Smut Saturdays #13: Through The Window (Part 1)

Content note: This is a fantasy story which portrays stalking in detail and makes mention of blood. If either of those are difficult for you, give this one a miss! We’ll be back next week with a post on my new protocol proposal system, and in the meantime, you can always follow my Twitter for anecdotes, memes and more.


Every fourth Saturday, I’ll be posting erotica I’ve written, based loosely on my own real life experiences or fantasies, for your wanking enjoyment. They’ll all be under the category ‘Smut Saturdays’ and if you’ve got any feedback or requests for smut scenarios, put ‘em in the comments or hit me up on Twitter @KinkyAutistic!




I have my laptop on my pajama-clad thighs, and I’m in the process of signing on to the agency through which I do some of my freelance captioning work. The pickings are slim: it’s a Saturday, after all, so there are fewer business-y projects to caption, and the vlog-type ones left available are being snapped up before my dyspraxic fingers can reach the ‘claim’ button. I allow myself to be distracted by Twitter for a few long moments, until I hear something at the window.

I pause. I’m not often perturbed by odd noises – I’ve been living with mild, usually stress-induced psychosis for a couple of years now, so I often assume that my brain is misfiring when I hear or see things that don’t make sense. And something at the window doesn’t make sense: I live in a weird, labyrinthine, formerly industrial building and my window opens onto, seemingly, more building.  Unless it’s a bird or a squirrel (in which case it can’t harm me anyway), it’s likely to be a hallucination. I make a mental note to mention it to my Daddy when he phones me after work, and I turn my attention back to my work website.

The noise – which is, by turns, tapping and scuffing against my window – persists. I’m too anxious to check it out, and too comfortable, so I jam my earphones into my ears and claim a five-minute Pixlr tutorial to caption. Once I’ve finished, the noise has stopped.


I sleep lightly and have nightmares every single night, unless I get drunk or high – and even then, it’s 50/50 as to whether I’ll wake up in a cold sweat. So when I snap awake at what my microwave clock tells me is 2:49 a.m., I assume it’s my brain and shut my eyes again.

Until I hear a whisper.

“Morgan.”

I scrabble for the light switch, adrenaline forcing the taste of blood into my mouth. In only a second, I think about where I left my kitchen knives (on the draining board, fuck), where my huge steel dildo is (at my Daddy’s house, fuck) and whether I could fend off an attacker with a four millimetre knitting needle from my bedside drawer. (The fuckers bend – I know that from sitting on them.) My fingers find the switch and flood the room with light. I squint against it, anxious to see who spoke my name.

At nearly 3 a.m., common sense does not suggest that this could be a hallucination or a nightmare. But that’s fine, because common sense would have been wrong anyway.

Standing at the foot of my bed is a stranger.

I wonder if I should scream, but I don’t know who he is, what he wants and whether he would kill me if I did. So I slowly, slowly sit up, and take in his face. It’s a narrow face (if you were being unkind, you might call it scrawny) with a beard, a beanie hat covering his hair, and huge, huge eyes staring right back at me. I try to gauge his height based only on where my bedframe comes up to him: he’s probably not that much taller than me. Even in his big hoodie, he looks slim, and I’m already mentally rehearsing what I’ll do if I need to: eyes first, bollocks second, get to the door while he’s incapacitated, scream for my corridor-mates to phone 999. I run my thumb over the fingernails on my right hand, and mercifully, I haven’t bitten them off recently, so I could theoretically dig them into his skin.

Except he isn’t moving. He isn’t speaking. There is a bizarre moment in which I think he might be as scared as I am.

“I’m sorry,” I begin, in a parody of my own Britishness, “I’m not sure who you are.”

“You don’t know me,” he says, still staring unabashedly at me. I’m glad I slept in pajamas rather than nude, even if it means another human witnessing my ratty knitting society T-shirt. “I’m sorry. I just, I couldn’t help it any longer. I’ve been following you.”

I press my thumbnail into my fingertip, hard, and it hurts. Not dreaming. “Oh,” I say. I still can’t gauge how dangerous this man is. “Why?”

“Because, um.” He finally stops looking at my face and instead becomes intensely interested in his own hands. “I’m in love with you.”

Well, you’re not, I think. We’ve never interacted. At best, you’re infatuated with me.

Out loud, I only say, “I see.”

