Latest Forum Posts:


The Stalker - Part 7

Despair ... Vodka fueled and barely clothed she stalked off into the night. Now where?
The Stalker – Chapter 7

If you like to gamble, I tell you I'm your man
You win some, lose some, it's - all - the same to me

Lemmy, in all his Jack Daniels fuelled wisdom, has decided that my skull is to be the venue for Motorhead’s latest gig.

The pleasure is to play, it makes no difference what you say
I don't share your greed, the only card I need is

And as the black, leather-clad, skinny jeaned trio launch into ‘Ace of Spades’ the audience of Heffalumps stomp frenziedly in the mosh pit of my temples.

The Ace Of Spades
The Ace Of Spades

Causing the washer drier, constantly revolving in my stomach to hit 'spin' and a fountain of bilious liquid to surge up to fill my mouth.

Playing for the high one, dancing with the devil,
Going with the flow, it's all a game to me,

Where it mingles with the 16 different, previously unknown, fungi that have taken up residence there whilst I was asleep.

Seven or Eleven, snake eyes watching you,
Double up or quit, double stakes or split,

To form a noxious liquid that, with plentiful snorting and gulping, I manage once more to return to the churning pit of my stomach.

The Ace Of Spades
The Ace Of Spades

But only just.

Body contorted in foetal agony I bury my face back into the curiously different smelling, fabric conditioned, pillows beneath my head. Pools of saliva slosh about my mouth behind my tightly sealed lips; my entire skin simultaneously flushed and burning yet cold, clammy and shivering beneath the strangely lightweight duvet.

I am ill. I am beyond ill. I am Judas Iscariot trapped in the Seventh Circle of Hell, my body tormented for all eternity.

It has been ten minutes since my stinging eyes blearily opened to survey my surroundings; ten minutes of incomparable thumping nausea; ten minutes of peeking blankly from beneath the duvet at the never before visited room in which I find myself; ten minutes of convulsing and swallowing knowing that soon, eventually, I will need to crawl from beneath the soft security blanket I am hiding under and drag my shaking limbs off in search of a bathroom.

Lightweight curtains remain pulled shut across the small window but there is enough light seeping through the unlined fabric for me to inspect my locale as best I might without moving the pulsing bowling ball of pain that sits atop my shoulders.

The Ace Of Spades
The Ace Of Spades

Vomit rushes upwards from my stomach as I gulp frantically in a desperate attempt to prevent the deliciously scented bedding from being coated in my bile. My entire body twitches and convulses spastically as unbearably painful cramps ripple repeatedly through my clenching stomach. I am poisoned. I am dying. I am going to die here; die in this unknown bedroom, lost and alone and some unfortunate innocent will find my unbreathing stiff body, my face a mask of contorted agony, dried tears coating my cheeks, a pool of vomit beneath my chapped lips.

The Ace Of Spades
The Ace Of Spades

I fall from the bed to the floor; limbs tangled, uncoordinated, arms and legs useless as I attempt to will myself upright, to become a biped once more; awareness of my utter nakedness permeates the thunderous storm clouds of my brain and sends a flush of embarrassment throughout my already heated, shaking body.

Somehow I attain the vertical; somehow my feet trip their way across the room to the blurred image of a door; somehow I navigate my way through the unfamiliar living area beyond without crashing repeatedly into the random assorted objects of another person’s life until, eventually, on hands and knees, hair falling forward to hide the hideousness of my face, I submit to the insistent contractions and spew the contents of my stomach into the porcelain toilet bowl where I have buried my head.

It is not pretty. I am not pretty. I am just another lost soul suffering the consequences of their own actions.

For the next two hours I am caught in an endless cycle of repetition; abed shaking and foetal, bile rising unwelcome and unbidden, desperate for sleep but unable, the eventual inevitable stagger across well-worn carpet to heave emptily over the toilet bowl before taking a few delicate sips of water to cleanse my mouth of the bitter, acrid aftertaste and then crawling back to the soft, warm comforting grasp of her bed.

“Her bed” … her only bed. I may be ill, I may be dying, I may be alcohol poisoned but I am a creature of curiosity and if I am never to leave this place then there are things I wish to know.

I have no memories; despite my best fuzzy, throbbing headed efforts I cannot recall a single detail of arriving. There was an off-licence, a second bottle of vodka, tears and a park bench but beyond that blankness. I have no clothes and no shoes. I thought of leaving, of finding my bag, my pretty diamante heels and the thigh length coat that I used to sheath my naked, shameful, disgusted body and fleeing to the soiled sanctity of my own home … but they are nowhere to be seen because everything that is here, everything that surrounds me, is her.

Sweet, nervous, damaged, Clara.

