Stalking in the Alley - 11
Clenching tight around her cock with my pussy, I gladly welcomed the flow of semen being carried up into my womb—
and my womb, as if confirming that this truly was its final destination, received the load with fluttering little pulses.
"A... aah...!"
And yet, unlike my body, I was furious.
A variable nowhere in the contract had dragged me into sex no one could deny had happened. The fact that it had felt so good I couldn't fire back a single word of protest. Even my body, finding this whole situation not bad at all—
from any third party's perspective, and from my own flesh, they were flawless, undeniable proof that I had become a woman. And that was exactly what made my blood boil.
"This is one fuck I can't argue my way out of either way...!"
I had given my body over as payment for a reward.
But even that contract had been closer to fraud.
I had trusted—at the very least, that the Stalker wouldn't run a scam like this. That she would keep the barest minimum of courtesy.
None of it had materialized, and I'd lost my virginity in the most absurd way possible.
Not in a form I never wanted—though being taken by force might actually have stung less. That kind of loss is unavoidable given the circumstances; anyone could call it only natural.
But this... losing my virginity by surrendering to pleasure wounded my pride far too deeply.
(Shh.)
Just as I wound up to demand answers, the Stalker covered my mouth.
So I obediently bit my tongue, deciding I would hear her out first.
(I am the Stalker, you see. And so the way out is the police station.)
The Stalker laid out the reward information without much fuss.
She was, true to her name, a stalker—and befitting one, the exit was the police station.
(Call out 'The Stalker's chasing me!' at the police station, and the officers will come running and see you safely home.)
A thorough explanation, and a crystal-clear escape method.
But my fury hadn't cooled one bit.
Her glans, still pressed snug against my cervix as if loath to say goodbye, had no intention of pulling out, you see.
(And my ability is 'Correction.' I can revise reality, space, situations, positions—things of that sort.)
My rage-boiled head went ice cold.
What kind of hilariously broken ability was that? How was anyone supposed to beat it? Had this place been a mad space where the odds of escape sat near zero percent, like the White Room?
A torrent of thoughts flashed through my mind in an instant, but I desperately shut them down and listened as the Stalker kept talking.
(I was far too strong, you see, so the Rules clamped down on my ability—and I imposed restraints on myself as well. If my semen enters a woman's womb, it is judged as a 'correction,' which allows me to fire the Correction ability once.)
(And as the price of those restraints, I was granted the right to modify Rule 3.)
When not in the middle of movement, being touched for three minutes or longer is deemed consent, and sexual acts commence.
I'd been too busy being ravished to notice, but in hindsight, it was strange.
I had clearly been hypnotized, yet the rulebook said the sexual acts would happen.
The rulebook—the Rules—were not, it turned out, absolute.
(Rest easy. Rule 3 is the only rule I can touch.)
The Stalker's hunting method assembled itself in my head.
First, crush the target with terror. Then touch her, soothe her. Before long, convince her it's 'merely sex,' and place her under hypnosis.
After that, pour semen into the woman's womb... and correct something.
Correct, and correct, and correct,
until at the end of it all there stands a Stalker, freed clean of her fetters.
She might even rewrite the Rules themselves—turning the very rules that once restrained her into weapons.
-Shloop.
(Haa...)
Forget the situation I was in—I'd frozen solid under the aftershock of that staggering revelation.
And while I sat there stunned, the Stalker took my hand and drew it slowly downward, making me stroke the spot beneath her cock—her balls.
"What is this...!"
I was aghast—and at the same time, thoroughly enraged.
Because what the Stalker was doing was, to anyone's eyes, an extra act.
(There isn't enough lubricant inside you yet.)
An excuse.
That was what spilled out of me the second I heard those words.
(Grant me this, and I'll give you additional compensation.)
Too aggrieved to find any words at all.
I'd done her the favor. And had lost to pleasure and given up my virginity for it.
I'd received my proper reward. And against that lawless ability, all it had bought me was deeper despair.
And... that was precisely how I came to realize:
With the rulebook as it stood, escaping this space would be next to impossible—and that I had to accept her little request.
Damn it all...
I kicked and resisted and held out all the same, but for no reason beyond having caught me once, the Stalker still occupied the seat of absolute dominance,
and I was still nothing more than an ingredient thrashing to keep itself from being cooked.
(You just need to let me in deep about three more times, to add lubricant. Naturally, you'll be fondling my 'lubricant pouch,' and I won't move a muscle—I'll only pump out lubricant.)
In other words: three more vaginal creampies, so she could savor this situation.
Whether it was to slip around her own restrictions or simply to toy with me, I couldn't tell, but out came the preposterous claim that her balls were a lubricant pouch.
(That works, right?)
As if listening to her were the most natural thing in the world, that question steered me along so smoothly—like I had no options left to choose from.
God, I was angry.
Because the fact that, helpless to do anything else, I would just have to keep giving in was too unreasonable to bear.
"Lubricant-pouring: unlimited. However, the moment your desire is satisfied, the act ends immediately."
Winning had been an uphill battle from the very start.
"Constant stimulation of the lubricant pouch. And I take your lubricant-pouring cock as deep as it will possibly go."
So I needed restraints to match the Stalker's own.
"However, if your desire is satisfied and you keep the act going—or want more anyway—additional compensation must be proposed."
At the very least... it seemed the fight would only be fair if, just as the Stalker lost something and gained what she wanted, I lost what I wanted and gained something in return.