I can’t tell by my bedside light, but I think he might be blushing. “I know it’s stupid, and weird, and I know how fucking creepy it is that I’ve broken into your flat, but -”

“Well, you haven’t exactly broken in. I left the bloody window open.” God, he’s got such big, sad eyes. He looks like a puppy straight out of a Dog’s Trust ad. “Um, can I ask your name?”

“It’s Anthony. Friends call me Ant.” He finally looks at me again. “I’m really sorry I came in. I wasn’t even going to wake you, but you looked like you were having a nightmare and I couldn’t bear it.”

I pull some sort of weird, rueful face at that. “If I was woken up every time I had a nightmare, I’d never get any sleep at all.” I’m still not convinced this is really happening. “Ant, it’s been lovely to meet you, but I need to be up at seven tomorrow.”

“I know.” Fucking hell. “I’ll head off. Uh, through the door, rather than the window this time. But, you know, if you ever want to talk, um.” He pulls something out of his pocket. I take it from him, leaning forwards and trying only to bring my hand, nothing else, close to him, just in case, and I see it’s a business card. A fucking business card. It holds his name, his number and his email address. “Thank you for not freaking out.”

I nod slowly. “I’m just glad you weren’t burgling me. There’s fuck all to burgle here anyhow.” I glance towards the door. My flat is so small that I can see my kitchen from my bed, and the only door other than the front one leads to the bathroom (sans bath). “D’you know how to get out? I think there’s fire exit signs that should point you in the right direction.”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Don’t get out of bed just for me.” He starts towards the door, but pauses with his hand on its handle. “Morgan?”

“Yeah?”

“I will make you love me.”

And with that, he left.


I don’t tell anybody.

At first, I assume it’s a dream. I crawl out of bed at 7:20 and open a can of Relentless before I even think about breakfast, as is my tradition. I get dressed. I have nearly half a crumpet in my mouth when my eyes fall on his business card.

A fucking business card.

After that, I don’t tell anybody because I know they’ll worry. They might call the police. There are CCTV cameras on my corridor – they could find him. And he really didn’t seem to mean any harm.

Maybe my blasé attitude regarding a stranger breaking into my home is exactly why everybody would worry about it.


I don’t call or email him. I don’t Google him. I lie down for bed every night, hoping for and dreading a visit from him.

Three days after our first meeting, he starts leaving me gifts.

The first is in my postbox. It’s a large bar of salted caramel Galaxy (my favourite) with a note sellotaped to it.

Wanted to make sure you don’t forget about me. Loved the dress you wore yesterday.

– Ant

I carefully peel off the note and stash it in my coat pocket. I don’t want anybody to see it (least of all my Daddy, who would worry the most) but I would feel exceptionally mean just throwing it away.

I share the chocolate with my 20th Century Poets And Politics seminar group, and I don’t tell them where it came from. It tastes amazing.


The second gift comes only a day after the first, again in my postbox. This time it’s a giftcard – to Ann Summers. The note reads:

I know you want their new baby pink lingerie line and I know you don’t want to give them your money. This should work online. If you want me to see you wearing it, post pictures on your Twitter or email them to me – otherwise, just enjoy.

– Ant

How the fuck did he know that?

Has he actually, physically been following me? Was he a few feet behind me in the city centre when I lamented to a friend that I wanted that bra so bad but didn’t want to put my money into a company like Ann Summers? Was he listening to me through my phone? Was he canvassing my friends about my lingerie tastes?

The reality begins to set in now: he really has been following me.

I am scared by how little this realisation scares me.


The gifts stall for two days and I begin to overthink it. Maybe he’s hurt that I haven’t acknowledged the first two. Maybe, because he’s hurt, he’s going to hurt me. Or someone I love. That thought makes me so cold with fear I can ignore the other nagging worry I’ve begun to have: maybe he doesn’t like me any more.

I bite the bullet and text him. It takes me twenty minutes to compose a 62-word message.

Hey Ant, I wanted to say thank you for the chocolate and the giftcard. I would have said something sooner but (as I assume you already know) I’ve got that mad anxiety 😂 Sorry it’s taking me a while to adjust to the news that you’re in love with me. Can we text for a bit and see how it goes? Morgan x

I don’t know why I put a kiss on the end. Britishness? Being AFAB? I don’t stop to consider any other reasons for it.


Hey Morgan, no worries about the presents – they’re gifts, I don’t expect anything in return for them! I would love to keep texting. There are lots of other things I would love too, but I know you don’t know me as well as I know you 😉 Ant xx

We start flirting.

