The Stalker Author’s disclaimer: The characters depicted in this story are all 18 years of age or older. The language used is designed to reflect the state of mind of the central character.
The sole and heel of my 4” stiletto courts meet the Underground platform in unison giving of a satisfying click. Steadily I work my way along revelling in the rhythm of my feet on the echoing granite.
There is an art to walking properly in heels; not the hip swinging parody of Marilyn Monroe in “Some Like It Hot”, nor the assertive masculine strut that models adopt for the length of the catwalk; it must be fluid, feminine and graceful.
I have been to finishing school, perhaps not Debretts, but I have been trained to walk properly and they are lessons I will not easily forget. The body is to be held upright, chin raised, eyes fixed forward and back straight. Each foot is to be placed directly in front of the other, toe to heel at a distance of 6” apart; no more, no less. With each step you slightly adjust your weight allowing your hip to pivot forward and your buttocks to wiggle beneath your clothing.
You must glide; the upper half of your body stiffly immobile, your hips and buttocks an enticement to the delights contained between your parted thighs as your heels rap out their rhythm of seduction.
I am dressed to impress today; a half unbuttoned fitted white shirt beneath a cropped equestrian styled black cotton/linen jacket exposes the sleek line of my neck as it flows down to my half revealed chest and the temptation of my bosom. My waist is nipped in by the jacket’s tailoring which then flares to accentuate the curvature of my hips. I am wearing my shortest skirt; it is tight, fitted and finishes 3” below the rounded swell of my arse and as I progress along the platform it rides up my thighs to reveal the lace tops of my stockings.
4” heels, stockings, shortest and tightest skirt, fitted yet revealing shirt and jacket; this is not my everyday work wear. I have made an extra effort with my appearance for today is going to be a special day.
I have a stalker you see, and it’s rather sweet. Every day he hides out somewhere on this tube platform to await my arrival and then sidles into my carriage. He spends the journey making furtive glances in my direction and then when he thinks I’m engrossed in my book allows his eyes to roam across my petite form.
It was a long time before I noticed him. Most mornings I sit in the same place, bleary-eyed, my head stuffed full of cotton wool as I daydream about all the things I would rather be doing than travelling across London in a battered, old carriage to do a job I loathe. Most days the less I know of my surroundings the better.
I have no idea how long he has been doing this or what he does once I enter the revolving doors of the sterile, air conditioned office that is my destination. Maybe he is a professional stalker and as soon as my nylon clad legs disappear behind smoked glass he hot tails it to his next appointment. Maybe I am his 7.30 to 8.45 in a day packed full of shadowing lone eligible females. Certainly, he never seems to be available to continue his scrutiny of me when I return homeward at 5pm and whatever attractions I might hold for him doesn’t last through the evenings or weekends ... no lurking for him down semi-lit alleyways spying on my bedroom window through a pair of heavy duty binoculars in the hope of catching a glimpse of my naked flesh, no rooting through my weekly refuse to find out all my dirty little secrets, no trailing after me at the weekend as I trawl Covent Garden for that ‘to die for’ outfit and no appearances at the bars and fleshpots I have the habit of visiting once the sun has set over our grimy metropolis.
I mean what is the point of having a stalker if they can’t be bothered to do it properly. It is most frustrating.
Perhaps I’m not taking it seriously enough. Maybe I should be worried at the idea of someone following me on a daily basis. It is after all slightly sinister and an invasion of my privacy; that is if an hour long tube journey can be considered as private time. Maybe I should be reporting him to the police but that feels like using a mallet to crack a nut and I have a much better nut cracking idea. Anyway, he is rather cute in a nervous boy struggling to become a man sort of way and, to tell the truth, I’m rather flattered by his attention.
It hasn’t been a good couple of years; I’ve bounced my way through relationships like Zebedee on coke and for a while it didn’t seem to matter. There was always another arrogant, opinionated prick hanging at the bar eager to buy me a drink, regale me with boasts about his exploits and take me back to his semen stained bedding to demonstrate that alcohol doesn’t enhance sexual performance ... and some of them even provided breakfast. But recently it has all seemed too much effort.
Lately, the weekly grind of beautifying myself for the benefit of being pawed by some sexual Neanderthal has paled as all I’ve really wanted was a bit of attention, a little tender loving care and perhaps a soupcon of devotion. Perhaps I’m suffering from some mutated form of Stockholm Syndrome; just another spoilt, unloved little rich girl desperate to fall head over heels in love with her rough, tough, sadistic captor or maybe I’m losing myself in a delusional fantasy world where even the casual glances of a fellow commuter have become an infatuation. Today I intend find out.