"And finally: no moving your cock or your hands."
(Hehehehe... Hahahaha!)
With that final term, the Stalker laughed as though overjoyed, as though in genuine admiration.
Then, just as quickly, the laughter cut off clean, and in an instant her tone returned to flat and even as she continued.
(How exciting.)
Semen heaved and spurted into me all over again, as if flaunting the fact that her virility would never run dry—endlessly, on and on.
But my patience and my womb had their limits, and trembling from head to toe, I could do nothing but feel the semen welling back up and overflowing.
(I can't very well stay inside you for years, can I? If you fail to make me come within thirty minutes, I will start moving.)
"...Fine."
(Don't worry—even then, so long as you've satisfied my desire, the win is yours.)
With those words, the Stalker planted her palm on my ass and gave it a knead,
then buried her head deep and whispered into my ear.
(It'll probably go on for half a day, though.)
There was no other way, anyway.
Try as I might, I was certain that even if I broke free now, I'd only be caught again—and once recaptured, I had no confidence I could escape.
Break free, get caught again, get 'trained'—and if I allowed a vaginal creampie, that was defeat.
If, even once, a caress startled me so badly that I opened my eyes and met her face head-on, defeat.
If I failed to locate the police station and, wandering in circles, ran into a wall while the penalties piled up—defeat, with high probability.
The odds of defeat were far too great. I needed information, unconditionally.
I can't keep getting jerked around by her pretexts.
Rather than being led around by excuses and gritting through the humiliation to scrape up scraps of information, striking a deal like this was far better.
Both paths would be grueling—but at least this way I could accept the outcome cleanly.
This beat collecting information while being sexually harassed and strung along.
(Is it all right if my hands stay here? I should have something to touch, at the very least.)
"...Sure."
The Stalker said this while kneading my ass in her hands.
For a heartbeat I wondered what scheme she was working with that, too... then gave up on the suspicion.
Ban it, and she'd cook up some other stunt; stop that, and she'd simply rewrite the terms of the deal.
(Let me make it explicit once more. One: if you satisfy my desire and then grant me an even greater pleasure on top, you will be compensated in equal measure.)
(Two: you will keep my lubricant pouch under constant stimulation.)
(Three: my cock and my hands may not change position—however, ejaculation is unlimited.)
(Correct?)
"...Right."
(Haa...)
Having recited the terms, the Stalker exhaled a contented sigh.
To be fair, the deal only asked her to endure, and there was little real stimulation—the fondling of her balls and the grip around her buried cock, and that was it.
A virgin might buckle under that, but to a Stalker who seemed to have lived through the ages, it was hardly stimulation at all.
(Do you need some time?)
"...No."
(Then we begin right now.)
As if there wasn't a second to waste, the Stalker called the start at once.
A hurried kickoff, somehow unlike her usual sly, smirking self—and something about it sent a spike of urgency through me.
An urgency that wanted to claim me even a single moment sooner.
(Hehe, to have you this fast—mmph?!)
Was I right? I had to be.
I crammed my hand into the Stalker's mouth just as she tried to speak—not one or two fingers, but four, all at once.
And then, ever so gently, I stroked her balls. No—her lubricant pouch.
"You know, there were times you reacted especially strongly."
First: when I first proposed the deal. She had praised my mental fortitude before that too, but this time the compliment came with a long sigh, almost as if she'd been moved.
Second: when I said that even if I went back, I'd do it all over again, and called her a bitch, emotion cracked through. With a scornful 'Ha,' she bristled—and slammed her cock hard into my swimsuit-sheathed pussy.
Third: I was too far gone to be certain, but it was probably during the Thimble. When I asked if she was out of her mind, the breathing behind me turned hot and heavy with excitement, and the whole atmosphere seemed to sharpen.
"You. You've never been cursed out and devoured by someone on your own level, have you?"
A high-tier Anomaly—a Great Anomaly or something else entirely, I had no way of knowing.
But between the absurd 'Correction' ability and the way she toyed with time multipliers, she had to hold a frighteningly high station.
Every time I counterattacked, or delivered results beyond her expectations, the Stalker praised me to the skies—as if humans like me were something she'd never seen, or had seen scarcely any of.
And this time, when I threw my gambit onto the table, she had flared into extreme excitement before arranging herself into a mask of calm.
If I assumed the Stalker had lived a very long time, then that flare of excitement was pent-up feeling leaking out, and the calm afterward was a poker face. If I'd lived that long, even I would have mastered the poker face by now.
And that big, admiring laugh at the start... hadn't that broken straight through the poker face—genuine emotion laid bare?
It seemed her stimulation was lacking.
In conclusion, the Stalker had been desperately waiting for something beyond her expectations—something, presumably, that could rise as high as her own station. And the one experience she'd never likely had was a situation she couldn't lead.
With that personality and that technique, the odds of any woman beating the Stalker at her own game were practically nil.
The Stalker's taste is "Equals."
And decisively of all, that very piece of information had surfaced in my hint window.
A long while ago, at that. Probably sometime around the bukkake—just before or just after.
'Equals' had gone over my head at first, so I hadn't understood it, but I thought I had the rough shape of it now.
What the Stalker had yearned for, desperately, was probably something that could talk back to her. Something that could defy her.
"You have no idea how much of a turn-on you are, do you?"
Frankly, it wouldn't have mattered either way.
Because even if I lost, the plan was simple: pay back everything she'd poured into me, all of it, across those thirty minutes—and then walk away.