Fixated

by Lola De Jour

  Fixated

  By Lola de Jour

  Text copyright © 2013 Lola de Jour

  All Rights Reserved

  They say you can never have too much love.

  But down that road of love lies a terrible sickness: obsession.

  This is the story of Drake and Scarlett and their twisted obsession with each other.

  Scarlett left because she believed she wasn’t good enough for Drake and his wealthy family.

  Drake was crushed after her departure, and has diligently searched for her for three years, praying for her to return to him.

  She does return all right. On his wedding day.

  DRAKE

  There’s only one thing you need to know about me: I’m an addict and Scarlett Cavil is my drug.

  I’m not sure when the addiction started or how it came to life. Perhaps it was the friendship, or those nights when she cradled my head between her breasts and comforted me as cancer tore through my body. Or when she critiqued and listened patiently to every design idea I had.

  Perchance a different vibe started the addiction. Such as the first time I kissed her and felt butterflies, fucking butterflies! Or the first time I lifted her ass into my mouth and smelled her sweet pussy before I tasted her with my tongue and spilled all over my pants. It could also be the time when I buried my ten-inch cock so far up her belly I knew I’d put a child in there. It sounds crazy but I felt it, the particular moment my semen found her egg. The universe moved inside me. I forgot where I ended and she began because our souls joined into one that night.

  Like most addicts, I can’t tell you when exactly the addiction started.

  What I can tell you is that Scarlet Cavil is the most meaningful and powerful experience in this world to me. She was, is, and will always be my god. I worship her.

  When she left me, I ran mad. I searched every corner of this earth to find her. But Scarlett has always been a cunning woman, and unfortunately so, the only one who could read my mind.

  I suppose that was why I felt so hopeless. I knew if Scarlett wanted to hide from me, she was perhaps the only person in the world who could pull it off.

  Her family was rich; not that money would be a problem. Scarlett was fucking gorgeous with huge tits and a juicy round ass that would make even a pastor do a double take.

  Men would gladly do anything for Scarlett, included helping her escape from me.

  Also, she knew where I would go looking for her. All she had to do was avoid ever showing up there.

  So I waited. For three years, I waited for her to come back. To return my fucking heart back to my chest. I didn’t believe in God but I prayed to him to bring Scarlett back.

  She never showed.

  For three years, the woman who was my best friend for most of my adult life didn’t send me a word, not even a note to let me know she was alive! How dare she? What had I done to deserve that? I hated her. I wanted her to die, but only if I could die with her. Then we can finally be together.

  She became my obsession. My angel. My demon.

  One part of my heart ached for her every passing minute. The other part despised her; wished her nothing but unhappiness and suffering.

  I lashed out, desperately seeking for anything to stop the endless pain of Scarlett.

  Nicole happened.

  Her sister.

  I knew it was an absolute mistake from the beginning. I tried to stop it, but I was a weak, disgusting man. A vile one too. Because I knew young, gullible Nicole had always been infatuated with me, and I took advantage of it.

  The only thing I could credit myself for was that I was always honest with Nicole. I made sure to convey a necessary fact to her: I can’t love another woman apart from her sister. She said if I gave her a chance, she could make me love her. Ah, sweet Nicole. I always respected her persistence, but what I found the most alluring about her were her hands, the slender slightly crooked fingers in them that reminded me of Scarlett’s.

  Scarlett again. I was cursed the moment I laid eyes on her. I was certain of this.

  Nicole knew this too, but she still wanted to marry me. Her mother insisted, begged even. Anything to overshadow the disgrace she believed Scarlett brought on the family was gospel to her. Shallow woman. Sure, Scarlett disgraced them. But me? Scarlett shot me in the fucking heart. She ripped my balls off.