The platform announcement flashes up the words “Next Train Approaching” highlighted as it always is by a series of asterisks in the vain attempt to make the news more exciting. I take a step forward towards the platform edge and have a casual glance around my fellow passengers. I have never spotted him on the platform and today is no exception. Although he always arrives in my carriage just as “please stand clear of the doors” booms through the tannoy, for some reason I feel nervous that today of all days he will not show.
My thumb finds my mouth and I nibble at it ruining my carefully prepared manicure. I take another step forward, peek along the rank of faces trying to espy his amongst them. I give my hair a flick, half turning first to the left and then right to get a glance of those stood behind me but he is nowhere to be seen.
The train clatters into the station. Doors slide apart with their familiar pneumatic hiss and incessant high pitched beeps and with as little physical contact as possible, we all bustle our way into the carriage in an unspoken race to claim a seat.
I need no seat today. Instead, I squeeze my way through the assorted bags and bodies to the doorway through which he always enters. There I hang from the hand strap half blocking the aisle, my eyes fixed on the vacant doorway awaiting his arrival.
My heart thumps nosily in my chest and my palm feels damp against the plastic strap. I realise I am nervous and immediately chide myself for such silliness. I force an image of Doris Day into my head and make the melody of ‘Que, Sera, Sera’ float through my brain.
“Please stand ...” the rest of the words are lost to me as he darts through the door. Seeing me directly in front of him, he pulls up short and tentatively glances around my body to take in the empty seat where I would normally be sat.
He’s nonplussed, uncertain, his safe and cosseted world turned on its head. I should be sat so that he can chose a seat from which to view me discreetly but to even get to a seat he is going to have to push past me; and why am I stood here when there are free seats?
I can see it all in his face; the darting eyes, the quick bite at his bottom lip, the slight blanching of his pallid skin. He lowers his head, refuses to meet my gaze, takes a small step backwards and settles on the shelf come seat that is adjacent to the door.
That is how we travel; thirteen stops on the Underground, him seated gazing at his shoes, me hanging from a strap my eyes boring into the top of his head challenging him to acknowledge me. For thirteen stops people move into and out of our carriage, filling and emptying it as we pass through central London. For a while we are packed in, perfumed bodies pressed into one another and I lose sight of him. I half think that he’ll take the opportunity to jump ship unseen but when the bodies thin out he’s still sat there unmoving with downcast eyes.
For the final time I sway against the strap as the tube decelerates to our joint destination. The carriage is half empty now and as always there will only be a handful of us disembarking. With a final shuddering clunk we arrive and I step forward to stand directly in front of him, crowding his space with my petite body. Slowly his head rises drawn inexorably towards my intense gaze. Our eyes lock and I hold him fixed like the needle point of a compass stuck forever on North. He is mine ... mine ... mine. Beeps and hisses break through the moment; the door slides aside, I flash him my best smile and with a swing of my hips I ‘mind the gap’ and sashay my way onto the platform.
There is an art to walking a puppy. You must keep the lead tight, dragging on their neck so that their tongue hangs slavering from their mouth as their wet nose sniffs at the air fixated on the aroma of your passing. You need to provide a visual feast to keep their eyes fixed ahead, to prevent their vision straying onto any other delights that might inhabit an Underground platform. With every step you must display the fine silhouette of your body to maximum advantage; legs extended to show slender ankles, the toned curve of a calf and the steady broadening of thigh, all seductively clad in fine sheer hosiery which leads the eye upwards to the lace enticement that flits in and out of view as your skirt rises and falls in time with the drumbeat of your heels. With head held high and shoulders thrown back finely brushed hair flows down your back glowing copper in the artificial lighting. As it strokes between your shoulder blades it points downwards to the pinched definition of your waist and the swaying sensuality of hips and buttocks that can only hint at the incessant throb and puffy wetness that is contained within.
I lead my puppy on a short leash, his nostrils filled with the thick, humid scent of my sex, his eyes captivated by the ‘come hither’ motion of my buttocks as they wriggle trapped beneath fabric they are desperate to escape. I lead him on heel extended legs along the platform, up escalators, through the concourse and out into the grey light and fume filled air. We travel past a run of tired convenience stores, besides traffic sitting nose to tail belching carbon that collects in my hair, bespoils my freshly laundered clothing and clogs my scrubbed and cleansed skin. We slalom our way through the striding humanity that with heavy hearts and downturned mouths dragging themselves to work, so as to pay for two weeks of sun and stress in a Spanish villa. I walk him away from all of this; down a half forgotten access road that runs behind shop fronts that no longer cater to customer needs and he trots along like the diligent stalker, the obedient puppy, the good little boy that I know he is.
The tarmac is cracked beneath my feet, latticed with tufts of grass, interspersed with potholes like tiny craters. On both sides are 8ft high brick walls that conceal hidden Victorian yards. It is a road that no longer has a purpose, decorated with rubbish and tangled brambles, untended, unmaintained, untraveled by feet or wheel. It is perfect.
