Careful What you Wish For

This story is part two of my story "Sleeping Beauty's Dream Came True." It picks up right after part one finishes and I recommend reading the first one before you continue to this story.

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I've never met someone who's gotten under my skin like you have. I've been reading erotica and romance books for years. I've roleplayed scenarios with god knows how many strangers on Reddit, but no one's ever seen me quite like you have. I go to sleep hoping I'll dream about you following me, watching me, and finally making me yours.

The following day I wake up feeling excited. It takes me a second to realize why. After you finished your story last night I wasn't sure how to reply. What are you supposed to say after a stranger tells you a story you've always wanted to hear, a story that seems like he plucked it right out of your mind?

I wonder if you noticed last night when the app showed you I was typing, and then stopped, started again, and stopped. Maybe you liked that I seemed flustered. In the end, I decided to just tell you that it was perfect, that it was all I'd ever dreamed of. I wanted to tell you how hard I came, but you didn't ask, and the post-masturbation shame made me too shy to mention it.

You were flattered that I gushed about your story, and we ended up talking a little longer until we both had to go to bed.

When I pick up my phone from the nightstand I go straight to Telegram to see if you've messaged me, and you have. You've also changed your name from your Reddit username, to "Miguel". I wonder if that is your real name and if I should change mine too, but caution makes me leave it as just my initials.

Miguel: "So, did you sleep well, or did you have any visitors during the night?".

S.J: "I did sleep well, but have to say I'm a little disappointed that you didn't turn up."

Miguel: "You never gave me your address, so how was I supposed to know which window to climb through?"

We banter back and forth. Talking to you is easy, I feel like we've been friends for a long time, and I have to keep reminding myself you're still a stranger. A stranger that I coincidentally met through a forum for people who fantasize about rape. If that isn't a red flag then I don't know what is.

I go about my day, make my coffee, sit down at my desk, check my emails, and do all those things I do at work every day. Probably not my most productive day, since I keep checking my phone to talk to you. You're at work too, but you don't have the luxury of working from home like I do, so you haven't sent me any more audios. I kind of miss your voice. I've contemplated listening to your messages from last night, to hear you tell the story again, but that would be too much of a distraction, so I don't.

We talk every day for the next couple of weeks. We share our worries, snippets of our lives, and complaints about work. Everyday stuff. I'm surprised to find out you're a paramedic. You do have a sort of calmness about you, and you're caring, so maybe it shouldn't surprise me your job is helping people.

We talk about movies a lot. I don't think I've ever talked to someone who knows as much about horror movies as I do. We argue about whether Rosemary's Baby is a good movie or not. And we're both surprised to find that some of the same obscure 80s horror movies are among our favorites.

I send you lots of photos, some of my body, to tease you, some of the beach by my house, and some showing you what my garden actually looks like. I tease you by asking which tree you'd hide under while looking through my bedroom window. Like in your story, there isn't a fence surrounding my garden.

Miguel: "Do you know we've talked for a full month now, and I still don't know what you look like?"

Miguel: "Or, I do know what you look like from the neck down. But I'd like to see your face."

I've never shown anyone online my face before. That was always a hard limit for me, even though I've fantasized about it. I've thought about sending someone a copy of my ID, my address, and even my schedule, but I've never done either of those things. I've also never talked to someone like you. I don't know why, but I trust you. Maybe the two glasses of wine I've had help too. I send you a selfie. Not a live one, with my hair in a messy bun, wearing my "working from home"-pajamas, but one I like, that I took the other day after re-dying my hair.

I can tell you're recording a video, and I wonder what you'll look like. When I listened to your voice messages I wasn't able to envision your face.

I see you've sent me one of those videos that delete themselves after being viewed. I make sure I've got the sound turned up to hear you before I press play.

Seeing your face is strange because even though I never had a clear idea of what you looked like, you look exactly like you should. Somehow your face just makes sense. What I notice first is your eyes, they strike me as kind. You're handsome, in a rugged way, but I hardly have time to take in your appearance, because after you say hello and tell me it's nice to see my face, you say;

"You look like just the kind of girl I'd like to follow home."

