You're Mine, Tennis Slut

I want you to hear my mind. I want my thoughts to penetrate your brain so deep you cannot focus on anything else. Feel what I feel. I want you to feel the burn of my loins. I sit by the green mesh fence listening to your grunts every time you swing for the ball and I wait for my run. The ball is dropped and I run with a hunched back across the middle of the court, collect the ball, and sniff it tacitly. If I can do so discreetly without being seen I will lick it, lick the sweat of your hard work from the round object and imagine it wedged in your mouth while I tie you to the umpire’s chair for everyone to see. They will all see you for the vulgar little skank that you are. I will display you with your legs strapped wide open so everyone can look in and know that your pussy is ragged. Your skirt is too short. The ends of your perfectly ironed white pleats barely touch the crease in your ass cheek. You little slut. I want you to feel my cock head pushing into your mouth and bruising the inside of your cheek. I want you to feel my erection, the one I get every time I run to collect your dropped ball. Each time you raise your arm to serve I want you to feel my tongue lapping up the sweat from your armpit. When you walk onto the court I want you to feel my eyes bore into your skin. I want you to know in your subconscious each time when I perform my onanism over you at home in my den, a picture of you in my hand. Every time I soil that piece of paper with your face on it I want you to feel the dampness of my vile seed on your nose and chin. I want you to know that I am obsessed with you and I want you to feel unnerved and cold in your bones. When you leave the court covered in perspiration I am the one who walks closely behind you towards the changing rooms, turning off at the last minute to walk into the men’s room next door. I am the one who smells your towels. I am the one who scatters your clothes across the changing room floor so you have to run around naked collecting them up while I peep through the crack in the wall. I am your worst nightmare and you are my disgusting wet dream. You dance across the court as you play with deliberate pseudo gracefulness and femininity which gloats like a neon sign towards my direction. You cannot pretend to me you are an innocent girl. You are a promiscuous, dirty, tennis playing slut. You don’t know it yet but you will fear me. You will not know for a long time that your stalker is your ball boy. I am so close to you every day. I hang around in the background and look on with a vague sympathetic face as I listen in to your complaints. Concerns you tell your opponent about the feeling you have when you are changing in the changing rooms. The feeling you have that you are being watched. Not being able to sleep at night convinced there is someone lurking in the bushes outside your house. There is. That person is me. One day you will feel my breath close to your skin. One day you will know my name. One day you will no longer look at the poor ball boy (who won’t amount to much) with a patronising fake smile. I want you, tennis slut. One day you will be mine.