrete evidence of his lack of control.
In the most primitive corner of his mind, a perverse hope flashed that Tara was starting to have feelings for him. Although this thought flattered Terry's ego, it was also so ridiculous. Why would such a beautiful woman look at him? This was an impossible option for him.
It was clear Tara was playing a trick on him. She was mocking him. This thought fueled Terry's anger.
He would never fully understand why Tara played this game, or the true motivation behind it. But he wasn't going to make a problem out of it; all he could think of was taking advantage of this twisted situation as much as he could. For him, there was only one outcome: her "interest" in him, and the destructive desire this interest triggered that he could not control. This game that Tara started was taking his obsession to the point of no return.
**************************************
It was the end of the last workday of the week, and as Tara was walking to her car, a disturbing detail caught her attention. Across the street, in the approaching dusk, stood the same dilapidated, rusted car. A sudden lurch in her mind accompanied a chilling tendril of suspicion that snaked its way into her thoughts. She had seen this car too many times now – not just parking near the office, but the periphery of her own street. The frequency had long surpassed the realm of mere coincidence.
Slipping into the seat of her luxury car, she ignited the engine, yet remained rooted to the spot. Her gaze, unwavering, remained fixed on the dilapidated car, her mind a frantic jigsaw puzzle attempting to assemble the pieces before her.
Then, as if summoned by her mounting curiosity, a figure emerged from the office building. The short, shapeless silhouette was unmistakable even in the fading light. Terry. He moved with a singular purpose towards the junk car, sliding into the driver’s seat without a moment’s hesitation. Tara was shocked. A sickening realization, something she had instinctively recoiled from, a truth she had felt but vehemently denied, began to unfurl within her. She was paralyzed, trapped in the suffocating grip of understanding.
Her mind, a runaway engine, roared with the effort of comprehension. The scattered pieces of the puzzle began to click into place with undeniable clarity. The persistent unease, that prickling sensation of unseen eyes that had begun that unsettling weekend – it hadn't dissipated. It had become her shadow, a constant companion during the lonely stretches of the weekend, a creeping presence in her thoughts that refused to be banished. She strained to recall the first encounter with that ominous vehicle. The memory struck her with the force of a physical blow: it had coincided with the very beginning of her internship.
Could it be? Was Terry her stalker?
Her breath hitched in her throat, the pieces locking together with a finality. Suddenly a frigid certainty enveloped her. Terry had been watching her. All along. Following her, meticulously tracking her every move. He had seen her. She was certain now. Every private moment, every action – her in a bikini by the pool, lost in the fluidity of yoga, slicing through the water, basking in the sun – every intimate had been secretly consumed by his perverted gaze. And the horrifying irony: she had been playing her own dangerous game with him, unknowingly baiting and manipulating her stalker for weeks.
This horrifying realization should have repulsed her, but instead a strange thrill crawled up her spine. A violent shudder wracked her body, her emotions a chaotic storm of revulsion, rage, and that unsettling, electric thrill. That disgusting troll was much more insidious than she had thought. This man Tara despised had infiltrated every corner of her life, and beyond his disgust, this strange thing both angered and attracted Tara. She finally started the car and pulled away, her mind a tangled mess of conflicting thoughts.
******* ********* *************
Arriving home to Mike’s predictable absence, she stumbled into the silent house, lost in the tempest of her emotions and the dizzying confusion. She spent the entire evening confronting the disturbing yet strangely exciting truth. Terry wasn't just obsessed with her, he was also her stalker. Worse still, she had been provoking him for weeks. It hit her how dangerous a game she was playing. This should have horrified her, but instead it unexpectedly aroused.
That night, too, her sleep would not be restful. She tossed and turned, writhed and moaned as she slept. Her dreams were filled with someone fucking her again and again. Different positions, places and outfits. But always rough and raw, her body used as a sex toy for a pervert. Each humiliating intercourse ended in the same way: she screamed in orgasmic climax as he pounded her with his monster cock.
Jolting awake in a hot sweat, Tara was awash with confusion at the dreams. She had always been treated like a princess, and these uncontrollable, raw mental images hit her hard. She realized that her nipples were as hard as diamonds and her pussy was very moist. Just a quick touch and her fingers came away slippery with her juices. Tara needed release and she needed it now, sleep be damned.
Reaching down between her thighs she started to touch herself. Rubbing her clit with her thumb while spreading her pussy lips with her outer fingers, she gently began to pulse her middle and ring finger in and out. Slowly at first, she gradually began to find her pace. Speeding up her motions, her hand was a blur and the room was filled with the slick sounds of her fingers penetrating herself. She moaned and grabbed her breast with her other hand roughly. Just like in her dream.
Rubbing and pinching her nipple, she gasped softly as it was tender, making it all the more sensitive. Writhing and moaning she tossed and turned on the mattress as she worked herself closer to a climax. Rolling over and shuddering into the pillow, she came hard. She lay there for a few minutea recovering, panting and exhausted.
Her body coated in sweat, her breasts rising and falling with each shuddering breath, eventually her breathing calmed, and her heart slowed. Realizing that yet again she was a mess, Tara washed herself quickly in the bathroom and crawled back into bed. She just stared at the ceiling. Deep down she was sure that the man who had fucked her so hard in her dream was Terry, but her mind still resisted accepting that fact. What was wrong with her. But what was even stranger was that she didn't feel the slightest bit guilty. She finally drifted off into deep sleep.
*************** ************** *******************
That weekend had been worse than all the other terrible ones she’d had since arriving in this damn town. Tara didn't answer her father's persistent calls and texts. Her anger towards him had never subsided. For her, forgiving him was unthinkable. On top of that, she had a pointless argument with Mike. It was a reflection of months of his neglect. Their relationship was now hanging by a thread, fraying at the edges, ready to snap. She was very furious, every man in her life was a complete disappointment.
Mike was at work again and Tara sat down to a solitary breakfast. The confusion she experienced, the heaviness of the silence around her, pressed in on her chest. As she sipped her coffee, her mind wandered. She picked up her coffee and walked over to the window. Suddenly, her gaze fell on a familiar sight: Terry’s dilapidated car parked farther down the street. The same car she’d seen countless times before, always lurking in the background like an ominous shadow.
For a moment, a wave of anxiety washed over her. The sensation of being watched, of being followed, hit her with a sharpness that left her breathless. It was real. Terry was stalking her, like a hyena circling its prey. Her stomach tightened with a strange mixture of disgust and excitement. She wasn’t sure what she felt more—disgust, or thrill. Her body hummed with the tension, and a dangerous idea bloomed in her mind.
She moved quickly to her bedroom. After a moment’s thought, she chose the most revealing bikini she owned. It were a thongs, just sat between her ass cheeks, exposing every curve of her ass.
Tara felt a jolt of thrill rush through her as she stepped into the backyard. The sun was climbing higher, and she had no doubt Terry was hiding, watching. She could feel it, the weight of his gaze on her skin. She began her usual yoga routine, but each stretch, each movement, became more deliberate, more sensual. As she bent low into a stretch, she made sure to elongate her back, pushing her ass out just enough to accentuate its curve. She could almost feel his eyes on her skin, marking her, tracing the lines of her body with his gaze.
Then, she moved into a yoga pose, bending at the waist, her body forming a perfect arch. She slowly slid the straps of her bikini top off her shoulders, but never fully removing them. It was as if she were undressing in front of him, just enough to drive him wild, but leaving the rest to his imagination. The tops of her breasts were now slightly exposed, the fabric falling just enough to make him crazy. Her skin glistened in the sun, beads of sweat gathering on her neck, tracing the lines of her collarbone.
She wasn’t just stretching anymore; she was putting on a show. Her body became a thing of pure seduction, each movement more calculated than the last.
As Tara shifted into another pose, a slow, deliberate stretch, she arched her back with exquisite grace, pushing her chest forward while her hips tilted just enough to drive him crazy. The bikini thong revealed the perfect curve of her ass. She felt his eyes devour her, could almost feel the heat radiating from his body as he watched.
Finally, she finished her show and dove into the pool, the cool water washing over her body, but the game wasn’t over. She emerged from the pool, droplets clinging to her skin, glistening in the sunlight like liquid diamonds. As she laid down on the lounge chair, she positioned herself in a way that could not be ignored. She arched her back, lifting her hips slightly, letting the thong bikini press into her skin, the fabric just teasing the edge of her curves. Tara felt the power of the game, the intoxication of controlling him, of making him insane for her without ever giving him what he truly wanted. She could feel his desperation, and it thrilled her.
Terry was there, hidden in the bushes, his eyes wide with desperation. He clenched his teeth, his body rigid with need. His breath came in quick, shallow gasps as he watched her, storing every moment in his mind. He wanted everything she had. He wanted her in every way. He was crazy about her.
**************** ***************** ***************
As Tara sank onto the edge of her bed, the last rays of sunlight fading into a pale memory, the storm raging in her mind refused to subside. That morning, she had put on a breathtaking show for Terry, her stalker who was heavily obsessed with her. And she had a disturbing, twisted satisfaction out of every moment of it. But now everything was at war in her mind. Until just six months ago, she was living in a completely different world that she had shaped with her own rules. A goddess in a perfect world. So how did her world become like this? The real question is how did she change so much?
Her father… The gleaming, perfect statue of her life. The flowers he brought on Mother's Day, the proud tie she’d given him on Father's Day… It was all a lie. That flawless picture had been shattered by the ugly brushstrokes of betrayal. The void in Tara's heart was now filled with the poison of an unforgivable father.
On top of that, now she was trapped in this damned town for Mike's ambitions, leaving her career, her social circle, all that glittering life, cast into the flames for his rise. This place was a prison; its people crude, its environment suffocating. She felt like she'd been cast adrift on an island, utterly alone and isolated. Mike, on the other hand, was nothing more than a weak man living in his father's shadow, unable to make his own decisions, crushed under the weight of work stress, with neither love nor passion left to give Tara. Every man in her life had been a disappointment. Both her father and Mike had condemned her to loneliness and anger.
Love, family, loyalty, trust… All those rosy clouds had dispersed, leaving only a bitter mist. The "perfect princess" gown she had worn as her identity now felt like a flimsy, empty rag. Who was she? A painting outlined by her surroundings, or the stranger she saw in the mirror?
And it was precisely at the edge of this abyss that Terry had appeared. In every way, he was her complete antithesis, a being that evoked disgust even in her deepest self. Short, bald, filthy, old, his ignorance and depravity ingrained to his very core… For Tara, who had been showered with admiration and romance, treated like a princess her entire life, confronting such a "person" was unthinkable. Men had always vied to impress her, worshipping her with the most elegant gestures.
But Terry was different. He was a symbol of sleazy. The sharp, repulsive scent of his sweat, his shameless, his ignorance. The unfiltered, raw lust in his eyes that plainly revealed his intention… His presence had cracked the thin glass of Tara's perfect world. At first, she was horrified, but then, a strange sensation seeped through those cracks. It was the tremor of a dark desire she had suppressed her entire life, something she couldn't even admit to herself. Beneath that "blonde goddess" mask, she had always yearned for something raw, primal, savage. Beyond the constraints of that perfectionism, she had sought the forbidden allure of losing control.
In this tumultuous period of her life, Terry had become a key, unlocking and unleashing the dark side Tara had kept hidden deep within. His low status, his ignorant and corrupt character, the unfiltered, pure lust in his gaze, the desperate hunger in his eyes, his extreme obsession with her… And most devastatingly, that colossal bulge she noticed in Terry's pants… it was as if it materialized the "repressed primitive nature" within her. All of it promised Tara something beyond her wildest dreams, something dirty yet thrilling—a freedom that comes at a cost.
********* ********* **********
That night, the silence of the house amplified the storm raging within Tara. Mike's void, the anger she felt towards her father, the collapse of her perfect world… it all converged on a single point: Terry's ugly and lustful image. All those dirty fantasies swirling in her mind, the moments she'd dedicated herself to Terry's repulsive yet so alluring gaze, every deliberately provocative move she'd made… it all now returned as a surge, a burning sensation.
It was impossible to resist. Her body had already shattered her mind's defiance. Her nipples, hard as diamonds, her soaking wet pussy, her entire being yearned for release. She lay on the cool sheets of her bed, eyes fixed on the darkness. Disgust, anger, hate and shame were mere faint whispers against the torrent of primal desire churning inside her.
Her trembling fingers reached for the hem of her nightgown, slowly sliding the fabric upwards. The cool air meeting her skin only fueled the fire within her. Her hand moved hesitantly between her legs, finding her sensitive spot. Her thumb began to circle her clitoris, while her other fingers gently spread her labia. At first, her movements were soft, but as the images flooded her mind, her pace gradually quickened. Terry's hungry, savage eyes, that enormous bulge in his pants, the primal lust on his face… Everything accompanied the rhythm of her fingers.
Her breathing quickened, her moans began to tear through the silence of the room. One hand mercilessly pleasured herself, while the other gripped her breasts, pinching her nipples. Just like in her dreams, those moments, brought to life by a rough, uncontrolled touch, transported her to a place where pleasure mingled with pain, where boundaries dissolved. She writhed on her bed, her head buried in the pillow, her entire body trembling on the sharp edge of pleasure and shame.
Her body tensed, the storm within her reaching a climax. She came. Her screams poured from her mouth as muffled moans. With the intensity of the orgasm, she collapsed onto the bed, panting and utterly exhausted. Her body soaked in sweat, her breasts rising and falling with each shuddering breath, her breathing eventually calmed, and her heart slowed. Lying in the darkness, she knew. She didn't feel the slightest bit guilty. Exhaustion enveloped her, and with a final sigh, she finally drifted into a deep sleep.
************* ************** *******************
That night, the dilapidated, rundown shack on the other side of town became the sanctuary of Terry's utterly unhinged desires. Tara's "show" in the backyard had ignited a fire in his mind, every moment etched into his brain, coursing through his veins like a poisonous blaze. His body, taut and trembling from hours of observation and suppressed lust, hummed with raw intensity.
The foul-smelling air of the shack filled with the guttural moans of the monster within Terry. He tore off his shirt, his sweat-slicked skin so hot it felt like it could ignite the very atmosphere. His eyes rolled, consumed by the fantasy of Tara's every curve, every movement, the thong bikini pressing into her skin. With every gasp, the phantom scent of Tara's perfume filled his nostrils, driving him further into madness.