  And that was when it occurred to me. I should marry Nicole. I should marry Nicole for Scarlett. Of course, the sensible angel on my right shoulder warned and rallied against it from the beginning. But the hurt and bitter devil on my left shoulder won; his reasoning made sense. Scarlett knew how important she was to me, how much my mental daily functioning depended on her, and yet she just left me. No explanation, hints, or dear fucking john letter. Without a doubt, she knew the effect her abrupt disappearance would have on me. If she ever loved me, or even cared for me as a friend, would she put me in such a terrible situation? No. It was clear to our family and friends that there was a certain vindictive string to her departure, and it was aimed at me.

  Then, it was only right that I play the offense and prepare myself. Because for all I knew, Scarlett was now married with kids, a minivan, and would appear soon. Only to laugh at me and flaunt her kids and her fucking husband in my face.

  So yes, I would marry Nicole. I would fuck her, and every time I do, I would think of Scarlett. I would imagine what it felt like to have my dick swimming inside her sweet dripping pussy. I would come hard. Then I would tell Scarlett to fuck off and die for doing this to me.

  After all, there wasn’t a night I didn’t go to bed wondering who Scarlett was giving my pussy too. Yes, what was between her legs was mine. My pussy. I owned it. I was the only man with the right to suck her pussy. To stick as many fingers as I wanted into her tight hole. To fuck and touch ever corner of her pussy with my tongue and dick for as long as I wanted.

  If Scarlett was giving my pussy to another man, I hoped that if there was a God up there, he punished her.

  Because I was being punished. Every. Fucking. Day. The sexual hold Scarlett had over me was soul crushing. It paralyzed my senses, stripping all control out of me. Scarlet’s pussy was my cocaine. I needed it to function properly. I shivered just from remembering the euphoric rush that went through me the first time my dick felt the insides of her wall, the heat and friction between our moist, strained muscles. She’d moaned and squeezed, and I’d felt as if I was dying, a sweet delicious death.

  The ecstatic high I got from being inside her pussy was unlike anything else in the world. It went straight to the top of my brain, sending waves of rapturous pleasure through my body as it made its way to my feet. It was spiritual. It always brought me to my equilibrium. When I was having problems with the businesses I was starting up at the time, all I had to do was find my Scarlett and fuck her, and tada! Absolute mind clarity. Fucking serious. Whenever I felt ill, all I had to do was bury my dick in Scarlett, and I would be fine.

  I was fully dependent on her, and that increased the disastrous impact of her sudden departure. I went from having my fix of cocaine three to six times a day, sometimes even a dozen times, to having nothing. Yes we fucked that much. Scarlett withdrawal shattered me. There was a reason the medical profession had a cocaine withdrawal treatment. Sudden cessation of any altered chemical to the brain could lead to serious irreparable body damage, even death.

  Scarlett, you hear that? You want to kill me, don’t you? Bitch.

  I lost my mind. My heart burned for her. My cock yearned for her, my balls red and heavy, all wanting to return to their beloved home between her legs.

  Why did she leave me? Why?

  I woke up from nightmares screaming her name, shedding tears as I masturbated furiously. I slept with her dirty underwear on my pillow, a lock of her
hair around the chain on my neck, and her name tattooed on the right side of my chest. She haunted me. Her memories. The most mundane memories were the ones that hurt the most: Her sipping beer and burping while lying on the beach in a bikini. Her jumping in jubilation when her favorite soccer team won. The confusion on her face those first few moments after her eyelids open from slumber.

  So uncouth, yet so fucking sexy to me. Everything about her was mind blowing sexy to me. All it took was for an image of her tits to flash in my head and I would start masturbating. It was never enough. Scarlett in a bikini … ah, there you go. I was masturbating again. A memory of Scarlett licking ice cream would remind me of the way she licked pre cum off the shaft of my cock, and I was jagging off. Memories of me fucking her mouth so brutally and ejaculating so forcefully that my semen spilled from the corners of her mouth and dripped down to her breast always had me reaching for my cock.