Delicious little Clara, her delicate hand quivering beneath mine as I closed my fingers over it during lunch, her doe eyes watery and adoring as we nibbled our canteen food and exchanged pleasantries uncertain of what bond, what desires our morning meeting had awoken in our same sex bodies.

I crawl back into her vanilla pod infused bed, her tentative smile and involuntary nibbling of her lip projecting itself onto the cinemascope screen of my retina. Curling, kitten-like, I allow my weary eyelids to close as I command the memory of her hot, wet mouth suckling and slurping on my thick, stiff nipples to quiver delightfully across my alcohol damaged hippocampus.

She comes to me; sneaks beneath the covers behind me, the mattress adjusting to our twin weights, the duvet sliding off my heated skin, part revealing shaking trembling me as with firmly closed eyes, open mouth and gently panting breath, I feel the soft weight of her breasts pushing against the curvature of my back.

Warm used air trickles from her mouth to quiver about my sweat dampened and frizzed hair before caressing the sensitive freckled skin atop my shoulders and up the graceful, swan-like elegance of my neck. A small whimper gets lost somewhere in my still painful trachea as I wriggle my pert bottom back, aching to press myself against the inviting smoothness of her pubis, wanting to feel her stomach and thighs squeezed against me, needing to be separated from her only by the thin film of dirt and self-disgust that coats every square millimetre of my skin.

Her arm drapes across me; trapping my own where it lies slanting down across my torso, my hand pushed between my tightly squeezing thighs, fingers delving into my soft, hidden flesh. My eyelids flicker; half-opening as trapped whimpers become soft panting moans, as I feel her fingers running along the underside of my pathetically small breasts and I forcefully swallow the disgustingly flavoured fluid that once again is pooling in my mouth.

Lips descend; soft delicate, lightly coated in coral lipstick, barely touching my trembling skin as the perfect half moons of her manicured nails close about the stiff throbbing nubs of my nipple. Between my thighs, fingers dance across my flesh; nails running betwixt unyielding thick labia, seeking out the soaked dampened core of my gloriously receptive pussy only to find it aridly uninterested.

Harrumphing I roll onto my back; dampened hair sticking about my face, thighs flung wide, a finger and thumb combining to tweak and tease a nipple as I run two fingers repeatedly along the bone-dry crevice of my nether lips. Arching my back I offer the small pancakes of my breasts up for Carla’s attentions, beg for her to close her lips about them, to pull their insignificant flesh into her soaked, wet and dripping mouth. To suck and suckle. To close her teeth about. To mark with perfect indentations of her dental uniqueness. To cover with love bites. To bruise my pallid alabaster skin; to leave it glowing purple from the persistent and blessedly abusive touch of her gorgeous mouth.

I raise my hips; push them upwards, arse cheeks rising off the bed as my twin hands and multiple digits grapple with the confused and confusing collection of unresponsive flesh between my wide-flung thighs. There are two fingers buried in the depths of my pussy; slamming into me repeatedly, pushing down between my dry, swollen pussy walls. Ramming, spearing, fucking that lovely flesh as just above an equally dedicated digit thrums repeatedly across my hood hidden clit begging it to explode into glorious sensation.


Unbidden, liquid escapes my tear ducts, pools about my eyes, blurring my vision before escaping down my blushing face to dampen my cheek bones and still pained temples.


My fingers still skewering the soft flesh of my pussy desperate for a loving response.


Stomach dry heaving, mouth fungal filled and bile coated, panting forcefully as I jackhammer stiff digits pointlessly into crushed, unloved me.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

I explode; frantic helpless sobs shaking my entire body, the tears that were a trickle cascading down my skin, nose running, mouth open as the emptiness of my life and the ephemera of my fantasies blast forth to sunder the still air that envelops me.

The front door rattles in its frame announcing Clara’s return.

I hide; submerge myself in the bedding, will my quaking body to still, wet cheeks dampening pillows, my distressed hair barely visible above the duvet, and listen to the assorted noises of Clara’s return to her nest. At one point I am certain the door creaks open and I still my breathing as I focus on every miniscule sound until, eventually, I convince myself that the door clicks shut and soft padding footsteps wander away from my hidey-hole.

Of course there is an inevitability as to what must occur; at some point I must rise and peek out, flushed and embarrassed, to apologise for my arrival and to thank my unstained hostess for her generosity … but there is a joy in procrastination and a delight in feeling safe and secure, snuggled in her bed, surrounded by the smell of her.