That fleeting glimpse of Tara's slightly exposed breasts… The curve of her hips… Every bead of sweat glistening on her sun-kissed skin… For Terry, these weren't just images; they were brands seared directly onto his flesh, into his very soul. He imagined his own hands gripping Tara's body, bending her as he pleased. Years of accumulated loneliness, humiliation, and repressed desires had now transformed into a volcano ready to erupt, fueled by Tara's deliberate provocations.
His most primal instincts had taken over. Tara's image was so vivid in his mind that his hands trembled as they went to his pants. His colossal member throbbed with an unbearable ache. He collapsed onto the shack's floor, his body shaking. His eyes were closed, his mind completely fixated on Tara's naked body. He relived every one of Tara's movements, losing himself in monstrous moans beneath that supple form. The silence of the shack filled with Terry's ragged gasps, his groans, and finally, the familiar, explosive cries of release. But he was far from satisfied. His obsession with Tara had gone far beyond this momentary release, reaching a much deeper, irreversible point.
********* *************** **********
The next morning, as soon as Tara entered the office, she went straight to Bridget's room to set her new plan in motion. With a calm, self-assured voice, she spoke of the terrible mess she'd found in the archive room and volunteered to organize it. The mask of innocence on her face was flawless; Bridget was too pleased by such an eager volunteer to refuse. In Tara's mind, however, there was an entirely different, much darker purpose.
As she made her way to the archive room, Tara couldn't believe she was actually doing this. This game had now completely consumed her. She took a deep breath, wrestled with a moment of hesitation, and then opened the door. The dimness inside, mixed with the smell of old paper and stale sweat, hinted at Terry's presence.
Terry's world was rocked to its foundations the moment the blonde goddess stepped through that door. She was in dark, a cotton short that revealed a dazzling stretch of her long, shapely legs. Her loose, white t-shirt, though seemingly ordinary, had a slightly open neckline from which shadows seeped, igniting countless forbidden scenarios in Terry's brain. The ghost of her bra, subtly visible through the light fabric of the t-shirt, became a torment for him. She was wearing sneakers, but even this casualness was a presentation that showcased her elegance.
Terry listened, mesmerized, as Tara explained why she was there. Every word, every breath, echoed in his already deranged mind. And then, when Tara asked for his help... Terry thought he might lose his mind with excitement. This had to be a dream.
As Tara moved towards Terry's messy, filthy desk, she could feel his gaze tracking her every move. She paused for a moment, reaching out to place her hand on an old, dusty folder. She slowly traced her finger along the edge of the folder, this simple action alone enough to make Terry's eyes widen even further. She turned, caught his hungry gaze, and a subtle, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips—a smile that was seared into Terry's brain. "Alright, where do we start?" she asked, her velvet voice a little softer than usual. Terry's eyes gleamed. For him, this was far more than just a task.
Two completely opposite beings—one a goddess and the a little troll —whose paths had no business ever crossing in this universe, were now working together in a cramped, dusty room. The visual contrast between them was shocking. Tara's flawless beauty, elegant posture stood in sharp contrast to Terry's crude and disheveled state. Terry couldn't believe what was happening. There was a time when he would never dare to speak to someone like her, not even in his dreams. But here she was, just an arm's length away, and she fueling Terry's most primal desires.
The cramped archive room became their stage. Tara moved with an unsettling grace, her every action a calculated stroke on Terry's already frayed nerves. When she leaned into a shelf, her shorts would ride up just so, revealing another tantalizing inch of thigh. As she reached for a box on a higher shelf, her loose t-shirt would stretch and pull, offering him fleeting glimpses of her form beneath. Each time, Terry’s breath would hitch, his wide, hungry eyes following her every shift, every bend.
As the hours passed, Tara's provocations grew bolder, yet always within the bounds of plausible deniability. She'd bend to pick up a dropped paper clip, her t-shirt falling open just enough to hint at the curve of her breast. She'd stretch, her arms reaching high, her body arching in a slow, deliberate display of her figure. Each movement was a silent promise, a cruel tease that left Terry aching with unfulfilled desire. His world had shrunk to Tara's every gesture, every breath, every calculated twist of her body.
As Tara knelt to examine a lower drawer, Terry watched mesmerized; her shorts strained taut across her hips, an irresistible curve presented to his devouring gaze. A wave of heat washed over him, his mouth suddenly dry. He could almost feel the warmth radiating from her skin, the subtle scent of her perfume intensifying in the close quarters. His hands clenched, an almost painful urge to reach out, to touch, to confirm the reality of her proximity. Seizing this moment, suddenly Tara’s gaze dropped directly to that colossal bulge in his pants. Once again she was shocked by its immense size. She felt a wild electric current run down her spine. She lifted her head. Her eyes met Terry's. Tara's gaze locked onto Terry’s crude lust with chilling certainty. In that moment of eye contact, the room froze, heavy with unspoken words. The air was filled with a sharp, electric silence, an invisible thread of tension stretched between them, touching the most primal layers of both souls.
The workday was finally over. Tara walked out of the archives room, leaving Terry in a state of madness. He was a tightly coiled spring, ready to snap. He quickly settled into his chair and quickly pulled his trousers down around his ankles, along with his underpants. Every cell in his body was burning with raw desire. He embarked on a wild jerk-off marathon. His mind was filled with hot images of her. He was crazy about her.
The Great Transformation
Tara was born into a world that blended opulence with high expectations. This world wasn’t merely an oasis of luxury—it was a sanctuary of confidence, a place where self-worth was cultivated from the very beginning. Her mother, a talented psychologist with an stunning beauty, could easily have been mistaken for a supermodel or a movie star. With every step she took, heads turned, and her presence effortlessly commanded attention. Tara's father, a distinguished and successful lawyer, was equally captivating—not just for his professional acclaim, but also for the magnetic charm that radiated from him. Together, they formed a power couple, their allure undeniable and their influence far-reaching. Their financial standing was impeccable, their lifestyle the epitome of success.
Talented, fiercely intelligent, and free-spirited, Tara grew up believing that excellence was a birthright. She attended only the most prestigious schools, her education shaped by some of the brightest minds. For her, success was not a goal, but an inevitable byproduct of her natural rhythm in life. It was something that came with ease, as intrinsic to her as breathing. But there was another reason why Tara effortlessly got everything she wanted. Her breathtaking beauty was devastating.
The symmetry of her features was so perfect that it almost seemed unreal. Her eyebrows arched, lashes impossibly long, casting shadows on her porcelain skin, and full lips that parted just enough to make each breath feel like an delight. Her deep blue eyes didn’t merely observe—they scanned, disarmed, consumed. Men who met her challenging gaze found themselves undone, forgetting reason, morality, and loyalty. Her golden hair, long, wavy, and voluminous, cascading like a waterfall, catching the light, making it impossible to look away.
Her body... It was incredible. At 5'9", her figure wasn’t just attractive—it was crafted to torment. Her fit body, shaped by strict yoga and gym discipline, was a perfect balance of muscle and elegance. Her legs were long and sculpted, her belly were flat and tight. But it was the curve of her hips and the fullness of her breasts that drove men to madness. Those curves—impossible, unyielding—were not just seen, but felt. Her ass... just wow. Perfectly round and full, any item of clothing she wore simply highlighted it, clinging to the firm, perky, well-formed cheeks, while giving a hint of the delightful crevasse in between. Her each stride a visual promise, a silent invitation.
The fact that she had massive, perky double D-cup breasts was just... She was perfect, and they were perfect. They were real and they were jaw-droppingly firm and perky. They vaulted off her fit frame in almost cartoonish fashion, with zero sag. They were so massive and so firm that they rode close together, forming a natural cleft of eye-popping cleavage, while the outer sides of them remained visible from behind her. There was no way to hide them no matter what she wore.
Tara wore her beauty not as an ornament but as an extension of her will. Each movement she made was deliberate, as if she was orchestrating her own reality. Her hips swayed with a calculated ease only a goddess could achieve, every step an undeniable assertion of power, every glance a silent command. She didn’t need to seduce; she simply existed, and the world bent silently, obediently, around her.
Wherever she went, attention followed—unstoppable, like a tide that swept everything in its path. She didn’t simply walk into rooms, she dominated them with her presence. No one could remain indifferent to the aura emanating from her. Some claimed they could feel her even before she appeared—like an invisible force that reshaped the very atmosphere. At every school she attended, she was the one everyone looked to—the unchallenged captain of the cheer squad, the reigning queen of every dance, the center of every gaze. Her popularity wasn’t just a status; it was an empire built on beauty, charisma, and an undeniable presence. Among her peers, she was more than just a name; she was a legend and it was a privilege to be in her orbit.
Tara was aware of the impact her own existence had on her environment. This situation amused her from time to time. Especially seeing how men get themselves into stupid situations trying to impress her. Even the most confident ones often stuttered in her presence and had difficulty finding the right words.
Tara, now 22 years old, could have chosen any path she desired—a supermodel, an actress, or anything her heart dreamed of. The world was at her feet, ready to yield to her every command. But despite the endless options before her, she was unwavering. With the same cold precision that defined her every move, she chose to follow in her father’s footsteps. Law wasn’t just a career for her; it was a challenge—one that would demand as much power, control, and intellect as she could give. So, she enrolled in law school, determined to carve her own path, not as a beauty or a legend, but as a force to be reckoned with in a world that demanded more from her.
It was during her second year at university that she met the love of her life—Mike. At that time, he was pursuing his master’s degree. He, 26, was an very handsome, charismatic and wealthy young man, but this was because of family money. His father owned a lucrative manufacturing and distribution company. The future had already been written for him—Mike was destined to inherit and lead the family business, his every move carefully orchestrated to prepare him for that inevitable fate.
Their connection was instant—magnetic, undeniable, as if the universe itself was trying to bring them together. From the moment they met, something shifted in the air around them, an invisible current pulling them toward each other. Falling in love was effortless, as natural as breathing. Soon, they became the kind of couple others both admired and envied, the epitome of perfection that others only dreamed of. As the days passed, their love only deepened—more intense, more certain, like a fire that refused to be extinguished.
Just before Mike’s graduation, he proposed. In that moment, Tara felt as though she were living in a dream—a dream made entirely of joy, where every waking moment felt like a perfect reflection of the future she had always envisioned for herself. There, in his eyes, she saw the promise of forever—a life built on a love that had already stood the test of time in the span of their months together.
************** ****************** *********************
For Tara, life had been nothing short of perfect from the day she was born—until it all came crashing down. Just months after Mike’s proposal, a scandal erupted that shattered the flawless world she had always known. Her father, the man she had admired and trusted above all others, had been having an affair with a young intern at his law firm—a girl barely older than Tara herself. The image of her family, once a beacon of strength and unity, disintegrated before her eyes.
The couple she had always viewed as the embodiment of love and loyalty—her parents—had turned into bitter strangers. Their arguments, raw and venomous, echoed through the house, tearing apart the quiet dignity they had once shared. The man who had been her rock, her moral compass, became a shadow of himself—unrecognizable. He was no longer the man who had built their world; he was a liar, a betrayer. She was filled with anger.
She felt the very foundation of her world tremble, the ground beneath her split open. The unshakable security her parents had always provided, the unwavering certainty that had been the bedrock of her existence, was gone. It left behind only an anger, a hollow feeling that nothing could seem to fill. The values she had once embraced so wholeheartedly—family, love, trust—now felt like empty promises, words drained of their meaning, their substance, their weight. It dawned on her that her entire life had been built on a polished illusion—a perfect family portrait, carefully crafted, meticulously displayed, but a deep fake beneath the surface.
Tara began to question everything: had she truly become the woman she was by choice, or had she been shaped, molded by the expectations of those around her? Had her path, her success, her confidence all been products of her own making—or had she simply been living out a script written by others? For the first time in her life, everything she had believed in—her identity, her path, her purpose—felt like an empty vessel, something imposed upon her, not something she had chosen for herself.
And in that moment, Tara felt adrift, untethered, a ship lost at sea in a vast and uncertain world where nothing felt solid, nothing felt secure. She was wondering who she truly was, and who she was meant to become.
**************** *************** *****************
Mike’s situation added yet another layer of chaos to Tara’s already unraveling life. He had finally graduated and was poised to step into his role as heir to his family's business.. But his father, a man whose expectations were as rigid as they were unyielding, had other plans. Instead of passing the reins of the family business, he demanded that Mike start at the bottom—learning the ins and outs of the business from the factory floor to the boardroom, a process that could take years.
As part of this grueling initiation, Mike was sent to manage one of the company’s remote manufacturing plants in the gray-skied town of Brackmoore, a place that felt as cold and distant as the decision itself. He was expected to remain there for an entire year. The decision wasn’t up for discussion. It was tradition—a tradition as old and inflexible as the family business itself, passed down from father to son like scripture, with no room for rebellion.
Anxious and uncertain, Mike finally explained the situation to Tara, his voice faltering, afraid his stunning fiancée might refuse to follow him into the unknown. Tara’s reaction was immediate—a sharp stab of disappointment that lodged itself deep in her chest. The weight of the news hit her harder than she expected. This unexpected twist had torn apart the future she had so carefully planned. She had always been focused, driven, ready to complete her studies and forge a life of her own, on her own terms. She was one year away from graduating. But now, she stood at a crossroads: follow Mike to Brackmoore, abandoning her ambitions for the sake of their relationship, or stay behind and risk growing apart. The thought of abandoning her path, of putting her dreams on hold for someone else, felt like a betrayal—not just of him, but of herself, her potential, and everything she had worked so hard to build. Yet, the idea of losing Mike, of letting go of the man she loved, was equally unbearable.
Tara replayed the scenario in her mind a thousand times, turning it over, analyzing every angle, trying to find a way to make sense of the impossibility of her situation. Her mind told her to stay and pursue her own future, but her heart, raw and yearning, whispered for her to follow him, to be with him.
After days of wrestling with doubt, Tara made the hardest decision of her life: she would leave behind everything that was familiar, everything she had ever known, and follow the man she loved into the unknown. The fact that this was a temporary process made it easier for her to decide. After all, they would return after a year and continue their glorious lives. Also her family’s collapse had left her feeling unmoored, like a stranger in her own life. Maybe she thought, a change of place, a change of scenery, could help rebuild what had been broken inside her. She didn’t know what lay ahead but somewhere deep within, a voice whispered that this journey could be useful for rediscovering herself and establishing her identity.
