Stalking in the Alley - 14
"Haah..."
Two thoughts raced through my head as I bolted forward. The first was that something terrible would have happened if I hadn't run. The second was wondering exactly what would have happened if I hadn't.
If I'd just stayed there...
The hands kneading my chest, the hips smacking against my ass—and the cock and the womb, not scolding me with why did you run, but sighing shame, but this feels good too as cum came gushing out hard. I would have taken all of that with it still buried inside me. And if it had gone beyond simply pounding me like last time and layered on that technique—the one that had made me surrender—
Ugh. No.
For one split second, I had thought it felt good. Whether that was the aftershock of surrendering earlier or something else entirely, I'd caught myself thinking it wasn't half bad.
("Allow it, and it becomes easier?")
As if it had seen straight through me, the stalker murmured those words while holding me from behind. An obsession to claim me by any means necessary—and yet hands that handled me like some priceless treasure. And in perfect contradiction, that cock, which felt intent on smashing me to pieces. Every one of those clashing sensations hit me at once, and I honestly felt like I was losing my mind.
"Let go!"
I ran.
This was nothing like the helpless state from before. Right now, I was actually capable of escaping. I could slip its grasp and push forward, choose my own route, and I even knew the way out. I reminded myself, once again, that the one in a hurry here wasn't me. It was the stalker.
Don't run. Don't run.
It had said my walking stamina was infinite—running, however, was the exception. The moment stamina drained, my vision would narrow and my thinking would turn short-sighted. Since I had no idea what this body's reserves actually were, I had to treat running like a game resource and save it for genuine emergencies. A situation like this one, where a brisk walk alone would do, was one I had to walk my way out of.
So there I was, pulling away at maximum walking speed, the gap slowly widening, when the stalker's voice reached me.
("Do you know what happens down there when a woman gets aroused?")
I had to be more than three meters away by then, yet the voice carried with an eerie, syllable-perfect clarity. I ignored it and kept moving.
I picked my turns at random. Any pattern would run me straight into a wall. Back when the stalker wasn't hunting me, I'd marked my route with dust from my fingertips so I could find my way even after doubling back—but right now I had no spare moment for that.
("The womb rises, and the tissue around the cervix stretches. The inner walls expand as well, all so you can take an even longer cock.")
I tried my hardest not to listen. But a voice that stayed perfectly clear even from five meters away had a devilish pull to it—it made me hear whether I wanted to or not. First there was the sheer curiosity of how am I hearing that from over there? And then there was the other curiosity, the one any man would have about the ways a woman's body changes. Those two things together turned my ears toward that voice.
("Medically, they call it the tenting effect. I call it something else. 'The womb running away.'")
What kind of—
("A cock having to plunge in deep to catch a womb that's fleeing—doesn't that sound just like the two of us?")
I never should have listened. That topic was lethal to me precisely now. I needed to be thinking about the route, and instead I was thinking about my own body—about whether my womb had "run away" just now. The claim that this desperate flight of mine was exactly like a cock and a womb kept murmuring at the edge of my hearing.
I had to outrun the stalker closing in fast at my back, but those murmured words made my steps falter before I even noticed, and my feet tangled under me.
The route... think about the route.
But the thought—what if it catches me?—kept forcing its way up. The cock, having caught the runaway womb, would smack its entrance raw as punishment, then press in deep—don't you ever run again—and cum inside. That kind of fantasy. And then the image of the womb, left with no choice, conceiving whether it wanted to or not. It struck me that this whole situation was those two, personified.
If the stalker caught me, it would discipline me thoroughly with sex, bind me in pleasure so I couldn't run, defeat me and force me to obey whether I liked it or not. The delusion that the cock and the womb were us.
Please... please...
Left. Right. Left.
I fled for my life from the faint footsteps trailing me. Not running—just my absolute best at maximum walking speed. Truly desperate, fleeing the way a womb that didn't want to be impregnated would—
"Ah."
A wall blocked my path.
It wasn't that I'd unconsciously fallen into a pattern. I'd simply bolted without thinking. It was just... just...
("Bad luck, hmm?")
Nothing more than the result of bad luck.
("Take the position.")
Hands braced on the wall, ass thrust out. The rulebook had most definitely instructed me to assume exactly that posture, but everything I'd heard a moment ago kept replaying in my skull, and I hesitated.
("Or would you rather be treated as caught—by me—instead of taking the penalty?")