I tell my partners I’m flirting with a boy (because I’m not a douchebag) but don’t mention how we met. I learn that he’s at my university, which is where he became interested in me, so I tell people that he has friends in my seminar groups and that’s how we got chatting. It’s only sort of a lie. He keeps leaving gifts – sweets and chocolate, giftcards to places he somehow knows I want to shop, six balls of some yarn I decided was too expensive to buy six balls of – and includes notes with them:

I don’t know what you did with your hair yesterday but it was stunning. I couldn’t choose between the white chocolate and the milk so I got you both – feel free to share them with friends/partners or to save them for a rainy day.

– Ant

 

Literally cannot stop thinking about you. I saw you trying to befriend that cat near the tram stop – that was too cute for words. I think I got the right colour yarn but I’m not sure it’s the right thickness – I can always exchange it for you if not.

– Ant

Once, when I’m hungover, he leaves me orange Lucozade, paracetamol and a voucher for a bacon sandwich, with a note that reads:

I cannot find a compliment that’s appropriate about the way you looked last night. They all involve wanting to do stuff to you that we haven’t talked about yet. Anyway here’s some hangover supplies – if you need anything else I can come over. Or if you don’t want me over you could always get in touch with your partners, I know they have your back. (And I would be honoured to be their metamour) Have a gentle day

– Ant

Eventually, I can’t deal with the tension any more. I want to pick his brains – what does he know about me? How has he found it out? What made him fall for me like this? I give everybody the necessary heads-up that I’m inviting a boy over, and I text him:

Want to come to mine to talk? I’m actually dying to see your face again. I’m free on Wednesday nights and alternate Fridays xx

His reply, unnervingly fast, is, Absolutely. Please. Wednesday? Any requests for snacks or anything? xx

When I tell him No, I’ve got plenty to eat, but that’s sweet of you xx, he responds, You know I’d do anything for you. ANYTHING xx, and I’m stupid enough to shoot back: You can prove that on Wednesday 😉 xx


On Wednesday morning, about seven hours before Ant will knock on my door, I find another gift in my postbox.

It’s a little vial. It’s filled with dark red liquid. It has a cute cork keeping it airtight.

I realise it’s blood.

The note says:

Okay I 100% realise logically speaking that this is probably not what you meant when you said “prove it on Wednesday” but I got it into my head that I could give you some of my blood and I couldn’t shake the idea. I’m really sorry if this grosses you out, I’ll happily take it back and get rid of it, or I’ll show you the results of my most recent blood tests if that helps. Just, I really, really mean it – I would do anything for you. I would do anything to be yours.

– Ant

I stand so my body shields my postbox from view and nobody can see what’s in my hand. I tilt the vial this way, then that, watching its glass sides get painted red. I wonder whether he knew this would evoke good autism feelings in me – I have a real fondness for deep red tones, especially when they’re translucent or glittery – and how he collected the blood. There’s only, at a guess, 5 millilitres in there, which is less than I tip out of my menstrual cup after a good night’s sleep.

I slip the vial into my coat pocket and head to class, sometimes stroking the smooth, cold glass as a stim while I walk.


When I arrive home, he’s in my bedroom. This is not a surprise, although I know it should be. I hang my coat up and kick off my trainers. He’s just standing there, like he’s not sure whether he’s allowed on the furniture. He’s still in a big hoodie and jeans, like the last time I saw him; I feel a weird yank in my midriff, like fondness, as I pull out my desk chair and point to it.

“Sit,” I say, and I notice with a wince that it’s my dom voice – the same one I use when I’m bossing a submissive partner around. I pray he doesn’t know this. “Do you want a drink or anything?”

I hear him swallow. His anxiety is palpable. “No, thank you,” he says. I pull out my only other chair and perch on it. “This is the first time I’ve ever been this close to you.”

He’s right – when he stood at the end of my bed, his body was at least four feet from mine. Now our knees bump together when I move. I have goosebumps and raised arm hairs even though it’s warm in here, and I’m pretty sure I can feel my heartbeat everywhere.

Yeah, everywhere. I realise, in a sinking sort of way, that I want him. Badly.




In spite of the option of serialising this story losing the poll I ran on Twitter about it, I’m going to leave this hanging until next Smut Saturday. I recognise that it’s not terribly smutty thus far, but the fanfic writer in me can’t resist a slow burn, and I personally might need to go wank based on the stalking setup alone. Let me know what your thoughts are on longer-form smut and on serialising Smut Saturdays pieces!

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