***************** ************** ********************
After a relentless, exhausting journey, the couple finally arrived in Brackmoore. As their car slowly meandered through the sun-bleached streets, Tara felt a suffocating weight of disappointment press heavily on her chest. She hadn’t expected paradise, but this place was worse than anything her lowest expectation had envisioned. The air was stagnant, heavy, as though even the town itself were holding its breath, waiting for something that would never come. The faded storefronts, their windows lifeless, lined the main road, with signs barely legible—a whisper from a forgotten past. It was as if time had stopped here.
Mike, too, felt the knot in his stomach tighten as he took in the grim surroundings. He could feel the silence radiating from Tara beside him, and when their eyes met, the truth was undeniable—disappointment, discomfort, and disillusionment reflected back at him. He hated this. He hated bringing her to a place that already felt like failure. But he forced a calm smile, clinging to the hope that somehow, things would improve—that Tara would find something to hold on to here.
Finally, they reached their new home. For the first time since arriving in Brackmoore, Tara felt a flicker of relief. The house was an old, two-story structure, with a faded elegance that seemed to stand as a defiant symbol against the desolation surrounding it. In the backyard, a modest pool shimmered beneath the late afternoon sun, its still surface catching the light like a forgotten treasure. It was something familiar, something real—a small piece of luxury tying her to the life she had left behind. But even this fleeting comfort didn’t last.
Tara couldn’t shake the overwhelming feeling that she didn’t belong—not in this house, not in this town. Everything about it felt alien, detached from the future she had once imagined with Mike, from the dreams that now seemed impossibly distant. The silence within it was deafening, louder than any words. This was not the life she had prepared for—it was something else entirely. A single, faint echo of beauty—a reminder of the luxury she once knew—wasn’t enough to soothe the unease gnawing at her.
***************** *************** ****************
The day after their move, Mike plunged himself into his new role. When he returned home that evening, it was late, and his energy had been completely drained. At first, Tara chalked up his exhaustion to the demands of his first day, but it didn’t take long for her to realize how wrong she was. Each day, Mike returned later, his fatigue so palpable it seemed to cling to him, the heavy thud of his steps, the distant look in his eyes. He was consumed by the crushing weight of his family's expectations, giving everything he had to earn his father’s approval, yet no matter how much he sacrificed, it was never enough.
Even on weekends, Mike vanished into the unforgiving pull of his responsibilities, leaving Tara alone to face the expanding emptiness that consumed her. The loneliness seeped into her like the biting silence of Brackmoore, a chill that settled into her bones, growing colder with each passing day.
She threw herself into trying to create warmth, desperately attempting to transform their house into something resembling a home. But no matter how many times she rearranged the furniture, no matter how many delicate touches of beauty she added, the house never felt like anything more than four walls. The oppressive air of Brackmoore had seeped into every corner, every room, suffocating everything in its indifferent grasp. No matter how much effort she put in, no matter how sincere the intention, the discomfort of the place clung to her, weaving itself into the very fabric of their lives.
********* ************ **********
Almost a month had passed since their move, and Tara had yet to make a single friend. The townspeople, like the town itself, were dull, sulky types. The neighbors were cold and distant. They had only ever seen someone of her beauty and class on TV or magazine covers before. They had no idea how to communicate with someone like her. All they could do was admire and scrutinize her. Tara had always been aware of her effect on people. But this was something else. It was different from the elite social circles and their standards that she was used to. The curious gazes of these people made her feel like an object.
Tara’s days became an endless blur of monotony. Every morning, she would wake and stare out the window, her gaze lost in the vast, empty landscape stretching endlessly before her. It felt more like a prison than an open world—a silent, desolate expanse frozen in time. There was no hurry, no noise, no life. Everything outside seemed to be suspended, frozen in place, waiting for something, anything, to shift, but nothing ever did.
The only moments Tara found any relief were during her workouts and yoga sessions, when she could force her body to move, to feel something—anything—other than the creeping emptiness that threatened to consume her. But even in those fleeting moments of physical exertion, her mind was a storm, restless and chaotic, spinning in a relentless whirlwind of thoughts. Afterward, she would dive into the cool pool, its water offering a brief escape from the suffocating heat of the day and the ever-present swirl of her thoughts. The contrast of the cold water against her heated skin was soothing—momentarily—but it couldn’t calm the storm inside her. The emptiness remained, lurking just beneath the surface, like a shadow that refused to leave. The calm was fleeting, a thin veneer over a void that nothing could fill. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t outrun the deep, nagging dissatisfaction gnawing at her soul.
*********** ********** ************* ************
Tara knew she couldn’t remain trapped in the suffocating cycle she had found herself in. It wasn’t leading anywhere, and she could no longer pretend she was content. The life she was living felt hollow, drained of purpose, and she was desperate for change. There had to be something she could do for herself, something that could reignite the fire she once had.
Determined, she began to research local law firms online, hoping to find a way to bring meaning back into her life. It might do her good to do something for her career. However, when she found only a handful of law offices in town, disappointment crashed into her like a cold wave. The options were scarce, but there was one that stood out: Jones Law Firm. The fact that the owner was a woman felt like a small yet empowering connection to her own aspirations, a lifeline in a town that seemed to stifle her spirit.
That evening, she waited for Mike to come home. As usual, he returned late, drained from the weight of his day. She told him about her decision to intern at a law firm, hoping it would make her time here more purposeful. She needed something that was hers—something she could control, something to feel like she was moving forward. But Mike’s reaction hit her like a slap. He didn’t say it outright, but his silence, his coldness, spoke volumes. He didn’t want her to work. They didn't need the money, and Mike hoped she would stay home and be the perfect wife he dreamed of.
For Tara, it wasn’t about the money. It was about holding on to a piece of herself, about maintaining her independence, about having the power to make her own decisions. Mike’s selfishness, his complete disregard for her needs, ignited a searing anger inside her. For the first time, she found herself questioning everything about their relationship—wondering if she had been living in a dream, one that wasn’t hers at all. That night, their argument erupted like a violent storm. The disagreement grew so fierce that, in the end, Mike ended up sleeping on the couch in the living room.
The following days felt unbearable. The weight of the constant, suffocating routine pressed down on her. Each passing moment felt heavier, like she was sinking deeper into quicksand, stuck in a life she hadn’t chosen. The sense of helplessness was overwhelming, and the emptiness gnawed at her like a constant ache in her chest. She could return to the city, to her elite environment where she belonged, and leave Mike and this damned town behind as a memory she wouldn't recall. However, this would be an escape, a giving up and for The Blonde Goddess, failure was not an acceptable option.
One morning, Tara woke up with a sudden, overpowering urge to act. She couldn’t wait any longer. She couldn’t let herself drown in this miserable town, in this miserable life. She had to break free. Without a second thought, she grabbed her phone and dialed the number for Jones Law Firm. The decision felt like a jolt—a freeing break from the relentless pressure that had been suffocating her. It was like a fog lifting, the first breath of fresh air she had taken in months. As she hung up the phone after scheduling the appointment, something inside her stirred—an ember of excitement, a flicker of hope. For the first time since arriving in Brackmoore, she felt alive. It was the exhilaration of doing something entirely for herself. It was the sensation of taking control again, of no longer being tethered to a life that didn’t belong to her.
************ ************* **************
As the pale light of morning bled across the silent streets of Brackmoore, a cheap plastic alarm clock unleashed a shrill screech from an old-fashioned nightstand. With a grunt of frustration, a calloused, hairy hand emerged from beneath the stained, crumpled covers and slammed the offending device silent. It was the sixth time. Terry mired in stagnant existence—had no real intention of facing the day. Or any day, for that matter.
He rolled over on bed with a wheezing exhale, his shapeless body peeling off the stained mattresses. He was, at most, 5'6" and the view was a disaster. His head was a patchy landscape of greasy, unkempt hair, desperately clinging to the sides while the crown remained bald. His chest hung loosely over his bloated beer-belly. His arms and legs were a little thin compared to his torso. His belly, chest, back, and butt cheeks were covered with thick curly hair.
His teeth, crooked and yellowed, peeked out from behind cracked, sullen lips as he yawned. He scratched absently, then stumbled towards a pile of dirty clothes scattered across the floor, pulling on a worn pants and a wrinkled shirt that reeked of stale sweat and mildew. His smell was an entity in itself: sour, oppressive, unmistakable. He showered rarely—once every few weeks at best—and only when his own stench became unbearable, even to him.
Terry—58 years old, was the epitome of a lonely loser. His life was full of failures and disappointments. His education life was almost non-existent. He had never been successful in anything he tried. Even though he had lived in this town his entire life, he didn't have a single real friend. This was because of his character, which was as repulsive as his appearance and smell. Empathy, manners, basic decency—these were foreign concepts to Terry. In a constant exercise in selfishness, he judged people solely by what he could get from them. He had no respect for any value, anyone or anything. If a flower came his way, he would not bother to change his path but would indifferently crush it under his foot.
When he shuffled into the kitchen, the cockroaches scattered from the light, disappearing into the shadows. The sink overflowed with dishes, cemented with the remnants of forgotten meals, while a half-eaten donut lay abandoned on a plate. He grabbed it with two fingers, sniffed it briefly, and then shoved it into his mouth, chewing with messy, open-mouthed bites.
As he stepped out from home to work, lighting a cigarette, he spat a thick, yellow glob of phlegm onto the ground, the wet splatter echoing in the silent morning. The bitterness within him oozed from his pores, leaving a foul trail wherever he went. It was almost impossible to imagine anyone ever having loved him— even his mother probably didn't like him. But Terry seemed utterly indifferent to such thoughts. Shame was not on his scale of emotions.
******************* ************* ********************
Tara sat in her car for a few moments, her eyes fixed on the address she had entered into the navigation system. The building before her was nothing like the grand, polished office she had imagined when she thought of a law firm. It stood on the ground floor of a dilapidated four-story building, the upper floors abandoned. The exterior, its paint peeling and faded, the windows grimy and fogged over, screamed neglect. Tara blinked in disbelief—how could a place of such professionalism, at least in her mind, appear so utterly uninspiring? For a brief moment, doubt crept in, and she wondered if she had made a mistake. But that thought quickly dissolved. She had come here with purpose, and she wasn’t about to turn back now.
She opened the door, stepping out of the car. Her heels clicked decisively on the cracked pavement, each step echoing in the air. She wore a black skirt, a crisp white blouse, and a custom-tailored blazer that highlighted her grace and poise. Her presence was striking—out of place in a town like this. The contrast between her polished exterior and the run-down surroundings was jarring, almost enough to make her second-guess the authenticity of her mission. But Tara wasn’t here to blend in. She was here to create change, to transform this place, to carve out a space for herself. Every movement she made was deliberate, and there was an undeniable confidence in her posture.
The first thing that caught her eye when she entered was the narrow, rusted iron stairs leading down to the basement. The office was was tasteless and unpleasant, sparsely furnished with mismatched desks and old, battered file cabinets. The air hung heavy with silence, broken only by the hum of an old, outdated computer. Dim lights cast long shadows across the room, making it feel like she had stepped into another time—a forgotten place, lost in the past. Tara hesitated for a moment, a fleeting thought about whether she could thrive in such a place. The silence was pierced by the sound of approaching footsteps. A short, plump woman emerged from the kitchen area, a cup of coffee in hand.
“How can I help you?” she asked, her voice high-pitched with surprise. The way she looked at her, like she was staring at a stranger from another world. It was clear that she had never seen anyone as beautiful and charming as Tara in Brackmoore before.
She introduced herself quickly, mentioning her scheduled appointment. The woman, still trying to process the sight before her, nodded and pointed toward the door behind the desk. "Ms. Bridget is expecting you."
Inside the room, Tara was greeted by a warm, welcoming smile. Bridget, the owner of the firm, was in her early sixties and a seasoned attorney who had spent many years in the fast-paced world of Chicago before moving to her hometown of Brackmoore five years ago in search of a quieter life. Although the transition had somewhat dulled her, she still carried the fire of a seasoned attorney who had fought for civil rights and handled important cases. When she looked at Tara, she couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast: Tara’s flawless beauty, her impeccable style, and the massive diamond ring on her finger against the backdrop of the humble office. Bridget’s curiosity grew with every passing second, and she couldn’t help but wonder what had brought this striking woman to such a place.
“So, darling, what brings you here?” Bridget asked, her tone warm and inviting.
Tara briefly explained her situation and shared her desire to do an internship. She added that she had no salary expectations. Bridget paused for a moment, taken aback—working for free wasn’t something she encountered often. But after speaking with Tara for a while, understanding the drive behind her decision, Bridget found herself intrigued and impressed. She saw something in the young woman—an ambition and purpose that made her stand out.
“Welcome to Jones Law Firm, Tara,” Bridget said with a firm handshake.
As Tara smiled, her perfectly shaped white teeth lit up the atmosphere. “Thank you, Ms. Bridget.”
“Please, just call me Bridget,” she replied with a friendly.
As they continued to talk, Bridget couldn’t resist pointing out Tara’s formal attire, noticing how out of place it seemed for the town. “Darling, this isn’t Chicago,” she said casually. “You don’t need to dress like that.”
Tara’s shoulders eased at the suggestion. The oppressive heat of Brackmoore had a way of weighing down on her, and the thought of being able to dress casually, to feel comfortable in something less formal, was like a small breath of fresh air.
Later, Bridget took Tara to the office entrance, where she was introduced to Betty, the secretary, who welcomed her. Betty, while not particularly well-educated or skilled, managed to get things done. She was more than enough to meet the low standards of this forgotten town.
Meanwhile, the door creaked open, and in walked a short, chubby man. His balding head gleamed under the light, beads of sweat dotting his broad forehead. His shirt was stuck to his body with dark stains under his arms. He stared directly at Tara with an intensity that felt almost overwhelming. It was a gaze like no other, raw and unfiltered. He was obviously trying to absorb her beauty and grace, questioning in his mind whether she was truly here. Was this a dream?
“This is Terry,” Bridget said, her voice casual, almost indifferent, as if introducing him were no more significant than pointing out a piece of furniture. When she returned from Chicago, this old building she had inherited was in need of repair, so she hired Terry, who had some experience in the field. Over the time, his duties had expanded to managing the office’s more menial tasks. He had been around since the beginning, fixing the leaks and cracks in old plumbing, maintaining and handling mail and simple paperwork.
As Tara looked at him, she couldn’t help but compare him to a troll. She had never met anyone like him before. She was used to attention, used to commanding the room. But this felt different—his stare wasn’t admiration; it was something far colder, like an examination. There was something about him she couldn’t quite place: something disturbing, something wrong.
Bridget, completely unaware of the tension that was now thickening the air, turned to Tara with a welcoming smile. “So, when can you start?” she asked, as if it were the most natural question in the world.
