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I have what some people might call an obsession. I prefer to call it admiration.
My object of affection is Clyde Roberts, 28 years old, freelance writer, single. He lives in the apartment complex right before mine. With his meticulously styled dark hair coupled with his lean and tall frame clad in pressed suits, he is the epitome of male beauty for me.
For over six months, I've been carefully observing him, investigating him, dreaming about him. I dream about capturing him.
Yes, capturing. I know he's way out of my league so my hope of being with him is using force. I can't imagine a world where Clyde would be interested in some punk like me.
So, I plan.
I plan to approach him from behind when he's struggling with keys at the front door. I'd wrap an arm around his shoulders, pulling him to my chest as I press a chloroform soaked rag over his face. I'd feel his arms trying to fend my arm off in vain, as his long lashes flutter shut and his muffled moans fade gradually.
I'd wait until he's fully unconscious and then carry him to my house on my shoulder. No witnesses in my dream.
I'd plan binding those long limbs to his body in yards of rope so that he finds himself unable to move when he wakes up. I'd plan to cover his mouth with my shirt so he can't call for help. I'd plan to make him mine.
But I don't plan today. Today, I watch him.
Clyde never closes his curtains, his simple yet elegant room is all open for me to see. After coming back from work, he usually showers but not this time. He instead strips in the middle of his room, as if to give me a show.
My breath hitches and my eyes zero in on the tan skin and dark hair that's bared. Clyde's fingers move tortuously slow, unbuttoning his shirt one by one and slipping out of his dress shoes in what feels like an eon.
Before long, he stands naked aside from a pair of black, low-cut boxer briefs and his watch. He moves his hand along with defined abs and lifts his gaze while fondling his pec.
Our eyes met.
I froze at where I stand but Clyde seems calm. He reaches to the nightstand, taking a roll of... tape? Just when I think he can't surprise me more, he picks up one of the socks he left on the floor and stuffs it between his lips. Then he pulls out the tape, holding it over his mouth and (again, slowly) presses it over his mouth. The inscription over it is unmistakable.
Clyde quietly wraps the tape around his head a few times, sealing his sock inside. I feel myself growing painfully hard when he rips off the tape and smooths it over. Even from a distance, I can tell the gag is solid and will do a fine job at keeping him quiet.
Perhaps it shouldn't be a big shock when he does a beckoning sign with his finger, evidently inviting me.
I rush towards his house as fast as humanly possible. When I arrive at his flat, Clyde is waiting for me, still gagged and semi-naked. The audacity! Anyone could have come and snatched him before I get there.
Panting from running, I practically growl and push him inside. Throwing Clyde down to his own bed, I climb atop him but not before pinning his wrists above his head with one hand.
It takes me a few minutes to clear my head. The man of my dreams is lying under me, offering himself on a silver plate. This close, I can smell the cologne and sweat on him. He's even more gorgeous up close, all stubble and hard muscle and soft skin and disheveled hair. His eyes are attentive.
I gulp, feeling his hardness under me.
"What were you thinking, presenting yourself like that? You're outright begging for someone to come and lay hold of you." I grabbed the roll of tape he discarded before. "I'll make sure you can't dare to do something like that."
When I start taping his wrists mercilessly, Clyde also begins to thrash and let out muffled cries but I'm sure I didn't imagine the glint in his eyes and the crease on his gag that shadows a smile.
I have no idea what Clyde's expectations from me are but I'll give it my best shot at surpassing them.
Time to prove what my admiration is worth.
THE END