Stalked in the Alley - 5
"...?"
This time, I genuinely thought I was about to be pounced on.
But the stalker didn't attack right away.
'Why...?'
I'd been left with a strange wound, one that ran far deeper than skin.
I'd always considered myself fairly well-versed in the lewd side of things.
Games, doujinshi, videos, anime—I never dug to the absolute bottom of any of it, but aside from genres that truly split people down the middle, I'd at least sampled everything once. I wasn't the kind of guy who could recite an entire category from memory, but I was a man who could catch a lewd double entendre on the first pass.
(This time, it was you who chose, wasn't it?)
"Uh...?"
And yet... this time, all of that experience turned out to be pure poison.
Because those very experiences were what let me understand the hidden meaning behind the words the stalker had spat out with such relish.
'Uh... huh? What? What?'
Everything that had happened to me so far had been passive.
I'd suddenly become a woman. A status window and a rulebook had suddenly flown into my hands. A being called the stalker—something that wanted to own me—had suddenly appeared and cornered me.
But luckily, I'd slipped out of the hypnosis. Luckily, a hint had appeared, letting me strike a bargain. Luckily, I'd thrown every scrap of old knowledge and newly learned know-how into making that deal go through.
Coincidence stacked on coincidence stacked on coincidence.
If my luck had been even slightly worse—if what I had to offer had fallen even a little short—I would have ended up a slave.
But I still wasn't a slave.
None of this had truly been driven by my own will. Every step of it was a situation where the only options on the table were worst and second-worst.
And I had always, invariably chosen the second-worst—while managing to protect myself. Even when my body became a woman's, even when I briefly lost to instincts I was experiencing for the first time, I had held onto myself through sheer rational judgment.
This choice, however, was different.
Of my own will, by my own hand, I had chosen 'seduction'—an active, proactive option.
Even knowing that the stalker's lust was satisfied and the deal therefore wouldn't be voided, even knowing that,
I had thought I don't want to disappoint the being in front of me—and chosen anyway.
Chosen to ask it to eat me, savoring every bite.
"Ah... aah... no!"
Before I knew it, I'd turned my back and bolted.
I honestly thought I might have just broken the deal.
And yet, even as I ran, a sly little thought coiled in the back of my mind: the stalker could stop my body, but it couldn't stop me from moving forward on my own—so it probably wouldn't stop me at all.
But—
(Deals)
"Huh...? How are you holding me...? Ah... no... that's not...?"
My shallow little scheme—
(—outrank)
"Let go! Let go! Let me go!"
—shattered against the hands gripping me.
(—outrank the rules.)
"Let go! Please! Let me go! I'll void the deal! I surrender! We'll go back to before the deal!"
(Thank you for the meal.)
The stalker forced my body around, hunkered down, bit into my chest, and lashed its tongue over my nipple. Then, stroking my waist as it trembled uncontrollably from the shock of having lost something, it spoke.
(You're so sexy, and so cute.)
—When I suckle that big chest of yours and stroke that writhing waist of yours, the way you shiver with pleasure is going to be truly, devastatingly sexy and cute.
"Ah... ahaha..."
The stalker had kept the deal.
It had kept the promise it made with its own mouth, too.
But I had failed to keep mine.
(You know what you lost just now, don't you? Smart as ever.)
The great mental bulwark known as rationalization.
(If you were just a little less clever, you wouldn't understand what I mean right now. Maybe you'd figure it out days from now, looking back on this moment.)
The stalker spoke as if savoring a delicacy, my chest still held between its teeth. My lip found my teeth before I could stop it.
Every word the stalker said was true, line by line—and precisely because it was so true, it hurt beyond bearing.
(If you'd been even the tiniest bit more cunning, you wouldn't have said it for my sake back then.)
When the stalker had teased me, I could have just brushed it off. What did it matter?
But instead, I had genuinely treasured the stalker's lover-like gesture, and in honest gratitude, I had tried to please it.
(Thank you.)
Honesty—the belief that what you receive, you return—
(You're truly beautiful,)
and goodwill—the conviction that the price of a warm embrace must be paid—
(such a good child.)
—had made me beg to be eaten.
I had offered myself up to a 'monstrosity.'
"Ugh... uuugh..."
At first, I thought I'd been tricked. I glared at the stalker—still latched onto my chest—biting my lip and clenching my fist in fury.
Then I realized the stalker had done nothing wrong, and the fist went slack.
And soon after, I realized something else, and reached out to stroke the stalker's head.
(Hmm?)
"Even if I went back to that moment, I'd make the same choice. Every time."
Because I hadn't wanted to disappoint it.