Tara blinked, trying to clear her mind from the disturbing intensity of Terry's gaze. “Monday,” she said, her voice steady.
“Great,” Bridget said with a warm smile, before turning back to her office.
As Tara walked out of the office, Terry's lingering gaze felt like an invisible weight on her back. Despite the promising start with Bridget, a shadow had been cast, a subtle yet distinct warning that Brackmoore held more than just faded buildings and stifled dreams. As she reached her car, the image of Terry's unwavering scrutiny flashed in her mind, a silent question mark hanging over this unexpected new chapter.
************** *************** *********************
When Mike came home later that evening, Tara was eager to share the news of her internship. She imagined his supportive smile, a shared moment of optimism in the grayness of Brackmoore. But Mike’s disinterest was palpable, a thick wall between them. His responses were clipped, almost begrudging, his gaze drifting around the room, never quite meeting hers. He seemed miles away, lost in some internal landscape, his eyes distant as if she were speaking a language he no longer understood.
For the first time, a coldness formed inside Tara. It wasn’t just the oppressive atmosphere of Brackmoore that was alienating her—it was Mike, too. The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow, stealing her breath. He seemed like a stranger now, his familiar warmth extinguished. A disquieting thought flickered through her mind: how long had this been brewing, this silent drift, without her noticing? The anger settled deep inside her.
What Tara didn’t know was that Mike’s indifference wasn’t because of his feelings for her. He still adored her, still looked at her like she was the center of his world. But the weight of managing the factory had become unbearable. Workers were on strike, deliveries were delayed, and his father’s constant berating had pushed him to the brink. But none of that mattered to Tara. She was a Goddess. She had been treated that way her entire life. And to feel neglected was as unbearable as suffocation.
*************** *************** *****************
That evening, Terry tore down the backroads of Brackmoore in his sputtering, rust-bitten car, the engine coughing like it wanted to die. The cracked windows rattled with every bump, and the driver’s side mirror was held on with duct tape and a prayer. His destination loomed at the edge of town—an old shack, half-swallowed by weeds.
The car screeched to a halt, dust mushrooming behind it, then he staggered out, red-faced. Sweat poured from his scalp, darkening the collar of his shirt. He slammed the door behind him and quickly took off his shirt as if it were suffocating him—yanking his pants down before he’d even reached the stained couch.
Terry, 58, had never known peace. His body was a furnace of ceaseless craving, a machine wired wrong. He had an innate quality that could be considered a gift to some and a curse to others. His testosterone level was almost five times that of the average man. He also had trouble cumming, and even when he did, he couldn't feel satisfaction. His mind was never quiet. His urges never slept. Most days, he drowned them in hours of filthy porn videos and magazines, chasing a satisfaction that always disappeared the second he found it. But now, he didn’t need them. He had another thing.
The moment he saw Tara this morning, something inside him had detonated. Her skin, tanned and glowing, like silk stretched over warm curves. Her scent—fresh, intoxicating, the deep trace of perfume mixed with something uniquely her, a scent that made his groin throb. And her eyes—deep, like a storm waiting to swallow him whole. The way she moved—fluid, effortless, the subtle sway of her hips that promised untold pleasures. The elegant curve of her neck begging to be touched. The tension in her posture as she walked, highlighting the proud lift of her breasts under that crisp white fabric—it was like watching a flame flicker in the wind, unpredictable and hot. She was a waterfall of pure, unadulterated desire in his twisted mind. He couldn’t stop thinking about the way her black skirt hugged her long legs, the precise curve of her ass as she moved, how her white blouse strained ever across the fullness of her chest, hinting at the perfect, ripe mounds beneath. His mind was a relentless slideshow of her body. She couldn’t be real. But she had spoken. She had breathed the same air. Her soft, perfect voice still echoed in his skull, each syllable like a lewd suggestion.
He setted onto his stained couch, his breathing ragged. His greasy fingers trembled as he conjured her image, focusing on the way her breasts must feel, the firm, yielding softness. He imagined the smooth, tight curve of her ass under his palm. The room around him—the moldy walls, the stench, the buzzing flies—disappeared.
In his mind, she was there. Close. Untouchable. Untamed. And every thought, every crude image of her only fed the hunger that clawed at him. His chest tightened, his pulse quickened. Her imagined form made him burn with a desperate, animalistic need.
He pulled down his stained, torn boxers with trembling fingers. The sight that emerged was shocking. He was genetically trash, but his cock, rising like a pole from the forest of pubic hair, was an absolute beast. It was at least eight inches long, maybe nine inches, and very thick. It was extremely gnarled with thick purple veins running along its entire length. The giant hairy sack that contained his tangerine-sized testicles hung between his legs. It was inhumane in every way. He gripped his massive cock in his calloused palm and began to rub it like crazy. He had only one thing on his mind: The Blonde Goddess.
************ ************* ********************
It had been two weeks since Tara began her internship. Most of her time was spent buried in case files, trying to absorb every scrap of knowledge she could. Her desk sat directly across from Betty’s—the overweight, overly chatty secretary whose words poured out like a leaky faucet that couldn’t be shut off. Betty had a talent for turning the most mundane detail into an epic saga, often gossiping about people Tara had never met and would likely never meet. Tara would nod absently, eyes on the pages, though her mind was usually miles away.
But it wasn’t Betty’s endless chatter that truly disturbed her.
On her very first day, Tara had noticed Terry hovering near her desk. He looked like he was about to say something, but no words came. He just stood there. Staring. His silence loaded with something unspoken. It pressed on her skin like humidity, thick and inescapable.
Eventually, she couldn’t take it anymore.
“Did you need something?” she asked, voice sharp and professional.
The question jolted him. He blinked as if coming out of a trance, muttered something she couldn’t catch, then turned and shuffled away. Tara watched him go, unease prickling down her spine. Something about him felt deeply wrong, like what she’d seen so far was only the tip of something darker.
In the days that followed, Terry's presence became a persistent shadow. No matter how hard she tried to focus on her work, she always caught him in her peripheral vision. Even though his place was the archives room in the basement, he was always finding excuses to be on the main floor—checking a broken light, organizing supplies. But it was obvious. He wasn’t there for work. His eyes were always on her. And there was no mistaking the intent in his gaze. His bulging eyes were filled with crude, unapologetic lust. They didn’t look at her—they devoured her. His gaze stripped her down layer by layer, consumed her. It wasn’t the look of a man. It was the look of a hyena imagining how she might taste. It disgusted her. She had only known him for a short time, but it was long enough to grow a deep, visceral loathing.
************** *************** ********************
Tara’s weekends were no better than her weekdays—just lonelier. Mike was often nowhere to be found, buried under a mountain of stress that he rarely spoke about. And even when he was home, his presence felt distant, like a fading shadow rather than a lover. The pressure of managing the factory and living up to his father’s impossible expectations was taking a toll on him. It was hollowing him out from the inside, leaving him drained and emotionally unavailable.
Their moments of intimacy had dwindled to almost nothing. The few times they attempted closeness, it fizzled before it could ignite into anything real. The silence afterward hung thick in the air—awkward, heavy, unresolved. For Tara, who had always been adored, pursued, and admired, this indifference was more than a disappointment. She was definitely not a woman to be ignored. She was young, vibrant, and alive. And with each passing day, the emptiness and anger inside her grew.
To keep herself grounded, Tara had doubled down on her routines. Her workouts grew more intense, her yoga sessions longer. The burn in her muscles, the ache in her limbs—these were things she could control. She welcomed the pain, let it drown out the anxiety and resentment that gnawed at her mind.
That morning, she pushed herself harder than ever. After the final set, she dove into the pool with an elegant arc, the cold water wrapping around her like a blanket of relief. She swam until her body gave out, then pulled herself onto a lounge chair, soaking in the sunlight. For a brief moment, she felt calm. But the peace didn’t last.
A strange sensation crept over her—subtle at first, then slowly growing, like a shadow sliding across her skin. She sat up, scanning the yard. Everything seemed normal: the trees swayed gently, birds chirped overhead, the sun beat down without mercy. Yet something was off. She felt watched. Touched by something invisible. She gathered her towel and went inside, her stomach tight with unease.
Soon after, her phone rang. It was Rachel—her best friend since childhood, the one person who still felt like a tether to her old life. They had grown up side by side, shared everything, and even though they hadn’t seen each other in a while, their bond hadn’t changed.
As soon as she heard Rachel’s voice—witty, sharp, familiar—Tara felt a crack form in the wall she’d built around herself. They talked for a long time. Tara spoke about Mike, about the cold silence between them, about how disconnected this town made her feel.
Rachel, who was a bit of a flirtatious and always sarcastic person, listened and offered just humor. By the time they hung up, Tara felt lighter. Not fixed. Not whole. But not entirely alone either. Rachel had a way of reminding her who she was—someone strong, someone real, someone who didn’t belong in the shadows.
************** ************ ********************
Over time, Tara had worked her way through most of the case files in the main office. But the remaining documents were stored in the basement archive room—a place she had intentionally avoided. And for one reason only: Terry. She hated him. Countless times she had caught him staring at her with disturbing boldness, his eyes roaming shamelessly over her breasts and hips.
One afternoon, when Bridget sent Terry out on an errand, Tara saw her chance. She stood at the top of the narrow staircase that led down to the basement, hesitation twisting in her stomach. She took a deep breath and went downstairs, the rusty iron stairs creaking under her feet as if they too did not want her to go.
The moment she opened the archive room door, the smell hit her—thick, musty, and offensive, like the air hadn’t been changed in years. Her nose wrinkled in disgust. She turned on the light because the windowless room lacked natural light. The only light came from a single dim bulb, casting long shadows across the cramped space. The shelves were overstuffed with disorganized case files. In the corner, Terry’s desk sat like a monument to chaos—papers, wrappers, and tools strewn carelessly across every surface. The entire room felt wrong. Claustrophobic. Heavy.
Tara moved quickly, scanning the shelves for the files she needed, determined to be in and out as fast as possible. However, as she searched, she muttered in disappointment. There was no order to the system. Files were shoved haphazardly onto the shelves with no labels, no logic. For a moment she thought, "This place needs an overhaul." But the idea quickly faded. "To be here with him? Forget it."
After some time, she finally found what she was looking for. She was ready to leave, hand already on the folder—until something pulled her attention sideways.
It wasn’t a sound or a movement, just a creeping sense of curiosity that slithered under her skin. Her gaze shifted toward Terry’s desk. She told herself to leave, to ignore it. But her feet were already moving.
The closer she got, the more the atmosphere shifted. The stains came into view—large, yellowish smeared across the desktop and soaked into the seat of the old chair. Suddenly the room felt smaller to her, the air heavier. The sight turned her stomach.She knew, instinctively what those stains were—the residue of a primal, desperate depravity that mirrored the man himself. A surge of nausea rose in her throat, hot and bitter.
She turned on her heel and climbed the stairs with haste, her breath shallow, her mind reeling. She didn’t stop until she was back in the open, away from basement. She was in a state of complex emotions: disgust, hatred, but surprisingly, excitement. It was as if she had secretly entered a forbidden zone and escaped without being caught.
************** ****************** ***********************
That evening, when Tara got home, Mike was nowhere to be found. After a long shower, she didn’t bother getting dressed. She remained wrapped in her bathrobe, the soft fabric clinging to her damp skin. The time she had spent in the archive room that day still lingered in her nerves like static electricity, buzzing just beneath the surface. She poured herself a generous glass of wine. She needed to unwind—badly. She called Rachel.
They spoke for a long while, like they always did. From Mike’s growing distance to how suffocating Brackmoore still felt, Tara laid it all bare. At some point, almost unconsciously, she started talking about Terry.
She described his strange behavior—the way he lingered near her desk without saying a word, the way his eyes didn’t just look at her, but seemed to consume her.
“I hate him,” she said, her voice tinged with heat.
“Are you sure about that?” Rachel asked playfully.
Tara blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Girl, you’ve been talking about him for, like, an hour. Maybe he’s gotten under your skin more than you think,” Rachel teased.
“That’s disgusting,” Tara snapped.
But then they both laughed hard. Rachel always had a way of pulling her out of her head with her sarcastic attitude. When they finally hung up, Tara felt a little lighter.
But when the quiet settled over the house, a shadow returned to her mind. She didn’t want to admit it but something in Terry’s gaze had stuck with her. It wasn’t admiration. It was something darker. Something that made her skin crawl... yet refused to let go. She walked to the bedroom, the wine warming her blood, her steps slow, slightly unsure.
The sleep wouldn’t come easily. Each time she shut her eyes, strange and fractured images flashed through her mind—like distant memories from a life that wasn’t hers. When she finally slipped into sleep, it was restless. Her body twisted beneath the sheets, caught between waking and dreaming. Then suddenly, she woke, gasping. Her skin was damp with sweat, her heart hammering wildly. Her entire body trembled—a strange cocktail of excitement and something she dared not name. She curled, her nipples hard, her breath ragged, the heat clinging to her. Mike’s side of the bed was empty.
The silence in the house pressed down on her, heavy and absolute. She tried to remember the dream, but it was gone, slipping through her like water. All that remained was a feeling—raw, electric, inescapable.
And somewhere deep inside, she knew: Her dream wasn’t about Mike. It was about this place. This damn town.
*************** ******************* ***************
When Tara woke that morning, the soft click of the front door shutting told her Mike had left for work. A familiar wave of anger surged through her chest. Moving to this miserable town had been one sacrifice—but now, enduring his cold silence on top of it all? It felt like mockery.
Than her thoughts drifted to the dream—the one from the night before that still clung to her like a humid mist. It was disturbing, haunting... and yet, undeniably arousing. She couldn’t shake the sensation, nor the way it left her body humming.
Without fully thinking about it, she reached for an outfit that was bold, almost confrontational. It wasn't exactly the right fit for the job, but who cared. A form of unspoken rebellion. She pulled on a pair of worn, ripped denim shorts—soft from countless washes, snug at the hips, accentuating the lines of her figure with casual ease. She added a plaid button-up shirt, red and black, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows, the bottom tied loosely at her waist. The kind of outfit that sends a message: I see everything and I'm still here.
When she arrived at the office street, she noticed a rust-covered car parked a little farther down. Its patchy paint was unmistakable. She had seen it before—near her house, more than once. A flicker of discomfort crossed her mind, but she brushed it off as coincidence.