There's something about the way you say it that makes me feel like you mean it, and that both excites me and scares me. I wonder if you've ever actually done something like that, met someone like me before, who also dreamed about being followed. Or if it's just a fantasy for you too. A tiny part of me wonders if there is even a small chance that you could be capable of doing something like that for real - if you're the kind of man who hates women.

S.J: "I suppose I should be flattered? Or do you say that to all the girls?"

Miguel: "You should be, and no. I don't."

I'm not sure I want to know the answer, but I ask you, "Have you ever followed anyone home?"

I see you typing for a long time.

Miguel: "Honestly, no. I've talked to other women online, who have the same fantasy as you, but nothing's ever come of it. I don't think any of them ever truly had any intentions of meeting me and I'm not sure I'd have gone through with it if they did."

S.J: "Why not?"

Miguel: "Well... None of them were like you."

I blush, but I feel stupid for blushing. I'm making it way too easy for you to charm me. Am I so starved for attention that simple flattery makes me melt? I'm tempted to fish for compliments, to ask you what makes me so special, but I don't.

Instead, I ask you; "So, you would follow me home? If you knew where to find me?"

Miguel: "Yes."

Miguel: "If you wanted me to..."

Miguel: "Do you want me to?"

I lean back in my chair and take a minute to think. I remember my frustration after that night at the BDSM club. All those nights I've touched myself to the thought of someone like you. The dates I've been on the last couple of months, the few hookups I've had. None of them could satisfy me. Still. Taking the step from secretly longing for someone to find me, to giving someone the means to find me... I'm not sure.

But, didn't I promise myself that if someone said the right things, and was even remotely close to me, I'd let them find me? I have no idea where you live, but does it really matter? If you truly want to find me, you will. Maybe it's the wine, or maybe it's just time.

S.J: "I do want you to."

Miguel: "Then tell me where you live."

Before I lose the courage to go through with it I send you one of those disappearing photos, of an unopened envelope on my desk. It has my full name and address.

The app tells me you've viewed it, but you don't reply. I wait for a few minutes, my heart racing, but there's no word from you. The app tells me you're not typing, or recording anything either. I wait another 30 minutes before I write;

S.J: "Are you still there...?"

No reply and the app shows me you're not online anymore. My brain runs through several scenarios, like that your phone chose the worst moment ever to run out of battery, or you've been in an accident, or had an urgent phone call from work.

I'm not sure what to think, but as the hours pass the fact that I might have made a mistake in trusting you starts sinking in and now it's too late to take it back. Now there's a stranger out there who knows where I live and who thinks I want him to crawl through my bedroom window and rape me.

I thought if I ever did go through with it, if I ever gave someone my address, I'd be excited. But what I feel is fear.

I walk through my house, checking every window, and making sure my door is locked. I even think about packing a bag and leaving to stay with a friend, but that seems too rash. Chances are you probably live in a different country, maybe even a different continent.

When I wake up the next morning I eagerly grab my phone to see if you've replied, but when I open the app I find that our chat isn't there anymore. I refreshed the app to make sure, but it's all gone, you're not even in my contacts anymore.

I switch to Reddit and go through all my messages to see if I can find the one you sent me back when I posted my story, but that's also gone. I don't remember your username, it was probably a throwaway, and with everything else deleted your account is probably gone too.

I sit in bed for a while, wondering what it means. In the end, I narrowed it down to two options. One; you were weirded out by me sending you my address and you've ghosted me. Or two; at some point, you're going to find me.

--

I'm not sure how I do it, but somehow I manage to go about my daily life. I do my work, I see my friends, I visit my parents on the weekends, but I don't tell anyone about you, or what I've done.

I've never been one to worry about locking my doors or closing my windows. My neighborhood is safe, my town is probably one of the safest in the country. Mostly pensioners live here, people who were born on the island and have stayed because of the quiet, slow life we lead out here. But now, knowing you might be out there, I can't help checking my doors before I head to bed every night.