Because it hadn't forced the deal on me while my legs trembled with bravado—it had wrapped me in a warm embrace instead. I was grateful for that, and I hadn't wanted to let it down.
So I'd made that choice.
But it was the stalker that had made my legs tremble in the first place. And it was the stalker that had pulled me into its arms and made me feel warmth in the first place.
So there I was, gently stroking its head, pulling it close, and saying—
"You goddamn bitch."
The cause and the effect, the fear and the relief, the passive and the active—all of it, every last thread, had been spun by the stalker.
So I decided to simply accept both, and simply offer my chest.
The stalker had been making puzzled little sounds as though it couldn't fathom my intent, but at that one line, it understood the whole situation in an instant, shifted over to my other breast, and let out a breath of pure astonishment.
(Ha.)
(You really do amaze me, in so many ways...)
"Ngh... that hurts—!"
The stalker seized the wrist of the hand that had been stroking its head, pressed down with brute force, and shoved it away.
"Ungh..."
Where before it had toyed with my chest like an aristocrat slowly savoring a rare delicacy—teasing, toying, playing at leisure—now it devoured me ravenous, like someone starved for three days and on the brink of death, as though determined to taste every inch of me at once.
It gripped my ass as if it would never, ever let go, kneading it in slow, sticky circles, and my cock—already swollen and shameless from heat—was now boiling over with rage outright, slamming its hips as if to smash me to pieces with it, drilling the head of its cock against my cunt.
"Angry... are... you?"
(...)
"Doing something like this... ungh... for the first time... in your life, huh?"
Maybe it was because I wasn't despairing, or maybe it was the humiliation of having my head petted like a child—whatever the reason, the moment I registered just how furiously enraged the stalker was, I gleefully poked at it.
Mimicking the tone the stalker always used with me, sweet as sugar:
(You...)
And then the stalker spoke.
Nothing like the rage-driven thing hammering its cock into me moments before—it had flattened its emotions in a single heartbeat, and looked at me and said:
(You've lost something again, haven't you?)
"Tch..."
A chill crawled up my spine.
By the clock, less than ten seconds had passed since the anger-fueled pounding.
And in those ten seconds, it had composed itself completely—and in that same instant, deduced that by becoming a woman, I had lost something enormous.
(Let's make the next deal.)
"A—"
What should have come out of my mouth was, clearly and distinctly, "Anal training, right?"
What came out instead wasn't even a proper syllable—just a broken little sound that only barely managed to be the word "ah."
(Turn around, and spread your hips to the side.)
I should have said something. I should have resisted, or gotten angry.
But somehow... all the strength just drained out of me.
I had become a woman, been taken into the arms of the very creature that had tormented me here the most—and, absurdly, that creature had understood me. And now, absurdly still, I found myself in the position of having to turn around, spread my ass, and have my hole trained.
It felt like the single thread that had carried me—the person called me—through everything had been snipped clean through.
—Hoo.
"This absolute insane—!"
But even that feeling was snuffed out entirely by the stalker blowing a cold breath against my asshole.
Goosebumps rippled across my whole body, and I twisted my hips away without thinking.
I strangled the urge to whip my head around and yell, barely, through superhuman restraint—and instead snapped at it from where I'd collapsed forward onto my hands.
"Who on EARTH blows air into someone's ass, you lunatic?!"
(I do, apparently.)
This was play I couldn't have imagined in my wildest dreams.
Nothing in the thin, sprawling sea of smut I'd consumed had ever featured this! People who shove things up asses and do every depraved act under the sun, sure, those exist—but blowing cold air into someone and watching them shiver...?!
(How is it? The cold breath makes everything feel more sensitive, doesn't it?)
"I don't need breath down there, regular or otherwise!"
(And yet the anal training hasn't even started yet, you know?)
...!
I sighed quietly inside.
If it was pulling stunts I couldn't even imagine before things had even begun, I had absolutely no idea what horrors it would unleash next.
(A deal is a deal, after all?)
"Ugh..."
A contemptuous sound slipped out of me, unbidden.
I'd always thought that exact contemptuous delivery was overused in fiction—inconsistent, lazy writing. But now, having produced the very same voice without meaning to, I understood: it was the truth.
And with my eyes squeezed shut, I bent at the waist once more and spread my hips left and right, baring the hole for all to see.
"Just... just don't do the breath thing again. Please."
(Oh, but isn't that—aren't you still wearing your bottom, little one?)
"Wh... What?! Eek?!"
I hadn't noticed, too busy reeling from an act so outrageous.
Along with the command to strip, the stalker yanked my swimsuit taut and then—like snapping a rubber band—released it to strike my anus with pinpoint precision.