Inside, Terry was hovering in the office kitchen, pretending to organize something. He had memorized her routine—the time she usually arrived, her favorite mug, the way she always smoothed her hair before starting her work. He was terribly obsessed with her. When Tara walked in, something hit him like a jolt of electricity. She was not just beautiful and hot—undeniably.
The denim shorts hugged her hips with sinful precision. The tied-up shirt revealed just enough of her flat-stomach to drive him mad. Her blonde hair fell loosely over her shoulders, and her confident stride made the entire office feel like her runway. She didn’t need to speak to be in control. She was the atmosphere.
Terry stood frozen, his eyes glued to her like he was watching a vision. Her presence overwhelmed him—every line of her body, every bounce of her step was imprinted in his mind like a brand. He couldn't stop staring. And the worst part? Tara hadn't even noticed him. Or maybe... she did, and just didn’t care. She walked right past him to her desk.
All day, Terry found excuses to come back into the room—checking shelves, fiddling with equipment, pretending to fix what wasn’t broken. But Tara wasn’t fooled. She knew why he kept showing up. Every time, his eyes devoured her like a starving animal. His stare was gleaming with wild desire. And Tara, though she pretended to ignore it, felt it. She didn’t say a word. But in fact, this silence was fuel.
************* *************** ******************
The stifling atmosphere of the morning had slowly given way to a quieter afternoon. Terry had vanished for a while, and Betty was in Bridget’s office. Tara decided to make herself a cup of coffee in the kitchen. As she waited for her coffee to brew, she didn't realize she wasn't alone there.
Terry was there—watching her. Silent. Motionless.
He stood at the entrance like a shadow, his eyes fixed on her without blinking.
When Tara instinctively turned her head, she froze.
"When did he even get there?" she thought.
"Ah... I didn’t realize you were here," she said, forcing the words out as casually as she could.
"I was just coming for a cup of coffee," Terry said, raising his empty mug as though that simple gesture explained everything. They both knew it was a big lie.
"Of course," Tara replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
As Terry moved into the kitchen, the air thickened with the overpowering stench of him—stale, sour, rancid. It was an assault on her senses.
As she poured her coffee, she could feel him creeping closer. His presence was undeniable, like a dark cloud hanging over her, pressing in on all sides. When Tara turned around, his proximity made her skin prickle with unease. Terry stood far too close—too close.
She couldn’t escape the sickening details of his appearance—his nostrils flaring with unruly hair, the wiry tendrils of hair curling out of his ears, bushy eyebrows in a single thick line. He didn’t look like a man. He looked like something of a little troll—something that should never have been allowed near her.
Meanwhile Terry admired her beautiful face once again, but not in a romantic sense. The only thing he could think about at that moment was to push her down on her knees and fuck every inch of her beautiful face and her sweet mouth. His cock, which was almost always erect, turned to steel in his pants. He was crazy about her.
Tara moved to return to her desk. But as she passed him, their arms brushed. The contact was brief, but it felt like an eternity. Her body recoiled, every nerve on fire with revulsion. She needed to leave. She had to leave. But as she stepped toward the door, something stopped her. The movement was involuntary; she turned her head over her shoulder and looked back as if some unseen force was pulling her gaze back.
Just as she predicted, his eyes were locked on her hips, tracing the curve of her ass. He wasn't even making any attempts to disguise the hunger that burned in his gaze. She could feel it—like his eyes were ripping through her clothes, peeling her apart with his stare. And then, her gaze, for reasons she couldn't understand, dropped downward. She stunned by what she saw. Through the thin, worn fabric of his pants, there was a huge bulge—a grotesque, obscene shape that stretched the fabric to its limits. Her mind went blank.
"No, this can't be what I think it is…" passed through her mind.
She wanted to look away, to deny what her eyes were telling her. But the image had already been burned into her mind. It really was huge. It was dirty. It was inescapable. And it was odder than anything she could have imagined.
When she finally forced herself to look away and turn back to her desk, the world around her seemed to spin. Her thoughts tumbled and tangled, her brain unable to process the strange image and disbelief that filled her mind. She was aware of the effect her beauty and hot looks had on men, and it amused her sometimes. But in her eyes, Terry was not a man, just a dirty pig. But she still couldn't help but ask herself.
“ What the hell was this?"
*************** ************** ******************
Terry could barely contain himself as he descended into the archive room, his steps hurried, almost frantic. The scent of her perfume still lingered in his nostrils—sweet, warm, maddening. His pulse throbbed with the memory of their brief encounter in the kitchen. He needed relief, urgently. Just like he had done countless times everywhere since he first saw her —at home, in the archive room, in car.
Before Tara, his desires had been numbed by endless streams of pornography—cheap, empty visuals that fed an insatiable void. But she had changed that. She wasn’t a fantasy. She was real.
That weekend, when Tara had felt the weight of invisible eyes on her, she hadn’t been wrong. Terry had become drunk on obsession. The glimpses he caught of her at work were no longer enough. The weekends were unbearable stretches of deprivation. He had to know where she was. What she was doing.
He had found her address—probably from a document she had carelessly left on her desk. That morning, just after dawn, he had slithered through the edges of her yard like a ghost and buried himself deep in the bushes.
The way she moved during yoga—the fluidity of her posture, the way her body bent and tightened—was burned into his brain like a curse. The curve of her back, the slow stretch of her limbs, the sheen of sweat on her sun-warmed skin. And later, how she lay outstretched on the lounger, skin glowing, eyes closed in the golden light.
Every replay in his mind dragged him deeper. The need to relax was overwhelming like an animal in heat. Again. And again. Three rounds of frantic, unthinking jerk-off. His shirt clung to him with sweat, his chest heaving. Still, it wasn’t enough. He was crazy about her.
*************** ************** ***************
As Tara drove home that evening, a strange, almost senseless excitement buzzed beneath her skin. She couldn't pinpoint its source, but it lingered—an electric hum that refused to be ignored. The earlier encounter with Terry in the kitchen, his unsettling presence, the way he had watched her—it all replayed in her mind, each detail sharp and vivid.
She tried to shake it off, focusing on the road, but the sensation persisted, gnawing at her. She reached for her phone, dialing Mike's number, desperate for some connection, some semblance of normalcy. But it was not answered.
Anger welled up inside her. This coldness, this distance between them—it was becoming unbearable. She needed him, needed his attention now more than ever, but he wasn’t there. Instead, his typical, hastily written message appeared on her screen: "I'll call you later."
The indifference in his words drove her crazy. She muttered under her breath, her grip tightening on the wheel. "you stupid"
It was as if everything she owned was slipping out of her hands. First the perfect family dynamic falling apart after her father's betrayal, then moving to this damn town and her fiancé's indifference... It was all too much. She felt like she was going to drown.
When she finally arrived home, she poured herself a generous glass of wine, the liquid sloshing as she moved with quick, angry motions. She dialed Rachel’s number, needing to vent, needing to share her frustration. Rachel, as usual, listened and Tara poured out her complaints about Mike—his emotional neglect, his detachment, how it was wearing her thin.
But as she spoke, she found herself talking about Terry. How had it shifted to him? She wasn’t sure. But there she was, recounting the unsettling encounter from earlier in the day, his presence in the kitchen, the way he had watched her.
Rachel cut her off mid-rant, her voice light with her usual sarcasm.
“Tease him,” she said casually.
Tara blinked in confusion, momentarily taken aback by the suggestion. "What nonsense are you talking about?"
"Tease him until consumed him. Drive him wild knowing he’ll never touch you. Besides, I think Mike deserves a little punishment too. Hit two birds with one stone"
The suggestion hit Tara like a jolt, leaving her stunned. But she recovered immediately.
"It’s easy for you to say. You don’t know him. He’s disgusting. There's no way I can do this without throwing up."
Rachel’s voice softened, but there was no mistaking the teasing in her tone. "You know best, girl, but a little fun wouldn’t hurt."
After a long pause, Tara sighed, her voice uncertain. "I don’t know... it’s too much."
They switched to other topics, but Tara couldn’t shake the thoughts swirling in her head. Rachel’s suggestion refused to be ignored, the idea gnawing at her like a forbidden taboo.
She finished her third glass of wine, the room spinning slightly. She tried to clear her mind, but deep down, she knew. Something had shifted inside her. The chaotic situation her family is in, her anger towards her father, moving to this damn town and the emptiness left by Mike, the unexpected tension with Terry, and Rachel’s words all seemed to be slowly drawing her in, pushing her into uncharted territory.
****************** ************** ****************
Later that night, Tara’s phone remained silent, no message or call from Mike. She tossed and turned restlessly beneath the covers, trapped in the suffocating grip of something she couldn’t quite name. She stood in a dim, unfamiliar hallway. The walls around her were peeling, the air thick with humidity, heavy and oppressive. Everything shimmered in soft, muted tones, like she was submerged in water, struggling to breathe. Her body felt exposed, naked, her skin hypersensitive, as if every nerve had been jolted awake.
Then came the sound—footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. The rhythm of them echoed from behind her. Her heart pounded in her chest as she turned, but no one was there. The hallway stretched endlessly ahead, too long, too empty. Just a flicker of movement in the corner of her vision. A shadow. A gaze. Heavy. Unyielding. Devouring.
A warm breath slid against the back of her neck. It wasn’t imagined—this was real. Her body responded without her command. Her nipples hardened instantly, the sensation sharp and electric. Heat bloomed low in her stomach, a wave of arousal that was sudden, unwelcome. She gasped, the breath catching in her throat, her body trembling.
Invisible fingers—rough, possessive—traced down her spine, over her hips, along the curve of her thighs. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t kind. It was primal. Dark. Uninvited, but maddeningly, undeniably arousing. Her thighs instinctively pressed together, her breath shallow and quick. Then, with a deep gasp, she woke. Sweat clung to her skin, her chest heaving, her heart pounding in her throat.
She lay there, her body still burning, her nipples stiff against the damp sheets, the weight of the dream hanging heavily in the air. The house was silent. She wished Mike was in bed. But he wasn’t there. He hadn’t been there—not really—for a long time. Not in the ways she needed. And now, once again, he was absent. His indifference, his neglect—it was suffocating her. Anger swelled in her chest, rising like bile. She lay there, trembling, overwhelmed by the emotional flood coursing through her.
She reached for the remnants of the dream, but it slipped through her mind like smoke, impossible to hold onto. All that remained was the feeling—a deep, raw, unrelenting sensation. And deep down, she knew. That shadow wasn’t Mike’s. It was something else. Something tied to this strange, suffocating town. Something invisible, but undeniably close. It repelled her, and yet, disturbingly, it drew her in.
*************** *************** ***************
When Tara woke up that morning, she noticed that Mike wasn't in bed. She assumed he'd fallen asleep on the living room couch, but he wasn’t there either. Apparently, he hadn't come home at all last night. A wave of anxiety washed over her, and she reached for her phone to call him. But she saw his message from the previous night:
"Don't wait for me, honey, there are urgent matters to handle at the factory."
The anxiety quickly shifted into anger. Moving to this damn town and her fiancé's never-ending work schedule had become a test that was pushing their relationship to the brink. She was losing her patience.
Tara hopped into the shower, hoping to find some relief, but it didn’t work. As the warm water streamed down her skin, she could feel how aroused her body was. Clearly, the disturbing and arousing dreams she'd had still held a grip on her. Once again, her mind wandered to the blurry images. That shadow... the shadow that had consumed her in her dreams. A terrible suspicion about who it belonged to was gnawing at her. She didn’t want to think about it.
Tara’s mood was a swirl of emotions as she got ready for work. She sighed deeply as she looked at her perfect reflection in the mirror. Her choice of outfit was even bolder than yesterday, in a way she couldn't explain to herself.
As she entered the office, she came face-to-face with Terry, nearly colliding with him. She rolled her eyes and walked past him, her expression stern. But Terry's gaze was fixed on her—shocked and hungry. Her fit body looked like a work of art, perfectly sculpted. He couldn't take his eyes off her as she settled into her desk. Tara was acutely aware of his gaze. Even when she wasn’t looking at him, she felt the weight of his eyes on her body. It made her feel strange, almost like the sensation she had experienced in her dream. Her suspicions deepened.
Terry continued to stare at her, lost in a trance.
Finally, Tara broke the silence with a sarcastic tone:
“Hey, are you okay?”
Terry didn’t even hear her. His eyes were fixed to her boobs. She called to him again.
"Hey Terry, is everything okay?"
Terry finally looked up, their eyes meeting. After a long, awkward silence, he turned away without a word and headed toward the archive room. Tara stood there, she had never had to deal with someone like him before. His shamelessness, raw and direct manner utterly surprised her.
********************* **************** *********************
The rest of the day unfolded in the same repetitive rhythm as the ones before it. Tara felt as if she were trapped in an endless cycle of déjà vu, unable to escape the monotonous grip of her reality. Each time Terry appeared on her floor, it was under some flimsy excuse—whether it was to “check something” or “grab a file”—but it was always clear: He was there for her. Each visit, each passing, brought a growing sense of tension. His presence lingered in the air like a heavy, unspoken weight, and there was something odd about it, something that set her on edge.
Terry couldn't control his desire for her. It wasn’t just a passing thought—it was an obsession that gnawed at him relentlessly, an undeniable pull that kept him tethered to her. Every glance, every movement he made, was charged with something electric, something Tara couldn’t ignore. He didn’t even try to hide it. His eyes, burning with hunger, swept over her every time he passed. She was all he could see, all he could think about. Every corner of his mind was consumed by her image, the longing that clawed at him from the inside.
And Tara could feel it. She could feel his eyes on her even when she wasn’t looking, could feel the heat of his gaze brushing against her skin like a physical touch. She wasn’t blind to it. She knew exactly what he wanted, what he desired. But more than that, she understood he couldn’t control it. The young blonde knew she was the object of his obsession.
As the afternoon turned into evening, Terry rose from his desk once again, his movements habitual, almost robotic. He reached for his empty coffee cup, that tired excuse, the same worn-out reason he used again and again to pass by her desk. It had become a ritual, a charade—one that Tara had come to expect.
She tried to focus on the case file in front of her. But no matter how hard she tried, the words on the paper blurred together. Her mind, weighed down by an invisible force, refused to cooperate. She couldn’t shake the nagging feeling at the back of her mind, that itch pulling her attention away from her work. And then, as if summoned by her distracted thoughts, the sound of Terry’s footsteps echoed down the hallway. Her head snapped up, her body frozen, as she recognized the rhythm of those steps. It was the same. Exactly the same. The recognition hit her like a jolt, and her heart skipped a beat. She had heard those footsteps before. In her dreams. A sudden, cold rush of awareness shot through her spine. The suspicions she’d buried deep inside her since the night of the disturbing dreams surged back, crashing into her thoughts all at once. The shadow from her dreams, the one that had haunted her sleep, was here. It was him. She shook her head sharply, trying to push the thought away. She didn’t want to face it. The truth was too horrifying to accept.
