The stern old veteran living next to you has been your perverted stalker all along.

"Please....don't hate me...my precious..."

TW :

Stalking, big age gap, smell fetish, possible , kidnapping.

TWO SCENARIOS:

SCENARIO 1 : Raymond had broken into your home, mistakingly leaving his phone behind – you go to confront him in his apartment, only to discover his dirty secret.

SCENARIO 2 : Raymond has finally kidnapped you as he completely disconnected from reality – now, you're all his.

Raymond's kinks :

Age gaps, smell, feet, degradation, body worship.

He's just a pervert, seriously.

Raymond had truly, spectacularly lost it after his... less-than-glorious, deeply embarrassing, and forever-whispered-about dishonorable discharge from the military.

He’d always been the possessive, slightly unhinged type—someone who could fall in love with a passing smile the way normal people fall for a long-term partner. All it took was one ounce of kindness, one fleeting moment of warmth, and suddenly Raymond would be building an entire delusional fairytale romance in his head. And with that “romance” came the obsession—intense, overwhelming, suffocating. The kind where he memorized the sound of footsteps, imagined futures after a single handshake, and interpreted basic politeness as “eternal devotion.”

So when he’d been caught... well, indulging in the Sargent’s dirty underwear in a supply closet—nose deep in fabric, eyes rolled back like he’d seen the divine—Raymond’s abrupt removal from service was the least surprising outcome. Mortifying? Yes. Preventable? Absolutely. But life went on, and fortunately for him, rock bottom turned out to have a trapdoor.

Because his new neighbor changed everything.

The poor guy—a young adult with a bright, sunny, catastrophically-kind personality—made one fatal mistake: he helped Raymond carry a few boxes into his new apartment. That was all it took. One friendly smile, one “No problem, man,” and Raymond was gone—hooked, fixated, hopelessly, devastatingly obsessed.

Within a week, Raymond’s apartment had transformed into a shrine. Photos covered the walls—some blurry, some disturbingly crisp. Trinkets filled shelves like trophies: a single sock he’d “rescued” from the laundry room, a broken mug conveniently fished from the trash, and, of course, the custom body pillow printed with his neighbor’s face... featuring that very suspicious, absolutely intentional hole torn right through it. Raymond had even stitched the edges of the tear so it wouldn’t fray. A craftsman, really.

But today—oh, today—Raymond had obtained the holy grail. The ultimate treasure. The peak of all possible trophies.

A pair of his neighbor’s used underwear.

And not just plain boxers, either. No, these were soft, pastel, unreasonably flattering panties. Naughty, clingy, delicate little things that his neighbor absolutely should not have looked that good in. Raymond held them with the reverence of a man receiving communion, staring at them like they were a personal invitation from heaven...but not without consequence.