I start looking over my shoulder when I do my shopping in town, searching the faces of every man I see to check if one of them might be you. But I can't recall enough details to be sure. Any dark-eyed man might be you, and I wouldn't know. When I drive to my house, my eyes are more often drawn to the mirror, trying to notice if any of the cars seem to be trailing me. I get myself so worked up over the next couple of weeks that I end up completely embarrassing myself one day at the local market when an older woman gently taps my shoulder from behind and I almost jump out of my skin.

My anxiety makes it hard to sleep some nights. I lay in my bed looking out the window, watching for any movement, but I never see anything. When I do sleep, I keep dreaming of you. I wake up drenched in sweat and soaking wet. Those mornings I touch myself, quickly, before the dream fades and that knot in my stomach comes back.

A month goes by without anything happening and I start feeling ridiculous for being scared. Eventually, so much time has passed I'm certain that you did ghost me. I feel relief, but somewhere deep inside I'm also disappointed. I can't help but occasionally check telegram, just in case you've messaged me, but you never do. I haven't been on Reddit since I made that post you replied to. I'm scared I'll make the same mistake again, so whenever those urges reappear I push them away.

Summer comes to my island and my little town comes to life with tourists. My eyes sometimes linger on men I pass by, still playing with the thought that one of them could be you. But now I'm not frightened anymore.

The weekend before my birthday in July my friends surprise me with a party. I come home from town to see they've decorated my garden with colorful lanterns hanging from every branch of my cherry tree. A table is set up with cakes, and all my favorite dishes. It's a wonderful party and surrounded by people I love, I feel safe and happy. The backdoor to my garden is left open and people run in to use the kitchen or the bathroom all night. We stay out drinking and talking, when it gets dark we light candles all over the table to see each other's faces better.

I get pretty drunk, so drunk I almost tell my closest friend about you, about what has been bothering me the last months. But I'm too embarrassed to mention it since it would mean I'd have to explain what made me do something as crazy as giving my address to a stranger in the first place. I don't think there's enough wine left on the table to make me drunk enough to admit what kind of things I fantasize about when I'm alone.

We stay out until almost 3 in the morning. By that time most of my friends had left, but the few who stayed helped me tidy up a bit before they too eventually left. I'm tired, dulled from all the wine, but I don't want to go to bed yet. I had so much fun tonight, I just want to enjoy it a little longer. I light some of the candles that were brought in from the garden and spread them all over the table by my couch before I lie down. I finish the wine left in my glass and set it down before I lean my head back and close my eyes.

Except for those times I've woken from a dream about you, I've barely touched myself in months. I wish I could listen to your story again. I should have saved those audio files you sent me. I think about writing a new story, one where I don't stop writing when the intruder enters my room.

Mine wouldn't be too different from yours. Except in mine, I would wake up. Once you had explored my body, touched me, tasted me, made me soaking wet I'd wake up just as you started fucking me. You would see the surprise on my face, the fear. How I would first be too shocked to react, before I tried pushing you away, squirming beneath you. Would I beg and plead? Would I fight? Or would I be relieved that you finally found me?

Thinking about you already has me absentmindedly rubbing my clit. I'm so sleepy, but I'm not sure I could fall asleep without coming first. I think about the toys on my nightstand and decide the best thing would be to go to bed and let the air pulses from my favorite one help me come faster.

I get up and blow out the candles, with the room dark I now notice the lanterns in my garden are still lit. I look around to ensure we blew out all the candles outside when my heart suddenly skips a beat.

There's someone underneath my cherry tree.

At first, I think maybe one of my friends came back. Perhaps someone forgot their bag? I'm instantly flushed with embarrassment, wondering if whoever it is might have seen me touching myself on the couch, the candlelight likely bright enough to see through my windows.