Terry’s gaze met hers as he passed, sharp and unwavering. His eyes didn’t leave her; they tracked her every detail. Tara could feel the weight of his gaze. The air between them crackled with something palpable, something she couldn’t escape.
After filling his cup, Terry made his way toward the door but didn’t leave the kitchen. Instead, he stood deliberately at an angle where Betty couldn’t see him. Even though Tara wasn’t looking directly at him, she could feel his gaze on her, sharp and penetrating. From where he stood, he was watching her—devouring her with his hungry eyes.
In an instant, Rachel’s suggestion flashed through her mind: “Tease him. Drive him crazy knowing he will never touch you.” The words twisted in her thoughts like poison, urging her toward something she wasn’t sure she could stop.
Tara let her pen slip from her fingers, watching as it clattered to the floor. The sound seemed deafening, as though the world had frozen for just a moment. “Oops,” she muttered, her voice soft, almost mocking. She bent down to pick it up, her loose T-shirt dipping lower as she reached for the pen. The movement was deliberate, slow. Terry’s eyes followed her, mesmerized by the sight of her breasts, partially exposed by the cleavage of her T-shirt. The world seemed to move in slow motion as Tara felt the heat of his gaze, hot and relentless, tracking her every movement. Her gaze caught his, and she saw it—unfiltered, raw desire burning in his eyes. Lust, unapologetic and consuming. Tara didn’t rush to sit back up. She lingered, clearly aware of his gaze, posing for him in a way that deliberate.
And then, almost against her will, her eyes shifted downward. They followed the misshapen lines of his body until they landed where she knew exactly what was happening. The huge bulge in his pants was unmistakable, its prominence undeniable. It seemed even larger than before, as though it had rampant with the intensity of his desire. The worn fabric of his old pants was about to burst.
A shiver ran up her spine, but it wasn’t one of revulsion. This time, it was different. It was a wild, electric current of something darker—something thrilling. She wasn’t sure what it meant, but she knew it felt undeniable. Just then, Bridget left the room, and Terry reluctantly made his way to the archive room.
************ ************** ***************
As Tara drove home that evening, she couldn't believe what was happening ... and not only that, she couldn't believe how aroused she was. She found herself thinking about how wrong everything felt—how twisted her own thoughts had become. She felt a pang of guilt, a sharp, nagging voice in the back of her mind telling her she was in dangerous territory. But the hardened nipples beneath her t-shirt, the growing ache between her legs, the burning desire—these things told her a different story. In her mind, she attributed this to not having had sex for a long time and her raging hormones. There was no way she could find an repulsive troll like him attractive. How could such a thing be possible? She hated him to death.
When she got home she started to put the plan in her mind into action. She was able to keep her mind off her Terry as she changed into a fabulous black dress. She was determined to get things back on track with Mike. She was supposed to have sex with her fiancé. This was what would make everything okay. At least that's what she thought.
As Tara left the bathroom after applying makeup, she noticed her voicemail beeping. She saw it was her fiancé on the call log, so she opened the voicemail with concern.
"Hey babe, I'm just calling to tell you I have to work the night shift, so I won't be home tonight. I'll see you in the morning. Love you."
Tara threw her phone down and took her earrings out in frustration.
************* ************ ********************
Meanwhile, Terry was sitting at his desk in the archives room, out of breath and covered in sweat. What had happened today had really turned him on so bad. That's why he didn't even wait to go home. His three rounds of crazy jerking off without a break had had made a terrible mess. There were thick ropes of cum on his stained wet shirt and worn pants, and large pools of semen had formed in clumps on the table surface and the floor. The air in the stuffy, cramped room was very heavy. The smell of sweat and cum was undeniably strong.
Terry's desire for her was unbearable and his obsession with her wasn't just fueled by lust. He had been jealous of successful and rich people his entire life, and Tara met much more than these criteria. In his eyes, she was a city-dwelling, smug college snob. For him to achieve anything he could only dream of, she just had to snap her fingers. It would happen instantly. These thoughts fueled his jealousy.
After a short smoke break he started the fourth round. He probably wouldn't stop until morning. He desired everything about her unbearably. He was crazy about her.
*********** ************** ****************
The weight of the day pressed down on her chest as Tara crawled into the cold expanse of the bed that night. But sleep remained a distant shore. Hours bled into one another as she tossed restlessly beneath the sheets, haunted by feverish dreams that blurred the fragile line between reality. Her body ached with exhaustion, yet each fleeting return to consciousness brought only the scattered fragments of those disturbing visions, like shards of a shattered mirror. None of it made sense.
Then, with a sudden, she found herself plunged into the suffocating depths of another dream. She was in the oppressive stillness of the archive room, and she was not alone. That familiar, chilling presence loomed behind her, an invisible weight pressing down on her senses. Her skin prickled with a visceral unease as she felt a phantom warmth against her ear, the ghost of a breath that sent shivers down her spine. A gasp escaped her lips as unseen hands, rough and possessive, clamped down on her breasts, a brutal touch that stole her breath. A suffocating heat radiated from the space between her legs, spreading like a wildfire through her belly. Suddenly the scene changed. She was bent over the table and being fucked relentlessly. She didn't dare turn her head, a primal instinct screaming the identity of him: Terry. She could almost taste the foul stench of his being but still her mind did not accept it.
Then, with a violent start, she jolted awake. Her eyes snapped open, her body slick with sweat, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. For a moment, disorientation held her captive as she frantically scanned her surroundings, the familiar contours of her bedroom slowly registering. The dream had been so real. The lingering effects were undeniable. Her breathing remained shallow and erratic, her body trembling uncontrollably. Her nipples were hard and aching beneath the damp fabric of her nightgown, and an unbearable, insistent throb pulsed between her legs. Driven by a desperate, primal urge, her hand instinctively sought purchase between her thighs. Her panties were soaked, a testament to the vividness of the dream. She was on fire, consumed by a raw, untamed desire that demanded release. A few tentative touches were enough to ignite a devastating orgasm that ripped through her body, leaving her gasping and writhing on the bed for what felt like an eternity.
When the tremors finally subsided and a semblance of clarity returned, she stared blankly at the ceiling, her blue eyes wide with a shock.
"Damn it!" she whispered into the silent room, her voice raw with confusion and a burgeoning self-loathing. "What the hell is going on? What's wrong with me?" She couldn't make sense of what was happening. It was as if some dark urges deep inside her that she didn't even know existed were trying to surface.
************** ************** ******************
In the morning, Tara's movements were almost mechanical as she got ready for work. She seemed to be trying not to think about anything. But her choice of clothing was another act of defiance—not just against Terry, but against herself. She wore a tight, form-fitting pencil skirt that hugged her hips and a blouse that was deliberately unbuttoned one button lower than her usual. This was not a random choice; it was clearly a premeditation.
The atmosphere in the office was so tense as always. She tried to busy herself at her desk, but the words on the files danced on the page, meaningless. Every nerve was hyper-aware, her senses on high alert. Her gaze, almost against her will, kept drifting toward the entrance to the stairs. When would he appear? After what she had done yesterday? The thought both repulsed and thrilled her.
She didn’t have to wait long.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs was like a drumbeat in her ears. She froze, her breath catching in her throat, the familiar rhythm echoing the dream that had consumed her. Her head snapped up, her eyes locking onto Terry that emerged from the basement.
As he shuffled past her desk, his movements slow and deliberate. The stench of him—that familiar, repulsive mix of sweat and stale air—seemed even more potent today. As he passed, Tara felt the weight of his gaze. The one that had stripped her bare and devoured her.
Suddenly Rachel’s words echoed in her mind once again: “Tease him. Drive him wild knowing he’ll never touch you.”
Without thinking, she leaned back in her chair, stretching her arms above her head in a languid, deliberate motion. The movement pulled the fabric of her blouse taut across her breasts, stretching the neckline lower, giving him a glimpse of her cleavage. She held the pose for a beat longer than necessary.
Terry froze in his tracks. The desperate hunger in his gaze was palpable.
That's what Tara had lost in her life. The excitement. The hate and disgust was still there, but it was drowned out by a thrilling surge of control.
Terry's breathing ragged, and stumbled toward Bridget’s office. He wasn't even making an attempt to disguise the prominence of his member. The fabric of his worn-out pants strained against his massive cock.
Tara’s eyes dropped to the bulge. The sight, so surreal and yet so real, sent a shiver of a different kind up her spine—a jolt of raw electricity. Its entire length, thickness, and outline were clearly visible. It was so real, so weird, and so… big.
When Terry finally entered Bridget's room, Tara let out a long, shaky breath. Her heart was riumphant beat. She had provoked him, and he had reacted just as she had expected. This was madness. She was going insane. This was a man she hated with every fiber of her being, a man she found utterly disgusting. The thought both disgusted her and filled her with a thrilling sense of power.
Tense encounters continued between them throughout the rest of the day. Each one was fuel for the next. More deliberate, more provocative.
*************** ******************* ***************
The drive home was a blur. The adrenaline from her confrontation with Terry in the office still surged through her veins, a dizzying mix of triumph and unease. She replayed the scene in her mind—her deliberate pose, his heavy reaction, the undeniable evidence of his arousal straining against the thin fabric of his pants. A wild, reckless thrill coursed through her, so potent it drowned out the usual anxieties about her life.
She walked into the quiet house, she felt alive, vibrant, and dangerous. Mike’s car was not in the driveway. He had not come home last night, and from the looks of it, he wasn't planning on coming home tonight either. But this time, it was different. It didn’t feel like suffocation; it felt like a door being unlocked. It was as if his absence was a permission slip for what she had done. She didn't feel guilty. She thought he deserved it.
Tara went to the bathroom and stared at her reflection. Her eyes were wide and bright, a feverish glint in their blue depths. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips parted slightly. The woman staring back at her was a stranger—she was a woman who found disturbing pleasure in the lustful, hungry eyes of a man she hated and loathed to death.
She showered, but the water did little to wash away the feeling. Her body, still humming with the electric tension from the office, felt like a live wire. Every touch of her own skin, every stroke of the towel, only intensified the lingering sensation of his gaze. She found herself imagining him watching her, his hungry eyes devouring every inch of her body. The thought, once horrifying, was now a source of perverse arousal.
After wrapping herself in a plush bathrobe, she poured a glass of wine. She didn’t bother calling Rachel this time. Now, Tara was in a new, uncharted territory, and she wanted to explore it alone.
She moved through the house, her steps slow and deliberate, the silence amplifying her thoughts. The living room, with its pristine furniture and perfect decor, felt sterile and cold. It was her world, a world of quiet normalcy that now felt utterly boring and suffocating. She found no comfort in it, only resentment.
As the wine warmed her blood, her mind returned to the basement. Not the archive room with its musty files, but the image of Terry’s desk, covered in stains and filth. The grotesque bulge in his pants. The raw, unfiltered look of lust in his eyes. Her body responded instantly, a jolt of heat low in her belly.
She felt a powerful, almost desperate need for a release, a release that Mike had denied her for so long. But the image that came to her mind was not of him, but of Terry—that beastly, unfiltered desire.
Tara walked to the bedroom, the moonlight streaming through the windows casting long, eerie shadows. She lay down on the bed, cold and empty without Mike beside her. But for the first time, she didn't feel lonely. She felt… liberated. She closed her eyes, letting the darkness of her mind take over. She didn't have to control herself. She didn't have to pretend. In the silent house, Tara reached down, her trembling fingers finding the hem of her bathrobe. The shame was there, a dull throb in the back of her mind, but it was nothing against the roaring hunger that consumed her. For a long time, the only sound in the house was her ragged breathing and deep moaning in the silence of the night.
********************* *************** *******************
That morning had a new edge to it. Tara arrived at the office with a deliberate poise. The night had been a blur of fractured sleep and scorching dreams, leaving her both exhausted and strangely wired. As she walked in, her eyes, with a will of their own, immediately sought out the kitchen.
And there he was, just as she knew he would be.
Terry was leaning against the counter, a worn-out, stained rag in his hand, meticulously wiping down a surface that was already spotless. His movements were slow, almost a parody of work. He wasn’t there to clean. He was waiting her. The scent of him—that musty, sour aroma—filled the air, and a familiar jolt, a mixture of revulsion and something else she refused to name, shot through her.
She walked directly to the coffee maker, her movements fluid and unhurried. The silence between them was thick, a charged vacuum waiting to be filled.
“Morning, Terry,” she said, her voice smooth and conversational, a stark contrast to the sharp, sarcastic tone she had used before.
He stiffened, his hand freezing on the counter. His eyes wide and hungry.
“Mornin’,” he grunted, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.
She placed her mug under the machine, the soft whir of the grinder filling the silence. “So,” she began, turning to face him, a small, genuine-looking smile on her lips. “How long have you been working here? Bridget said you’ve been around since the beginning.”
The question seemed to short-circuit him. He blinked, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. It was a normal question, one a colleague would ask. But it was the first time she had ever asked him anything personal. He was used to her condescending look, not her curiosity.
“Oh, uh… a while,” he said, his voice hesitant. “Since the place was… a fixer-upper.”
“A fixer-upper, huh?” Tara’s smile widened, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “So you’re the one who fixed all the leaks and cracks?”
He puffed out his chest a little, there was a slyness in his eyes. “Yeah. I did. You won't find anyone better at fixing leaks than me. If you have such a problem at home, I will handle it for you.”
Tara didn't miss his suggestive insinuation. Even though it made her feel sick, she couldn't deny that she was strangely excited. “Thank you” Tara agreed softly, her gaze holding his. She took a step closer, leaning against the counter beside him, the scent of her perfume a heady, intoxicating cloud in the small kitchen. “What did you do before? Before all the fixing and… this archive works?”
Terry’s eyes darted in hers, a flash of suspicion in them, as if he were trying to figure out her angle. But the question was too simple. “Jus’… random jobs. Sometimes I worked on construction. But most of the time I just wandered around aimlessly. Well, I can't say that I'm a hardworking person.”
His gaze was locked on her, a blazing intensity in his eyes. The hunger was there, raw and unapologetic, but now it was mixed with a sense of wonder, a disbelief that this perfect woman was actually talking to him like this.
