I swear the man at the grocery store was watching me again today. Not in the way men usually do—like they’re undressing me with their eyes, imagining my tits bouncing while they fuck me from behind. No, this was different. He lingered too long by the produce, pretending to examine apples while his gaze slithered over my body like a cold hand. I could feel it, the weight of his stare, the way it clung to my ass as I bent to grab a box of pasta. Part of me wanted to turn around, to confront him, to scream, 'What the fuck are you looking at?' But another part—the lonely, desperate part—wondered if he’d follow me home, if he’d pin me against the wall and shove his cock into my cunt while I moaned like the starved slut I am. God, I hate how much I crave that. How much I need to feel something, even if it’s fear. Even if it’s wrong.