I stop; hear his footsteps scuff across the tarmac behind me for a further couple of steps and then come to a halt. A sort of silence descends; the background hum of traffic, the plaintiff trill of a small bird, the sound of his heavy breathing perhaps 15 yards behind me.
I swivel on a heel and turn to face him. He stands uncertain, arms hanging uneasily at his sides, his cheeks reddened, his body quivering. He’s been caught red handed pursuing an innocent girl down a dark alley and all that is left is for sentencing and punishment.
I move towards him; one step at a time, one foot in front of another, perfect 6” gaps between toe and heel, my legs weak with excitement, my breasts thrust forward, stiff nipples rubbing themselves lustfully across my brushed cotton shirt, my skirt sticking to the dampness of my thigh and collecting at the soaking V between my legs. I can smell my arousal; it permeates my clothes and floats free in the air. I can see his arousal; bulging stiffly in his trousers, pushing at his zip and straining his belt. A handful more steps and I can feel it pushing against my stomach as I put a finger on his lips, a hand on his racing heart and slowly steer him back into a disused doorway.
Up close there is a femininity about his features; his slightly too long hair falls across his forehead, his eyebrows are fine and indistinct, his eyelids hued a soft brown, eyelashes long and full, skin pale and soft with barely a trace of facial hair and the lips I hold my finger against glisten with moisture. But there is nothing feminine about the throbbing gristle that strains against his trouser zip and pushes hard against the palm of my hand, nothing indistinct in the way it twitches as I stroke my way up and down its length.
He’s no record breaker; 5 or 6 inches, perhaps not fully grown yet but certainly man enough to give this girl a good time ... and this girl wants a good time, needs a good time, is desperate for a good time.
I feel the frustration of the last couple of years welling inside; the drunken fumbles, the emotionless fucking, the endless line up of unknown cocks slamming into my barely damp pussy as I bury my head in the pillows and dream of being somewhere else; dream of being someone else.
I don’t want sex, I want adoration. I want gentle hands to roam across my skin; I want love massaged into my flesh to ease my pain. I want to be encircled in his arms, to be pulled against his chest so that his heat sears my cheek and the rhythm of his heart pounds through my head. I don’t want to be single, solo, solitary; I want to be coveted, coupled and conjoined. I want...
Tears trickle from my eyes dribbling mascara down the side of my nose and across my powdered cheeks. I push him back against the sun bleached, paint flecked wooden door and scrabble at his belt. My fingers feel thick and useless as I attempt to slide the leather through the metal buckle. Frenziedly I tug until somehow it is undone, until somehow button and zipper are released and only the thin stretched fabric of his underwear keeps him from me.
I look up at his face; his eyes squeezed shut, his cheeks colouring, his mouth agape and my finger resting on his lips as he warms it with his hot breath.
I run the palm of my hand over his cock tip, feel it jerking and pulsing beneath its cotton prison, feel the heat of it burning my flesh, and feel the dampness of his desire seeping through his underwear leaving a snail trail of precum on my skin.
I release my finger from his lips and slowly lower myself before him, spreading my legs wide, allowing the cool air to play across the inside of my thighs, feeling a breath of it slide across my soaked pussy and gently caress my pulsing, swollen clitoris.
I tug at his trousers, pulling until they pool around his ankles, run a hand up his legs feeling the soft downy hair tickling my palm, run the sharp talons of my fingernails across the soft forgiving flesh of his arse, trap his fluttering stomach beneath my palm and push him firmly back against the rough wooden door all the while keeping my eyes fixed on his manhood as it shudders beneath its fabric prison at my every touch.
Gently I insert my fingers into the waistband on either side of his cock and ever so carefully ease the elastic over him and pull his underwear down to his knees.
It is a glorious sight; dark tight curls of hair adorn his pubic mound, his balls, a mosaic of veins and fine hair, sit small and tight beneath the base of his cock pulsing rhythmically in time with the steady twitch of the taut, stiff shaft that stands proudly before him. 6” at best; slender and sheathed in smooth, creamy skin with a fine vein visibly pulsing as it meanders from the hair clad base to the gathered foreskin. All topped off by his cockhead that protrudes fiercely red in the morning air.
I reach out with my tongue and allow his swollen, bulbous head to rest gently on its tip. Immediately his whole body starts to shake, his cock twitches uncontrollably and I can feel the weight of his head pulsing on my tongue as his cum surges up his length eager to shoot between my parted lips.
I grab his balls, grab the base of his cock and squeeze. He’s twitching violently beneath my fingers; veins of blood and cum pulsing almost uncontrollably. I squeeze harder, feel him spasm, feel the pressure of his cum beneath my fingers, and find a trickle of juices oozing from his head. I lap up his offering, dribble my tongue across him, ensure he’s clean, shimmering, presentable and slide my soaking wet mouth down his length until I can feel him twitching against the entrance to my throat.