He spoke with a raw simplicity, his language lacking the polish she was accustomed to. He didn’t use big words or clever phrases. He just… was. His sentences were short, his tone rough. And Tara found herself strangely affected by it. It was a dangerous, wicked feeling. It was so direct. So unfiltered. So primitive. There was no social mask. It was just Terry, ignorant and rude. He was the opposite of everything she was, and yet, in his raw lack of refinement, she saw a kind of freedom that was utterly alien to her suffocating world.
Suddenly, Betty’s voice echoed from the hallway, signaling Bridget’s arrival. The sound broke the spell. Terry stiffened, his trance shattered. Without looking at him again, Tara strode slowly out of the kitchen. Her heart was hammering.
As Terry watched her go from behind, his hungry gaze fixated on her ass. He was having a hard time not grabbing his huge cock that was throbbing relentlessly in his pants. Large drops of sweat had formed on his forehead and bald head. He gritted his teeth. He was crazy about her.
***************** ************ **************
As the days progress, Tara's behavior began to change dramatically. While Mike was crushed under the weight of work and stress, she had stopped caring about his absence. Her mind was filled with something else. With something dangerous, naughty and dirty. Her superficial conversations with Terry had now become longer and more frequent. In fact, to some extent, a friendship had begun to form between them. But each chat a descent into the bottomless pit of his ignorance and sleazey. She couldn't believe how corrupt and rude he was. In her eyes, he was nothing but a disgusting pig. She hated him to death. And yet, an odd curiosity, a dark excitement, kept her tethered to this game. She was acutely aware of the potent effect she wielded over him. It was as if a lifetime spent basking in the spotlight had forged within her a twisted addiction to attention, and his almost surreal interest in her, however disgusting, offered a strange, unsettling satisfaction.
Every interaction with him morphed into a twisted, thrilling game, a dangerously dance she seemed incapable of ceasing. The sheer intensity of his obsession, the deep lust of his gaze, delivered a perverse thrill fueled by his desperate, raw hunger.
Tara's every move was meticulously calculated, clearly arousing, designed to ignite an intense ache within him. She posed him in heart-stopping poses.She reveled in the knowledge of the torment she inflicted—how his eyes would stalk her, lingering with a hungry, possessive intensity. His gaze wasn't merely a look; it was a physical violation, burning through her clothes, carving invisible paths onto her skin, branding her with the searing mark of his lust.
Perhaps, deep down, a twisted part of her reveled in being the epicenter of his pathetic universe. Maybe it was the intoxicating thrill of knowing she possessed the power to drive him to the brink of madness, the perverse satisfaction of wielding such absolute control—of making him grovel and chase her like a desperate, rabid animal. The more he craved her, the more she instinctively recoiled, yet simultaneously, a dangerous part of her reveled in the chase. The game was intoxicating, perilous, and she was playing it with reckless abandon. With each calculated move, each deliberate manipulation, each instance of toying with his base emotions, she felt an unsettling shift within her own psyche. Tara too was becoming ensnared in the sticky web of his perverse obsession.
*************** ************* *****************
Terry's mind, filled with jealousy and inferiority complexes, tried to interpret Tara's changing attitudes from his own distorted perspective. Before, she would ignore him, her expression icy and condescending. Tara's conversations had become softer, more inviting; she would even ask him personal questions. He couldn't understand why a woman he saw as so superior and arrogant would talk to him like this, why she would show "interest" in him. This situation made the chaos inside Terry even greater.
That provocative move... The way she leaned back in her chair, the way her blouse exposed her cleavage... Those moves played over and over in Terry's mind. Was it a conscious move? Or just a coincidence? Normally, it would have been impossible for a "perfect" woman like Tara to make such a move. But she had. And every neuron in Terry's brain played that image on an endless loop.
Tara's every deliberate move unleashed the monster of desire inside Terry, blinding him even further. He was analyzing her every move, every facial expression, and tone of voice, combining them with his own twisted inferences. This analysis was both pushing him to follow Tara more closely like a hunter and making his own sexual urges even more out of control. His endless, wild jack-off marathons were concrete evidence of his lack of control.
In the most primitive corner of his mind, a perverse hope flashed that Tara was starting to have feelings for him. Although this thought flattered Terry's ego, it was also so ridiculous. Why would such a beautiful woman look at him? This was an impossible option for him.
It was clear Tara was playing a trick on him. She was mocking him. This thought fueled Terry's anger.
He would never fully understand why Tara played this game, or the true motivation behind it. But he wasn't going to make a problem out of it; all he could think of was taking advantage of this twisted situation as much as he could. For him, there was only one outcome: her "interest" in him, and the destructive desire this interest triggered that he could not control. This game that Tara started was taking his obsession to the point of no return.
**************************************
It was the end of the last workday of the week, and as Tara was walking to her car, a disturbing detail caught her attention. Across the street, in the approaching dusk, stood the same dilapidated, rusted car. A sudden lurch in her mind accompanied a chilling tendril of suspicion that snaked its way into her thoughts. She had seen this car too many times now – not just parking near the office, but the periphery of her own street. The frequency had long surpassed the realm of mere coincidence.
Slipping into the seat of her luxury car, she ignited the engine, yet remained rooted to the spot. Her gaze, unwavering, remained fixed on the dilapidated car, her mind a frantic jigsaw puzzle attempting to assemble the pieces before her.
Then, as if summoned by her mounting curiosity, a figure emerged from the office building. The short, shapeless silhouette was unmistakable even in the fading light. Terry. He moved with a singular purpose towards the junk car, sliding into the driver’s seat without a moment’s hesitation. Tara was shocked. A sickening realization, something she had instinctively recoiled from, a truth she had felt but vehemently denied, began to unfurl within her. She was paralyzed, trapped in the suffocating grip of understanding.
Her mind, a runaway engine, roared with the effort of comprehension. The scattered pieces of the puzzle began to click into place with undeniable clarity. The persistent unease, that prickling sensation of unseen eyes that had begun that unsettling weekend – it hadn't dissipated. It had become her shadow, a constant companion during the lonely stretches of the weekend, a creeping presence in her thoughts that refused to be banished. She strained to recall the first encounter with that ominous vehicle. The memory struck her with the force of a physical blow: it had coincided with the very beginning of her internship.
Could it be? Was Terry her stalker?
Her breath hitched in her throat, the pieces locking together with a finality. Suddenly a frigid certainty enveloped her. Terry had been watching her. All along. Following her, meticulously tracking her every move. He had seen her. She was certain now. Every private moment, every action – her in a bikini by the pool, lost in the fluidity of yoga, slicing through the water, basking in the sun – every intimate had been secretly consumed by his perverted gaze. And the horrifying irony: she had been playing her own dangerous game with him, unknowingly baiting and manipulating her stalker for weeks.
This horrifying realization should have repulsed her, but instead a strange thrill crawled up her spine. A violent shudder wracked her body, her emotions a chaotic storm of revulsion, rage, and that unsettling, electric thrill. That disgusting troll was much more insidious than she had thought. This man Tara despised had infiltrated every corner of her life, and beyond his disgust, this strange thing both angered and attracted Tara. She finally started the car and pulled away, her mind a tangled mess of conflicting thoughts.
******* ********* *************
Arriving home to Mike’s predictable absence, she stumbled into the silent house, lost in the tempest of her emotions and the dizzying confusion. She spent the entire evening confronting the disturbing yet strangely exciting truth. Terry wasn't just obsessed with her, he was also her stalker. Worse still, she had been provoking him for weeks. It hit her how dangerous a game she was playing. This should have horrified her, but instead it unexpectedly aroused.
That night, too, her sleep would not be restful. She tossed and turned, writhed and moaned as she slept. Her dreams were filled with someone fucking her again and again. Different positions, places and outfits. But always rough and raw, her body used as a sex toy for a pervert. Each humiliating intercourse ended in the same way: she screamed in orgasmic climax as he pounded her with his monster cock.
Jolting awake in a hot sweat, Tara was awash with confusion at the dreams. She had always been treated like a princess, and these uncontrollable, raw mental images hit her hard. She realized that her nipples were as hard as diamonds and her pussy was very moist. Just a quick touch and her fingers came away slippery with her juices. Tara needed release and she needed it now, sleep be damned.
Reaching down between her thighs she started to touch herself. Rubbing her clit with her thumb while spreading her pussy lips with her outer fingers, she gently began to pulse her middle and ring finger in and out. Slowly at first, she gradually began to find her pace. Speeding up her motions, her hand was a blur and the room was filled with the slick sounds of her fingers penetrating herself. She moaned and grabbed her breast with her other hand roughly. Just like in her dream.
Rubbing and pinching her nipple, she gasped softly as it was tender, making it all the more sensitive. Writhing and moaning she tossed and turned on the mattress as she worked herself closer to a climax. Rolling over and shuddering into the pillow, she came hard. She lay there for a few minutea recovering, panting and exhausted.
Her body coated in sweat, her breasts rising and falling with each shuddering breath, eventually her breathing calmed, and her heart slowed. Realizing that yet again she was a mess, Tara washed herself quickly in the bathroom and crawled back into bed. She just stared at the ceiling. Deep down she was sure that the man who had fucked her so hard in her dream was Terry, but her mind still resisted accepting that fact. What was wrong with her. But what was even stranger was that she didn't feel the slightest bit guilty. She finally drifted off into deep sleep.
*************** ************** *******************
That weekend had been worse than all the other terrible ones she’d had since arriving in this damn town. Tara didn't answer her father's persistent calls and texts. Her anger towards him had never subsided. For her, forgiving him was unthinkable. On top of that, she had a pointless argument with Mike. It was a reflection of months of his neglect. Their relationship was now hanging by a thread, fraying at the edges, ready to snap. She was very furious, every man in her life was a complete disappointment.
Mike was at work again and Tara sat down to a solitary breakfast. The confusion she experienced, the heaviness of the silence around her, pressed in on her chest. As she sipped her coffee, her mind wandered. She picked up her coffee and walked over to the window. Suddenly, her gaze fell on a familiar sight: Terry’s dilapidated car parked farther down the street. The same car she’d seen countless times before, always lurking in the background like an ominous shadow.
For a moment, a wave of anxiety washed over her. The sensation of being watched, of being followed, hit her with a sharpness that left her breathless. It was real. Terry was stalking her, like a hyena circling its prey. Her stomach tightened with a strange mixture of disgust and excitement. She wasn’t sure what she felt more—disgust, or thrill. Her body hummed with the tension, and a dangerous idea bloomed in her mind.
She moved quickly to her bedroom. After a moment’s thought, she chose the most revealing bikini she owned. It were a thongs, just sat between her ass cheeks, exposing every curve of her ass.
Tara felt a jolt of thrill rush through her as she stepped into the backyard. The sun was climbing higher, and she had no doubt Terry was hiding, watching. She could feel it, the weight of his gaze on her skin. She began her usual yoga routine, but each stretch, each movement, became more deliberate, more sensual. As she bent low into a stretch, she made sure to elongate her back, pushing her ass out just enough to accentuate its curve. She could almost feel his eyes on her skin, marking her, tracing the lines of her body with his gaze.
Then, she moved into a yoga pose, bending at the waist, her body forming a perfect arch. She slowly slid the straps of her bikini top off her shoulders, but never fully removing them. It was as if she were undressing in front of him, just enough to drive him wild, but leaving the rest to his imagination. The tops of her breasts were now slightly exposed, the fabric falling just enough to make him crazy. Her skin glistened in the sun, beads of sweat gathering on her neck, tracing the lines of her collarbone.
She wasn’t just stretching anymore; she was putting on a show. Her body became a thing of pure seduction, each movement more calculated than the last.
As Tara shifted into another pose, a slow, deliberate stretch, she arched her back with exquisite grace, pushing her chest forward while her hips tilted just enough to drive him crazy. The bikini thong revealed the perfect curve of her ass. She felt his eyes devour her, could almost feel the heat radiating from his body as he watched.
Finally, she finished her show and dove into the pool, the cool water washing over her body, but the game wasn’t over. She emerged from the pool, droplets clinging to her skin, glistening in the sunlight like liquid diamonds. As she laid down on the lounge chair, she positioned herself in a way that could not be ignored. She arched her back, lifting her hips slightly, letting the thong bikini press into her skin, the fabric just teasing the edge of her curves. Tara felt the power of the game, the intoxication of controlling him, of making him insane for her without ever giving him what he truly wanted. She could feel his desperation, and it thrilled her.
Terry was there, hidden in the bushes, his eyes wide with desperation. He clenched his teeth, his body rigid with need. His breath came in quick, shallow gasps as he watched her, storing every moment in his mind. He wanted everything she had. He wanted her in every way. He was crazy about her.
**************** ***************** ***************
As Tara sank onto the edge of her bed, the last rays of sunlight fading into a pale memory, the storm raging in her mind refused to subside. That morning, she had put on a breathtaking show for Terry, her stalker who was heavily obsessed with her. And she had a disturbing, twisted satisfaction out of every moment of it. But now everything was at war in her mind. Until just six months ago, she was living in a completely different world that she had shaped with her own rules. A goddess in a perfect world. So how did her world become like this? The real question is how did she change so much?
Her father… The gleaming, perfect statue of her life. The flowers he brought on Mother's Day, the proud tie she’d given him on Father's Day… It was all a lie. That flawless picture had been shattered by the ugly brushstrokes of betrayal. The void in Tara's heart was now filled with the poison of an unforgivable father.
On top of that, now she was trapped in this damned town for Mike's ambitions, leaving her career, her social circle, all that glittering life, cast into the flames for his rise. This place was a prison; its people crude, its environment suffocating. She felt like she'd been cast adrift on an island, utterly alone and isolated. Mike, on the other hand, was nothing more than a weak man living in his father's shadow, unable to make his own decisions, crushed under the weight of work stress, with neither love nor passion left to give Tara. Every man in her life had been a disappointment. Both her father and Mike had condemned her to loneliness and anger.
Love, family, loyalty, trust… All those rosy clouds had dispersed, leaving only a bitter mist. The "perfect princess" gown she had worn as her identity now felt like a flimsy, empty rag. Who was she? A painting outlined by her surroundings, or the stranger she saw in the mirror?
And it was precisely at the edge of this abyss that Terry had appeared. In every way, he was her complete antithesis, a being that evoked disgust even in her deepest self. Short, bald, filthy, old, his ignorance and depravity ingrained to his very core… For Tara, who had been showered with admiration and romance, treated like a princess her entire life, confronting such a "person" was unthinkable. Men had always vied to impress her, worshipping her with the most elegant gestures.