  The worst part was that these memories were no respecters of person. They could occur when I was at a Billion-dollar merger, at a friend’s daughter’s naming ceremony, at a church, or even at a fucking funeral. The urge they spurred in me was so strong that it felt as if I would die if I didn’t give in. Maybe that was my mind’s sick way of connecting to Scarlett and dealing with her absence. I missed her so much that the pain became physical. However, during the times I masturbated, I was always able to feel the bond I shared with her. I was able to be with Scarlett again. Her hands were on me, her sweet wet mouth on mine, and her soft warm body on top of my own. And of course, my cock was buried deep inside her sweet warm pussy.

  It didn’t take long, perhaps a year, for me to realize how detrimental those masturbation sessions were.

  For in doing them, I was feeding my connection to Scarlett. A connection that desperately needed to be broken.

  It was obvious that she had moved on and didn’t want me to find her. I needed to move on too. But I couldn’t. Despite my pride, I knew I could only move on if I found another Scarlett. The plan was simple then, since the real Scarlett didn’t want me, all I had to do was find a substitution.

  If I couldn’t have a brownie, then I would have a fucking chocolate cookie.

  So the search began. This wasn’t The Voice, America. This was The Pussy. I, Drake Edgar, was here to search for pussy. Any pussy that could make me feel as great as Scarlett’s did.

  And I searched, well fucked. The more women I fucked, the more I realized that I would never find my Scarlett.

  And let me tell you, it scared the fuck out of me. To reach the point where I admitted to myself that there was only one person in the world who could make me happy. One person who could make this life worth living. Scarlett.

  I imagined there were people out there who found solace in the knowledge that there was only one person out there for them. But most of those people were paired up with good, kind, considerate human beings. However, for those of us who had evil-hearted partners that had no trouble leaving us or cutting off ties, it was fucking scary.

  The fear that time would not heal my broken heart, and Scarlett would always have a hold on me, drove me to the edge. I overindulged. I fucked every woman that reminded me of Scarlett, some nights there were even up to five women at once.

  The emptiness remained.

  Reality was as clear as a bitch. I would never find another Scarlett.

  Soon my cock stopped working. No kidding, the bastard simply wouldn’t get up to play no matter what girls did to it. I never knew the desperate lengths girls would go to get your cock hard until that period of my life. But the big guy down there wasn’t listening. My cock was appalled. It needed the fucking brownie or nothing.

  It took a while for me to stop fighting and accept my fate: I would never be over Scarlett. The bitch would always have my heart.

  I was angry. I cursed her, wished her evil. She had trapped me and she knew it. Here I was, a man, and she had reduced me to nothing but a shaky, needy little boy.

  With time, the fear changed into awe. Scarlett was the only thing in the world that could control me mentally, emotionally, spiritually. Scarlett was my god because she alone had the power to reach into my soul. But like most believers that start hating their god when things aren’t going their way, I began to hate her too.

  It was the helplessness I felt knowing that the one person who held the key to my happiness and purpose in this world was completely out of my control. She was on her own. She could abandon me, step all over me, spit on me, hit me, and even make me her slave. I would have no choice but to endure whatever she made me suffer. Because she was my god. There was no me without her.

  That girl had the power to heal me and destroy me. And she chose the latter.

  Why? What had I done? Even if I offended her, didn’t I deserve an explanation? All those years we were together, and not even a single goodbye? She just left. Who would do that?

  A wicked evil bitch. Scarlett.

  I simply would no longer give a shit about her. She was a bitch! A witch! I hated her with every fiber of my being. I loved her. I ached for her. I cried real tears from my cock aching so badly for her. I wanted to fuck her with all my strength. I wanted to fuck her until she lost consciousness. I wanted to bury myself so deep inside her that I would no longer know where I ended and Scarlett began. I needed her to breathe, to live.

  Come back to me, Scarlett. Come back, please!

  She did comeback.

  On my wedding day.

  SCARLETT

  “You can do this Scar, trust me,” my sister Krystal says, brimming with satisfaction.

  I fight the urge to shove my bouquet into her face. She’s the reason I’m standing here, about to make the biggest mistake of my life.