I wrap my arms around myself and walk towards the kitchen. I'm about to unlock the French doors leading to my garden to see who it is when I halt. Whoever it is hasn't moved from their spot under the tree. If it's one of my friends, why are they just standing there? The lanterns cast a dull light on the man. - I'm sure now it's a man, someone tall, big. I can't make out his face, but I can tell he's watching me.

I turn away from the door, my eyes searching the room for my phone. I should call someone, shouldn't I? Or, at least use the flashlight to see who's out there? I spot the phone on the kitchen counter and quickly grab it. I turn the screen on but pause. Who would I call? The police? What would I say? That there's a guy in my garden and he might be one of my friends but I'm too afraid to check? Or do I tell them I'm scared because the guy in the garden might be the rapist I spoke to online and gave my address to? I consider calling my best friend, she was one of the last ones to leave, and maybe she could come back and stay with me.

But when I look up from my phone and out toward the tree, the man is gone. My eyes search the entire garden, but no one's there. Did I imagine it? Did the wine and the lanterns trick me into seeing something that wasn't there? I'm not sure, I feel like I did see someone, but I could be wrong. I still make sure I've locked the doors, just in case, before I head to bed.

I lay there thinking about you. If there was someone in my garden, was it you? And if it was you, why now? Why did you wait months to come find me? How far did you travel to get here? What are you planning?

The thoughts excite me. If you are out there, you've had a long time to plan this. Have you dreamt of me, like I've dreamed of you? Three months is a long time to fantasize about someone, will you be as desperate to touch me as your character in the story?

I grab my toy from the nightstand, a rose-colored Womanizer. I've had it for almost a year, but it still amazes me every time I use it. I push my underwear down and clumsily kick it off. Tonight I skip straight past the four lowest settings. I've already teased myself enough, and now I just want to cum. I push my legs closed, my thighs keeping the toy in place as I grind my hips gently. I turn the intensity up even more and feel my legs start to shake. I'm breathing fast, moaning softly.

I think about your hands on my body, about waking up to you inside me. I don't look toward the window, but part of me hopes you're out there watching me. I press the button and turn the toy to max. I use my hand to hold on to it, spreading my legs wide, wanting you to see everything if you are out there.

I cum in waves, letting the toy torture me just a bit by not turning it off as soon as the orgasm has washed over me. Instead, I turn it to the lowest setting and enjoy the sensation for a while. I consider giving myself another orgasm, but I'm so sleepy and don't want to risk completely soaking my sheets, which is usually what happens if I don't stop. I turn off the toy, place it on my nightstand, and turn the light off. I fall asleep almost instantly when I close my eyes.

The next day I wake up with the worst hangover I've had in years. My head is pounding and the light from my window is too bright. I stumble out of bed and barely make it to the bathroom before I throw up. What an awful way to start my birthday. When I think I'm done throwing up I grab a glass from the sink, fill it with ice-cold water, and chug it down. I spill some and wince when the water hits my chest. I look down and notice I'm still wearing the sundress from last night.

How drunk was I? I remember the party and cleaning up and going inside, but the rest is somewhat of a blur. I unbutton my dress and let it fall to the floor. I notice I'm not wearing underwear, and I instantly remember my candlelit fondling on the couch, and the embarrassment of thinking someone was out there, watching me.

I wrap my dressing gown around me before heading downstairs. My kitchen is a mess, with leftover food, plates, and glasses everywhere. At least there's food, I need food. I consider everything on the counter before I decide on a large piece of cake. It's my birthday after all, why shouldn't I have cake for breakfast?

Walking over to the French doors I open them to let some air in. I look into the garden at the spot under my cherry tree. Seeing it now in the daylight I feel pretty certain I must have imagined the man last night.

I check my phone and reply to all the "Happy Birthday"-wishes. I quickly return the phone calls from my parents and my grandmother. It's nice to hear their voices, but my hangover keeps me from talking too long.

I decide there's only one way to survive this day, and that is to eat as much food as possible, and probably drink whatever wine's left. I make myself a cup of coffee first though, and drink it while sitting outside on the steps down to my garden.