But Terry was different. He was a symbol of sleazy. The sharp, repulsive scent of his sweat, his shameless, his ignorance. The unfiltered, raw lust in his eyes that plainly revealed his intention… His presence had cracked the thin glass of Tara's perfect world. At first, she was horrified, but then, a strange sensation seeped through those cracks. It was the tremor of a dark desire she had suppressed her entire life, something she couldn't even admit to herself. Beneath that "blonde goddess" mask, she had always yearned for something raw, primal, savage. Beyond the constraints of that perfectionism, she had sought the forbidden allure of losing control.
In this tumultuous period of her life, Terry had become a key, unlocking and unleashing the dark side Tara had kept hidden deep within. His low status, his ignorant and corrupt character, the unfiltered, pure lust in his gaze, the desperate hunger in his eyes, his extreme obsession with her… And most devastatingly, that colossal bulge she noticed in Terry's pants… it was as if it materialized the "repressed primitive nature" within her. All of it promised Tara something beyond her wildest dreams, something dirty yet thrilling—a freedom that comes at a cost.
********* ********* **********
That night, the silence of the house amplified the storm raging within Tara. Mike's void, the anger she felt towards her father, the collapse of her perfect world… it all converged on a single point: Terry's ugly and lustful image. All those dirty fantasies swirling in her mind, the moments she'd dedicated herself to Terry's repulsive yet so alluring gaze, every deliberately provocative move she'd made… it all now returned as a surge, a burning sensation.
It was impossible to resist. Her body had already shattered her mind's defiance. Her nipples, hard as diamonds, her soaking wet pussy, her entire being yearned for release. She lay on the cool sheets of her bed, eyes fixed on the darkness. Disgust, anger, hate and shame were mere faint whispers against the torrent of primal desire churning inside her.
Her trembling fingers reached for the hem of her nightgown, slowly sliding the fabric upwards. The cool air meeting her skin only fueled the fire within her. Her hand moved hesitantly between her legs, finding her sensitive spot. Her thumb began to circle her clitoris, while her other fingers gently spread her labia. At first, her movements were soft, but as the images flooded her mind, her pace gradually quickened. Terry's hungry, savage eyes, that enormous bulge in his pants, the primal lust on his face… Everything accompanied the rhythm of her fingers.
Her breathing quickened, her moans began to tear through the silence of the room. One hand mercilessly pleasured herself, while the other gripped her breasts, pinching her nipples. Just like in her dreams, those moments, brought to life by a rough, uncontrolled touch, transported her to a place where pleasure mingled with pain, where boundaries dissolved. She writhed on her bed, her head buried in the pillow, her entire body trembling on the sharp edge of pleasure and shame.
Her body tensed, the storm within her reaching a climax. She came. Her screams poured from her mouth as muffled moans. With the intensity of the orgasm, she collapsed onto the bed, panting and utterly exhausted. Her body soaked in sweat, her breasts rising and falling with each shuddering breath, her breathing eventually calmed, and her heart slowed. Lying in the darkness, she knew. She didn't feel the slightest bit guilty. Exhaustion enveloped her, and with a final sigh, she finally drifted into a deep sleep.
************* ************** *******************
That night, the dilapidated, rundown shack on the other side of town became the sanctuary of Terry's utterly unhinged desires. Tara's "show" in the backyard had ignited a fire in his mind, every moment etched into his brain, coursing through his veins like a poisonous blaze. His body, taut and trembling from hours of observation and suppressed lust, hummed with raw intensity.
The foul-smelling air of the shack filled with the guttural moans of the monster within Terry. He tore off his shirt, his sweat-slicked skin so hot it felt like it could ignite the very atmosphere. His eyes rolled, consumed by the fantasy of Tara's every curve, every movement, the thong bikini pressing into her skin. With every gasp, the phantom scent of Tara's perfume filled his nostrils, driving him further into madness.
That fleeting glimpse of Tara's slightly exposed breasts… The curve of her hips… Every bead of sweat glistening on her sun-kissed skin… For Terry, these weren't just images; they were brands seared directly onto his flesh, into his very soul. He imagined his own hands gripping Tara's body, bending her as he pleased. Years of accumulated loneliness, humiliation, and repressed desires had now transformed into a volcano ready to erupt, fueled by Tara's deliberate provocations.
His most primal instincts had taken over. Tara's image was so vivid in his mind that his hands trembled as they went to his pants. His colossal member throbbed with an unbearable ache. He collapsed onto the shack's floor, his body shaking. His eyes were closed, his mind completely fixated on Tara's naked body. He relived every one of Tara's movements, losing himself in monstrous moans beneath that supple form. The silence of the shack filled with Terry's ragged gasps, his groans, and finally, the familiar, explosive cries of release. But he was far from satisfied. His obsession with Tara had gone far beyond this momentary release, reaching a much deeper, irreversible point.
********* *************** **********
The next morning, as soon as Tara entered the office, she went straight to Bridget's room to set her new plan in motion. With a calm, self-assured voice, she spoke of the terrible mess she'd found in the archive room and volunteered to organize it. The mask of innocence on her face was flawless; Bridget was too pleased by such an eager volunteer to refuse. In Tara's mind, however, there was an entirely different, much darker purpose.
As she made her way to the archive room, Tara couldn't believe she was actually doing this. This game had now completely consumed her. She took a deep breath, wrestled with a moment of hesitation, and then opened the door. The dimness inside, mixed with the smell of old paper and stale sweat, hinted at Terry's presence.
Terry's world was rocked to its foundations the moment the blonde goddess stepped through that door. She was in dark, a cotton short that revealed a dazzling stretch of her long, shapely legs. Her loose, white t-shirt, though seemingly ordinary, had a slightly open neckline from which shadows seeped, igniting countless forbidden scenarios in Terry's brain. The ghost of her bra, subtly visible through the light fabric of the t-shirt, became a torment for him. She was wearing sneakers, but even this casualness was a presentation that showcased her elegance.
Terry listened, mesmerized, as Tara explained why she was there. Every word, every breath, echoed in his already deranged mind. And then, when Tara asked for his help... Terry thought he might lose his mind with excitement. This had to be a dream.
As Tara moved towards Terry's messy, filthy desk, she could feel his gaze tracking her every move. She paused for a moment, reaching out to place her hand on an old, dusty folder. She slowly traced her finger along the edge of the folder, this simple action alone enough to make Terry's eyes widen even further. She turned, caught his hungry gaze, and a subtle, almost imperceptible smile touched her lips—a smile that was seared into Terry's brain. "Alright, where do we start?" she asked, her velvet voice a little softer than usual. Terry's eyes gleamed. For him, this was far more than just a task.
Two completely opposite beings—one a goddess and the a little troll —whose paths had no business ever crossing in this universe, were now working together in a cramped, dusty room. The visual contrast between them was shocking. Tara's flawless beauty, elegant posture stood in sharp contrast to Terry's crude and disheveled state. Terry couldn't believe what was happening. There was a time when he would never dare to speak to someone like her, not even in his dreams. But here she was, just an arm's length away, and she fueling Terry's most primal desires.
The cramped archive room became their stage. Tara moved with an unsettling grace, her every action a calculated stroke on Terry's already frayed nerves. When she leaned into a shelf, her shorts would ride up just so, revealing another tantalizing inch of thigh. As she reached for a box on a higher shelf, her loose t-shirt would stretch and pull, offering him fleeting glimpses of her form beneath. Each time, Terry’s breath would hitch, his wide, hungry eyes following her every shift, every bend.
As the hours passed, Tara's provocations grew bolder, yet always within the bounds of plausible deniability. She'd bend to pick up a dropped paper clip, her t-shirt falling open just enough to hint at the curve of her breast. She'd stretch, her arms reaching high, her body arching in a slow, deliberate display of her figure. Each movement was a silent promise, a cruel tease that left Terry aching with unfulfilled desire. His world had shrunk to Tara's every gesture, every breath, every calculated twist of her body.
As Tara knelt to examine a lower drawer, Terry watched mesmerized; her shorts strained taut across her hips, an irresistible curve presented to his devouring gaze. A wave of heat washed over him, his mouth suddenly dry. He could almost feel the warmth radiating from her skin, the subtle scent of her perfume intensifying in the close quarters. His hands clenched, an almost painful urge to reach out, to touch, to confirm the reality of her proximity. Seizing this moment, suddenly Tara’s gaze dropped directly to that colossal bulge in his pants. Once again she was shocked by its immense size. She felt a wild electric current run down her spine. She lifted her head. Her eyes met Terry's. Tara's gaze locked onto Terry’s crude lust with chilling certainty. In that moment of eye contact, the room froze, heavy with unspoken words. The air was filled with a sharp, electric silence, an invisible thread of tension stretched between them, touching the most primal layers of both souls.
The workday was finally over. Tara walked out of the archives room, leaving Terry in a state of madness. He was a tightly coiled spring, ready to snap. He quickly settled into his chair and quickly pulled his trousers down around his ankles, along with his underpants. Every cell in his body was burning with raw desire. He embarked on a wild jerk-off marathon. His mind was filled with hot images of her. He was crazy about her.
If there are parts of the story that seem out of place or disrupt the normal flow, point them out. This extraordinary story must be sufficiently believable and convincing to be more than just a sloppy and simple piece of work.
sslovoe
Well-Known Member
- May 11, 2017
- 1,355
- 5,169
story with more intense and slow seduction give her reality
its dump make good high class wife go down without add fell and emotion of her lost
also give other make reason
its be dump man go to rap or harassment without punishment
and add this as sexual part to excite reader
that what make you story soild not make fall easy
but inside any reader love erotic novel will end reading and fell this too fast unreasonable story and jump to sex to satisfied
that what i like you make build start with long 8 chapter with no sex or move by tery cause he know he go jail
still like she be work in archtacher office or
art designer architect
Engineering office
Contracting office
Real estate office
this will give you open story for make clint or meet couple or men as customer and get bonus
question
why you make femel as boss and assent in office not make other make in story to give more make part in story ?
its dump make good high class wife go down without add fell and emotion of her lost
also give other make reason
its be dump man go to rap or harassment without punishment
and add this as sexual part to excite reader
that what make you story soild not make fall easy
but inside any reader love erotic novel will end reading and fell this too fast unreasonable story and jump to sex to satisfied
that what i like you make build start with long 8 chapter with no sex or move by tery cause he know he go jail
still like she be work in archtacher office or
art designer architect
Engineering office
Contracting office
Real estate office
this will give you open story for make clint or meet couple or men as customer and get bonus
question
why you make femel as boss and assent in office not make other make in story to give more make part in story ?
Highly believable, it's an intense slow burn psychosexual thriller..where circumstances like family and a move to a repressed town with very little social life and crude ppl force a goddess to look at her dark side...the way she has no attention and no friends, these conditions and situation force to acknowledge Terry who is overwhelming her with his raw lusty unfiltered gaze 24*7 and invades her mind as a shadow Stalker,...she is pushed to her dark side as she has nothing else to think while she is full of anger with her life....the way you set up the escalating dream sequences and match her actions with it...they way you set up Brackmoore as a repressed and quiet town and the archive room as a symbol of forbidden desire ..the way Tara from seeing a need to overhaul the room but going back with hate only to return with cleaning desire in the end, this is a masterpiece, my friend! Kudos
sslovoe
Well-Known Member
- May 11, 2017
- 1,355
- 5,169
test of chaaracter terry from story jess
hair face
chang hair to gray to older man
hair body
chang body little add size tummy body
genetal add size dick size and pubic hair
make little reduce size and wide of dick
hair face
chang hair to gray to older man
hair body
chang body little add size tummy body
genetal add size dick size and pubic hair
make little reduce size and wide of dick
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sslovoe
Well-Known Member
- May 11, 2017
- 1,355
- 5,169
I reread it, liked the subtle changes in describing that Mike is trapped too and has no idea that in another 6 months when they would be going back to their city life, his goddess who he loves so much might not and would be living in a shack with a lowlife from Brackmoore....
catgameryt011
Active Member
- Sep 20, 2022
- 547
- 924
What a great rendering! I've always imagined a scene like this. I also have a character based on this, with that personality. How can I put it? He's warm, white, kind, but inside he hides his true nature, driven by his lust for pleasure, wanting to feel young, and the enormous prey and fresh young flesh.
sslovoe
Well-Known Member
- May 11, 2017
- 1,355
- 5,169
i like idea of high class women fell bored unsatisfied by rich life
and be with poor person old hairy dirty
its wild to live life than rich man and young
and also like make her have strong personality with her maid worker husband and she spoil
but inside her want to be used by men and try humiliation
but not in sadistic way
catgameryt011
Active Member
- Sep 20, 2022
- 547
- 924
I also share that idea, but from a more retrospective perspective, it's more like it's like a young couple, whether rich or middle class, being seduced by someone older than them, in this case, someone older who acts kindly and wants to embrace them, until he sees the opportunity and hesitates to take advantage of it, remembering his moments of youth and having the experience, he subdues and controls the young wife with the skills and techniques at his disposal, as if she were a dog.
sslovoe
Well-Known Member
- May 11, 2017
- 1,355
- 5,169
its be need build relation
how create wife from hate to be control and lost by this man
and what talk can make her think about his word
even if he bold talk front her and her husband and its start with smooth talk
then go talk about her skin hair body as complement
that make her fell as women and attractive
maybe her husband not think that old man be hurt there marriage and he old man weak and think about it just talk
maybe he tell his wife how this man pathetic and crazy
when wife think different how this man talk about her like that and still she fell flirt and amuse
to make this character have to put how he become close to couple
is he rent them apartment or husband boss
catgameryt011
Active Member
- Sep 20, 2022
- 547
- 924
That's right, as misunderstandings give way to disagreements over decisions, the young wife seeks reconciliation but unexpectedly encounters her landlord. The husband doesn't suspect anything, but he doesn't know that another predator lives in the house. Being retired, he doesn't hesitate to show his true colors and won't miss the opportunity to devour such fresh, young flesh.
I also really liked this image, the girl is beautiful and sexy, and the man is ordinary and with a belly. Tired of constantly seeing these BBC.
Buddy, I really liked the story, you have style and talent for writing. Thanks for sharing, I'm looking forward to continuing.
I apologize to the author of this thread for mentioning another game, but where can I find and read all the parts of the fan story about Anna and Marvin? I would be grateful for the link to the material.
sslovoe
Well-Known Member
- May 11, 2017
- 1,355
- 5,169