  When I left home three years ago, I vowed not to return unless someone died or was gravely Ill. I never told anyone about my vow, which is why I’m so puzzled that Krystal used that exception to get me here.

  By here, I mean the haven for the insanely wealthy and famous: Greenwich, Connecticut. We are at one of the chapels at my parent’s humongous waterfront estate. I grew up here, and I’m sure my family has lived here for almost one hundred years. Yes, they are that wealthy, old oil money. Around these parts, they are a huge fucking deal. That means all their actions are in the public eye and very susceptible to scrutiny. This is where I come in. The whore. The black sheep. The adulterer. The thief. The porn star. The baby killer. The home wrecker.

  Now, you understand why I left.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not completely innocent; I’m guilty of one, maybe two of those allegations. But in Greenwich, I’m guilty of everything and more.

  I can’t breathe here. Everywhere I turn, I’m faced with memoirs of my mistakes.

  I tried to endure. After all, the person I loved the most in the world, my grandmother, was here. She wasn’t getting younger and her health was failing. I wanted to spend as much time with her as possible.

  However, when she saw how much I was suffering, she set her foot down. “You’ll end up slitting your wrist in my tub if you remain here. There’s strength in admitting defeat, Scarlett,” my grandma said in her assured melodic voice, holding me in her arms. “I want you to go Illinois. There’s a small city called Evanston. During Christmas, it’s picturesque and serene. It will help you find yourself, darling. Trust me, I just know you will be okay, and you’ll love Evanston.”

  My grandma was right about one part: I did fall in love with Evanston and its beautiful streets with bordering trees. However, I’ve been far from okay for the three years I’ve been gone. Far from it. I thought distance would kill my feelings for him, maybe even help me forget him. How stupid of me to think that.

  Now that I’m here again after three years, I realize how utterly wrong I was. The helplessness I feel makes me angrier with my sister. Why did she bring me here? Why today of all days?

  Yesterday, I received a message that my grandmother was very ill and not responding to medication. I called the number back; voic
email. I then tried to reach my grandmother, but her cellphone was switched off - an instant red flag. I tried to contact my other family members with little success.

  It was expected; when I left, I did my best to severe contact with everyone apart from my grandma. When I couldn’t get any confirmed details regarding her health, I couldn’t risk it. I would never forgive myself if something happened to her, and I missed the last chance to see her because I was running away. I got on the next flight to Connecticut.

  I arrived just a few hours ago. And Lo and behold, my grandma was fine.

  The mysterious message was from my immediate junior sister Krystal, who felt no remorse or shame for her devious plot to get me here.

  I was furious; until I heard the reason she went through all of that to get me here in the first place. Then the fight melted out of me. I just stood there, shaken to my core, unable to believe, well accept, what she was telling me.

  Our baby sister Nicole is getting married. To him. To Drake Edgar. My Drake. This is what it has come down to; this is it. Drake is going to be out of my reach forever. But when has he ever been in my reach? Drake and I have always had a very passionate relationship, but it was just that: passion. I knew we couldn’t have a forever.

  His family will never allow it. To them I’m damaged goods, and I’ll never be good enough for the heir of their enormous fortune. But with Nicole, it’s a match in heaven. My sister is the Virgin Mary herself, and I say that with good intentions.

  I turn and glance at her now. She looks heavenly in the ambient white of her wedding dress and lovely blonde curls tumbling down her face. So young. So innocent. Why is Nicole getting married at eighteen? Why to Drake of all people? Does she love him? If so, how long has she been in love with him? Did it start when I was the one engaged to Drake?

  She raises her head at that moment and our eyes connect.

  Nicole gives me a small tight-lipped smile and turns away.

  It hurts a bit. It’s clear these past three years haven’t done much to repair our relationship. I’m not sure why things have always been so awkward between my little sister and me. There was a time when I thought the hefty four-year age difference between us was to blame. However, Nicole gets along well with Krystal, who’s just a year younger than I am. It has to be just one other reason: her dad.