I lose myself for a short while to delicious musings; curiosity as to the circumstances of our evening merging with “what if’s” about our future. Did she undress me; hands and eyes caressing my alcohol soaked body, tottering me helpless before her, wobbling on slender thighs as her fingers stroked across the glorious smoothness of my pubis? Did she kneel before me to remove my shoes, her soft mouth panting warm breath onto the drenched, quivering, exposed folds of my pussy, before leaning forward to plant a gentle kiss on my blushing swollen vulva? Did she, tongue darting into my palpitating wetness, place her hands on my daintily curved bottom, fingernails digging into forgiving flesh, as she steadied me before her? Did she guide me, hand on wrist, to her vanilla pod bed, throw me down upon it, and wrench those barely functioning thighs apart to leave me exposed, needy, insensible before her lascivious attentions? Did I squirm? Did my pupils roll unseeing in my eyes? Did gorgeous little whimpers of pleasure get trapped in my throat before escaping to rent the air in moans of delight? Did my arse cheeks clench? Did I press myself upwards offering all that I am so that she might shower me with her love?

And did she, did she, did she … nip at the flesh of my inside thigh, brittle sharp teeth bringing tiny scarlet welts to contrast deliciously with my creamy skin? Slide a tongue between my unclenched buttocks to lap at the juice sodden mocha star of my anus? Grasp my engorged vulva between thumb and finger and pull me shaking towards her pretty face? Suck my swollen clit into her heated mouth, tugging fiercely as I writhe wonderfully, soaking her chin with my love, my affection, my desire; desperate for her to spear my drenched, demanding sex with her conjoined fingers, to pin me to the bed by my pussy, to capture me fluttering in her inescapable net, my heart, body and soul hers to have and cherish forever? Did she? Did she? Did she?

Somehow I manage to drag myself from beneath the dampened clinging duvet, my body aflame with possibilities. No, not possibilities … probabilities. Somewhere deep inside a dam crumbles beneath the weight of my hope, and with trembling fingers and nervous feet I step carefully towards the door in search of newfound devotion.

I step out of the bedroom; naked, flushed, dirty, flesh clammy, dried sweat coating my skin, tiny flecks of vomit unnoticed on my lips, hair untended and quite disastrous, pussy throbbing, juices slick down my thighs, eyes unnaturally bright, nipples fierce stiff nubs atop my heaving breasts; and head off in search of my hostess.

She is on her throne; door flung wide, thighs splayed, dress hoisted up around her waist, cotton panties resting like a discarded hula-hoop about one ankle. I peer from around the door frame at her; lovely Clara, delicious Clara, my friend, my lover, my future: as I hide my flushed and needy body from her sight.

“Hi … thank you … I’m sorry … really I am … I hope …”

I know she is replying but I am unhearing. I can see her lips moving but I am consumed with the need to stutter my apology and absolve myself of my sins. And I am creeping forward; stood framed in the doorway before her; the cascade of words the only protection from her disapproval.

“It’s okay.”

The words bring me to a trembling halt, uncertain as to whether I have heard them accurately, and so she repeats them.

“It’s okay.”

Relief overwhelming me; stepping closer as my shoulders heave and the pressure in my diaphragm is released.

“It’s okay.”

Echoing through my mind as I fall to my knees and the extended unendurable tension of my life bursts forth from my open mouth and salted sap seeps from my starring eyes.

“It’s okay.”

Pressing dampened cheeks against the warmth of her inner thighs and kissing, kissing, kissing endlessly at her soft flesh as I feel her fingers cautiously petting my wildly frizzed hair.

“It’s okay.”

Clinging to her as I push sobbing needy me into the gloriously humid wetness of her pretty spread petals so I might lap hungrily on the nectar contained within.

“It’s okay.”

Feeling the tension leaving her, my mouth pressed into her gorgeous sex, pussy juices glistening on my lips as I feel her golden, body heated, liquid excreta jet forth to drench my desperate mouth, upturned face and shattered sense of self.

“It’s okay, CG.”

As empty and as pointless as the same words I uttered to her.


Author’s Note

And that is the end, dear reader. A not particularly happy ending I am sure you would agree, but at least it is an ending of sorts.  

Though apparently there are still some Epilogues and Author Notes for us all to endure if we are truly masochistic.  

And after all those thousands of miserable words I am left with two symbols that will burn like scarlet letters into my conscious mind … CG … for I had so hoped that she wasn’t me and now I can’t be certain … which is most worrying indeed.  

Thank you for reading. Please do vote, comment or write if you so desire. 

Your humble servant, 

Cum Girl x


This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

Copyright © Copyright ©2011 All Rights Reserved.

©2011 Cum Girl. The stories linked to this online profile may not be reproduced in any manner, without the express permission of the author.

To link to this sex story from your site - please use the following code:

<a href="">The Stalker - Part 7</a>

Comments (12)

Tell us why

Please tell us why you think this story should be removed.