The instant those words landed, a hand glided over my ass and I nearly jumped out of my skin. What on earth had been done to me, that one time it caught me? Hearing the stalker's voice, I'd squeezed my eyes shut out of pure habit, groped around until I found the wall, laid my palms against it, and stuck my butt out a little.
"Like this...?"
Blind fumbling, palms barely resting on the wall, ass presented—that was the whole pose. And even for something so half-baked, the stalker sounded thoroughly satisfied as it continued.
("Time to set this round's theme, no? Look ahead.")
At those words I straightened my head and looked forward—and letters came cascading down before my eyes in an instant, like a roulette wheel in free fall.
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
Hands · Ears · Mouth · Tongue · Arms · Legs · Thighs · Anus · Genitals
Far more words than those had flashed past in that instant, but they moved too fast—those were all I could actually make out. The frantic cascade slowed, the letters drifting down one by one, until at last they locked into place.
("This round's theme is 'Tongue,' I see.")
("Allow me to introduce the penalties you'll be receiving for the next five minutes.")
("First: the Tongue of Truth. For five minutes, you will answer my questions while receiving a moderate fondling from me. For that duration, you will be incapable of lying.")
("Second: the Penetrating Tongue. My lengthened tongue becomes free to come and go wherever it pleases—your pussy, or your ass.")
("Third: the Tongue Onahole. You hand me an onahole connected directly to your pussy, one I may lick to my heart's content. In this case, the wall vanishes on the spot, and for thirty minutes I am free to use that onahole as I wish.")
("Fourth: you may mix whichever options you like to lower the intensity.")
I'm screwed.
That was the phrase that surfaced the moment I heard the penalties. The Tongue of Truth was off the table—I could not let it find out I was a newbie, that I was someone who'd been TS'd. The Penetrating Tongue—I had zero confidence I'd be standing on my own two feet after taking it. And the Tongue Onahole was worse, if anything. I'd trembled like a leaf over a technique that lasted mere minutes; no way in hell could I endure thirty minutes of pursuit in that state.
My assumption that I could hold out at the wall three times had been a misjudgment. With penalties like these, even a single round was a crisis.
("You have three minutes to choose. Dawdle, and I choose for you.")
("Me, I'd take the Tongue Onahole. You have to savor the good things, no?")
Moderate intensity. End it fast.
Option three, dragging on and on, was the worst possible pick. A moderate fondling might be survivable, but thirty straight minutes of my pussy being licked? Not a chance.
Should I convert it into a deal?
For a heartbeat, the idea of trading the penalty for a negotiation crossed my mind—but some instinct screamed that this was a button I must not press. Like last time with "Get down": if it toyed with me through some mechanism I couldn't even perceive, there'd be no coming back.
("One minute left.")
Lost in deliberation, I suddenly found the clock nearly spent. You know that jittery panic when time is running out on a make-or-break exam and there are still problems you haven't touched? The pressure bearing down on me now was dozens of times worse.
("Thirty seconds.")
"Four! A combo of one and two! As short as possible!"
My reasoning: combine one and two. The shallow hope that with a tongue buried in me, it couldn't exactly conduct a proper interrogation—and the cold calculation that merging the two would shorten the total time, making it strictly better than option two alone. So I combined them.
("Hmm... you did choose within the time. What a pity.")
"Phew..."
("Then we'll do them separately, two minutes apiece. You can't very well answer questions with it inside you, after all.")
"Wait—can't you do that... thing? Thought-waves or telepathy or whatever it's called?"
("There is. I simply don't feel like using it.")
"Combining the options is supposed to be MY call!"
("This is a penalty, remember? If you fail to specify the method, it's only natural that I hold priority. And I did grant your wish—didn't I make it short, just as you asked?")
"Tch..."
("The three minutes are already up. Would you like to choose again? Ah—of course, if we rewind, it locks in as option three.")
My voice died in my throat.
I should have dictated the combination down to the last detail. Option four's permutations were effectively infinite. But I'd panicked and begged only for it to be short. The time pressure bearing down from behind me had made me far, far too desperate. The result: the choice itself had slipped into the stalker's hands, and the stalker—honoring nothing but "make it short"—had picked the option that took both.
A rookie mistake I would never make again. And one already behind me, beyond all undoing.
("Shall we begin?")
"Eek?!"
I felt a cold, unnaturally long tongue glide down my body. It licked along my waist, slid lower, slow and unhurried, gave my ass one long upward stroke like savoring the last of an ice cream cone—and then, without touching me at all, its chill settled in, hovering just shy of both holes.