It feels wonderful having my mouth filled. He tastes musty yet fresh, salty yet sweet. Surely such tender young flesh was meant for feeding eager, needy mouths that have waited so patiently to find that perfectly flavoured Popsicle on which to feast.
I close my lips around him ignoring his violent twitching, confident that the pressure of my fingers on the base of his shaft will prevent him from cumming. I allow saliva to pool in my mouth and then, ever so, ever so slowly glide my way up his length until once again his head falls from my parted mouth and we are only joined by a single strand of saliva that hangs betwixt my sensitised lips and his swollen cock head. I extend my tongue, letting it catch the strand, and use it as a guide to lower my parted mouth back down onto his saliva sheened cock.
I may have moaned. I’m certain he did.
Again I fill myself with him, again I close my lips around him and allow my saliva to soak his throbbing cock, but stalkers need to be careful of what prey they chose because some are not as defenceless as they seem and this prey has teeth.
I clamp my lips about him, grab him firmly with my teeth, squeeze with my fingers and suck on him as hard as I can. His body twitches spastically as cum spurts from his balls only to meet the triple barrier of fingers, lips and teeth. He’s orgasming repeatedly but unable to release, unable to shoot his hot, sticky, cum into the warm, wet mouth which is now sliding frenziedly up and down his length.
I’m losing control. I love the feel of him in my mouth. I love the feel of his cock twitching, the ramming of his head against my throat, the length of his shaft sliding across my tongue, the steady stream of saliva trickling from my swollen lips to soak my chin, the incessant pulses of pleasure that vibrate out of his cock and through my body to resonate in my own cum slick pussy. I’m fucking my mouth with his trapped and helpless cock in a rising crescendo of lust.
I pull off him; my mouth empty, panting, eager to dive down on him once more; my eyes fixated with the swollen purple of his head and the abraded redness of his shaft from where my teeth have made their mark.
I flick my tongue across his tip and feel him quiver a response. Slide it over his cock head absorbing his flavour and aroma before sliding along the underside of his shaft. Dribbling copiously, I cleanse him with my tongue, caressing back and forth, ever downwards till I find the soft fruit of his balls. I can almost feel the cum pulsing within them through their softly haired skin, I open wide and swallow them whole.
I will suck them dry. I will suck them as his cock twitches helplessly, trapped between my fingers. I will suck them until their very flesh dissolves into my mouth and balls, saliva, tongue, cum, hair and mouth become one. I will suck them until he has nothing left to give. And as I suck, as I tend to his sweet, tender love eggs, I reach into the pocket of my jacket.
I find it, pull it out and carefully slide it down his cock till it rests against my firmly squeezing fingers. I pull on the end, tightening, reducing the circumference until I have the cable tie firmly fixed around his cock. Reluctantly I release his balls from my mouth, slide my tongue upwards, close my teeth around the hard plastic and tug until it bites firmly into the flesh of his cock. I release him and survey my handiwork; his cock is swollen with blood, the cable tie biting into its base capturing him, keeping him erect and stopping him from cumming; and hanging beneath it a luggage label all properly completed with my name, address and telephone number.
Slowly I stand, press myself against him, his throbbing cock pushing against my stomach, the stiff peaks of my breasts rubbing against his torso. I bring the tips of my fingers to my lips, plant a kiss upon them and then raise them to rest on his mouth. I survey his youthful, reddened, panting face, watching it twitch before bringing my eyes to rest on his.“Call Me.”
There is an art to walking away; one foot placed 6” in front of the other, toe to heel, head up, shoulders back, adjusting your weight with each step to allow your hips to swivel and your buttocks to wiggle seductively beneath your clothing. Just make sure you ignore the insistent pleading of your nipples, the butterflies in your chest, the vibrations in your stomach, the smooth slide of one cum slick thigh across another and the burning desire in your throbbing aching pussy to slide down on the beautiful, swollen cock you have left behind and ride it till it spurts its hot sticky cum deep into your soul. Author’s Note Oh what a frustrating ending that is dear reader. A stiff and throbbing cock; a gaping saliva wet mouth and a wanton aching pussy all eager for release. How lovely it would have been if she had swallowed that tender young cock whole and forced him to spurt his thick cum deep down her throat. How gorgeous if she had sucked him dry, licked her lips clean and then planted her cum coated tongue deep down his throat so that he could taste his own pleasure. Yes, most frustrating indeed. We can only hope that in Part 2 they both get to cum and that we get the satisfaction of a relationship properly consummated. Thank you for reading. Please do vote, comment or write if you so desire. Cum Girl x
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