"..."
Pulling down a swimsuit.
It was nothing—a trivial motion, one I'd performed a thousand times as a man, every trip to the bathroom. But now someone was watching me, burning with lust, and I had to do it standing.
And because of those differences, every inch the fabric traveled downward came bundled with a crushing wave of shame, followed by a flinch, over and over.
"Is... is this enough now...?"
Taking up the position again, I had no idea what I was even saying anymore, drowned in repeated humiliation.
First, cold breath blown into me. Then, my swimsuit used as a rubber band against my hole. What fresh torment was coming next...? My head was spinning in circles.
—Push.
"Ungh...!"
Without a moment's hesitation, the stalker drove a finger into my ass.
(In males, there's a place around here called the prostate. About two knuckles in.)
Sliding its finger in with perfect ease, the stalker immediately hooked it into a curve and brushed lightly against my lower wall. My body shuddered before I could stop it, and a moan tried to claw its way up my throat—I slapped a hand over my mouth and barely held it in.
(In females, the rectum and the vagina sit flush against each other, separated by only the thinnest of walls.)
With a slick, sliding withdrawal, the stalker pulled its finger back partway and pressed, poke poke, against the lower wall at about one knuckle's depth—and I could feel the fingertip prodding back at me from inside my cunt.
(And in the case of futanari...)
"Kyaaah?!"
Two fingers plunged in, deep, without warning.
Having buried both fingers to the third knuckle in a heartbeat, the stalker spoke.
(A little deeper still, the prostate and the vaginal wall share a place. A futanari's structure is different from both male and female.)
All it had done was insert its fingers and pump. And yet, somehow, my legs were trembling uncontrollably, and I could feel my slick arousal trickling in a slow line down my thighs.
(So you're the type with a lot of sweet spots on this side, hmm?)
"Haa..."
The stalker played with me, plunging its fingers in and out, and when it grazed the upper wall ever so slightly, the moans threatened to spill past even my hand.
The penetration brought a nauseating sense of something foreign where nothing belonged—but the scraping and the withdrawal carried almost none of that feeling, only raw, confusing pleasure.
(We're not finished yet.)
—Shove.
"...!...!...!"
This time, I wasn't holding back the moan—I was too shocked to make any sound at all.
Having driven its fingers in to a full three knuckles once more, the stalker said:
(Most futanari are monsters that have transformed, you see. They almost never occur naturally.)
"Ngh... tch... stop..."
Hooking its fingers upward, the stalker began scraping at that spot again and again without pause.
Under the relentless repetition, the upper wall—barely anything at first—soon started to itch, and the itch deepened into sharp, crackling jolts of sensation.
"Why... only there... ngh..."
It was different from the foreign-body feeling. Different from the scrape of a sweet spot. Different from the pull of withdrawal. Nothing but fingers pumping, and yet so much sensation flooded through me.
(This is a monstrosity's sweet spot. Right now, all you've felt is a strange new sensation—but if a true monster received this same touch, it would be writhing its hips right now, begging you to stop while its cock sprayed seed like a ruptured hose.)
"Okay, okay, I get it... stop..."
(Now then—you know the weakness of men and of futanari both. Shall I teach you the weakness of women?)
"Wh...?"
Incredibly—unbelievably—something utterly stupid came out of my mouth.
Because everything the stalker had done until now was apparently just a refreshing opening act, it said it in a voice so bright and breezy:
(Here it is—a woman's weakness. Yours is about two and a half fingers deep, hm?)
"...Aaaaah!"
It jabbed at the spot two and a half fingers deep, then began swirling in slow, lazy circles—and my hips began tracing that same circle, round and round, following the finger's orbit.
Not to seduce. Not willingly at all. It was simply that the spot felt too good—my hips were rotating in tandem so the finger couldn't finish its wicked little spirals.
The same place that, from a single brush earlier, had left my legs trembling and my arousal streaming down my thighs.
Here it was. My weakness.
(And this place is called—)
"Stop iiiit!"
(—the G-spot of the cunt. Just a little above it, you see.)
I tried to scramble forward, away from the stalker and its ceaseless toying—but the moment it sensed my movement, it yanked its fingers out in an instant.
Once again, a brand-new sensation short-circuited me into a brief daze. And this time, the cold breath that came huffing against my exposed hole was harder, fiercer than before—and my insides, sensitized beyond all reason, felt it a hundred times more keenly.
And so, ass raised in the most pathetic posture imaginable, goosebumps blooming across every inch of my skin, trembling head to toe—
I came. I had no choice but to come.