Oh.
The moment I felt both hands seize my cheeks and spread them wide, I understood in a flash what was coming and braced myself—and a cold tongue entered my pussy without a shred of mercy.
"Nngh..."
I felt it feeding in, millimeter by millimeter, but more than pleasure, it was the shock of that sudden icy intrusion that set my whole body shuddering.
"Aahhn!"
Slowly, cautiously—like a snake surveying a brand-new den—the tongue explored me. Then, like a serpent that had finally spotted its prey, it surged deeper all at once. My pussy clamped down hard against the sudden invader, get out, but the tongue kept coming, until—almost as if it recognized a friend of the cock that had visited earlier—my body yielded, welcoming the intrusion and clearing a path all the way to the mouth of my womb.
"Not this one! Not thiiis!"
The tongue drew back a little, just short of my womb's entrance. Like a snake pulling its head back to weigh whether this prey was safe to swallow, it tested the waters—then, satisfied that this was indeed a meal, it began to hunt, striking at the mouth of my womb with its tip. And I could do nothing but beg it to stop, shaking my hips like prey making its final stand.
Squeeze.
But that plea was cut off by the hands clamped around my ass, as if to say: prey doesn't get to move. Held fast and ordered to be hunted quietly, I could only roll my hips up and down instead—spare me, please—but the tongue inside my pussy simply swayed along with every motion, licking mercilessly at my weakest point.
"Pleeease, no! Not circling around that deep—no!"
The tongue began to spin. Two full rotations to the right, back again; then two to the left, and back once more. In moments it was spiraling across every inch of my pussy, and the sensation—something I had never once felt in my life—threatened to scramble my mind entirely. Drowning in that overwhelming pleasure, all I could do was shake my ass as if to fling it off, screaming at the thing buried inside me to get out.
"Out! Get ooout!"
I shook and shook, but the soft serpent within had no intention of withdrawing. If anything, every time I nearly pushed it out, it plunged deeper, as if to punish each escape.
"...!"
Then, as if deciding the hunt had gone on long enough—like a viper injecting its venom—it jabbed at the mouth of my womb, slipped just barely inside, and began grinding in slow circles, as if to finish off the last of my resistance.
"Hik! Hahh! I'm cum—!"
The word tore out of me before I knew it, and I came—but the serpent, as if it couldn't yet tell whether its struggling prey was dead or alive, kept circling, lodged tight against the mouth of my womb.
"Stooop! I'm cumming! Pleeease!"
By then I didn't even have the strength left to shake my hips. The venom called pleasure had been injected in such doses that every last ounce of strength had drained out of me. And so the tongue toyed with me for a long, long while.
"Ahhn..."
Then—as if lamenting that this dish, too, was off the menu—it plunged deep into my ass with one last thrust and slid free.
("Lose to me, and you get to feel this every single day.")
There I was, palms braced on the wall, gulping down air in heaves. I screwed my eyes shut against the voice in my ears, tried with everything I had not to listen—but the devil's tongue had no intention of stopping.
("With my lengthened tongue working you just like before, my fingers could stretch in and grind against that G-spot of yours—")
("Or I could attach my tongue to the tip of my cock, and stack that pleasure on top of the pleasure of being filled.")
Such depraved words. And yet such terribly tempting ones. Inside my head, this is enough—just give up and after coming this far, quitting would be a waste collided head-on—but what actually came out of my mouth was something else entirely.
"You're scared, aren't you?"
You. You don't have any way to catch me right now, do you?
The fact that you went out of your way to pick this method means your chances are running low, too, huh?
You're this anxious about losing me—so the exit can't be far now, can it?
All three meanings, packed into the single line that left my mouth. I don't know how I managed to say something like that. But it didn't matter. Whether it was instinct, or one of those stray mutterings that sometimes slipped out of me—it simply came out. And that automatic utterance, paradoxically, held the most rational answer of all. Because in spitting out those accidental words, I had realized all three things at once.
(...)
Seeing the stalker struck speechless for the very first time felt like a knot loosening in my chest. This was a creature that had already stooped to every cheap trick under the sun just to devour me—what difference would a little more taunting make?
("The Tongue of Truth. Activating it now.")
My body was still trembling in the aftershocks of climax while, inside, I was snickering over landing a clean hit—
("You used to be a man, didn't you?")
—and one of the most terrifying sentences I could imagine slid out of the stalker's mouth.