Stalking in the Alley - 6
“…! ……!!”
My legs gave out beneath me, and before I knew it I was on my knees, trembling uncontrollably. I'd been squeezing my eyes shut in case I might catch a glimpse of the stalker's face, but in that instant I forgot all about such things and opened them.
It was nothing like earlier, when the stalker had been squelching away at her own pussy. Back then it had literally been a grinding meant to make me submit fast, and the sheer overload of sensation from those chained climaxes had left me unable to tell what was what.
This time was different.
Even when I'd been taken against my will, I hadn't known a woman's body could feel like this — the pleasure had blindsided me so hard that white light kept bursting before my eyes. But what I was feeling now was at least several times beyond even that.
(Completely different from before, isn't it?)
I'd heard it somewhere once. That unlike the exaggerations in manga and smut, the gulf between forced and unforced pleasure was heaven and earth — two times at the very least, several times at most. I'd heard… but I'd never imagined it could be to this degree.
(Once the disgust that holds the pleasure back is gone, you feel it that much more.)
Through a field of vision wavering like heat haze over summer asphalt, the stalker's voice reached me. Maybe because my eyes were shut against my will, her voice eerily drove straight into my ears, deep and unnervingly clear.
(Then let's get properly started.)
“…? Hii!”
A finger slipped inside… but something was different. It wasn't the stalker's slender, soft finger — something a little thicker was pressing into my back hole, an artificial, rubbery texture against my skin.
“Wh-what on earth is…”
(It's a thimble.)
I knew what a thimble was. A long time ago, back in middle school, when the teacher taught us sewing, she handed out little thimbles so we kids wouldn't hurt our hands. Finger-gloves worn to keep your finger safe — and on top of that, to press the needle through — thicker and firmer than a rubber glove, with a fingerprint-like pattern molded in so they wouldn't slip…
“What kind of cra— yaaagh!”
What had entered me just now was a thimble studded with something rough, like a cat's tongue. The stimulation was tremendous — but beyond the stimulation itself, I felt like I was losing my mind. The fact that this protective glove, which had once protected me, which I'd fiddled with in wide-eyed fascination and which still sat vivid in my memory, was now inside my anus stroking my weak point — it was too bizarre for words.
(That's the spot from before, isn't it.)
“Uuugh!”
Feeling this much from a glove that covered a single joint of one finger was unspeakably humiliating. If it had been something mainstream and famous like a rotor, I wouldn't have had these thoughts at all, small as it was. Because that's what such toys are. Because they're made for exactly that. But a thimble is not.
“That's for keeping your finger from getting pri— hyaat?!”
A product made so that mothers at home wouldn't prick themselves while sewing. It had no lewd purpose whatsoever; it was never made for this. A thimble is a thing imbued with care — shielding the sewer's hand, easing the needle through — not a device built for purposes like this. And that was exactly why the mere fact that I could feel this, violated by such an object, was so utterly degrading.
— shlick… shlick —
“Stooooop!”
At the nubs endlessly stroking the weak point she'd shown me earlier, I crawled forward on my knees. I would never have done such a thing under normal circumstances — but being violated by a household item that held my fondest memories shamed me so much that all I wanted was to run.
(Tempt me all you like — I won't be stopping, you know?)
The stalker, who until moments ago had pinned my hips and my ass to keep me from moving, now — as if the sight of me crawling on all fours with my rear swaying was a treat for the eyes — trailed after me, rubbing ceaselessly at my weak point.
(Done already? And it was such a lovely view.)
“Kgh…!”
Begging for mercy while crawling on all fours with my ass being toyed with… The instant I realized I'd just done something I'd never have done even to save my life, I stopped crawling. Not that it mattered — the thimble whirling round and round inside me, the finger wearing it, had no intention of stopping just because I did. If anything, halting only ground that finger against me all the harder.
(How about this, then?)
“Hyaaah!”
The finger that had been teasing me in lazy circles now began jabbing and grinding. The thimble on it, as if this were the correct answer, raked my weak point with its rough studs, heaping on even greater stimulation.
“St… stop it!”
I knew it would never stop. Having lived as a man, I knew that saying such things only spurred the other side on — and yet the sensation of pleasure fused with shame had a magic that wrung these words out of me all the same.
— shlick, shlick… jab, jab —
As if my prediction had hit the mark, the thimble-clad finger began toying with me stickily, across a wider sweep. As if speed were strictly for amateurs, it would deliberately trace slow circles just shy of my weak point to tease me, then suddenly strike the opposite side, up top.
“Haaaang!”
— pop… plip… shloop —
“Stooop iiiit!”
When I came, the finger — as if it had grown bored — moved on to something new. It pulled out, sank back in and out again, circled lightly around my rim, then plunged home once more. Like a child seeing a doorbell for the very first time, pressing the intercom chime over and over out of sheer wonder, it pressed me once, savored my moan the way a child marvels at the chime, withdrew, then pushed in again — experimenting, this time, to see whether pressing somewhere new would ring a different note.
But the difference between the doorbell and me was plain.
“Hah… ha…! Aah!”
Wherever you pressed the doorbell — left side, right side — the same circuit gave the same chime. But inside me, every nerve ran along its own path, so every new place she pressed rang out a different sound.
(Just a little longer, hmm?)
Like a kid thrilled that a fascinating new toy gave a different reaction every single time, the stalker feasted on my responses — deliberately prodding places I hadn't yet felt to startle me, suddenly striking my weak point to make me jolt — and whether or not she noticed my supporting arms trembling beneath me, she would pause for a breather just when they were about to buckle. She toyed with me using technique beyond anything I could have dreamed up.
“Haah… haah…”
— shlick… shlick —
Perhaps she enjoyed watching me quiver, because there were moments when she simply went still, finger buried inside me. And each time, her hand would stroke my back with the tender care of a child gifted their first puppy — and each time, goosebumps crawled up my spine.
It was already the fourth rest break.
The first: I didn't know what she was doing, and burned the entire break on sheer tension. The second: unnerved by the stalker's total silence, I only rested halfway, like a passenger dozing on a bus with eyes half-open, anxious about missing their stop. The third: I understood by then, and rested while still feeling awkward about the hand on my back and the finger in my ass. The fourth: now. I fully grasped the concept of break time, felt the creepy caress, and was relaxed enough to let other thoughts wander entirely — like I honestly cannot fathom why the stalker does any of this.
And so the fourth rest break drew to a close.
For a while now a strange, wet slapping sound had been coming from behind me, and my curiosity had been pricking — but now it was development time, and just as I clenched hard, bracing against pleasure that could lance into my rear hole from any direction, the stalker spoke.
(Clitoris. Shall I touch it?)
“Huh…?”
For a moment, it didn't compute. Why wasn't she tormenting my rear hole? Why? It was anal development time, wasn't it? And where was my clitoris even supposed to be?
“Oh.”
Right at that moment, with my mind in complete shambles, the stalker touched my clit.
“AAAAAAAAAH!”
A place I'd never anticipated. Which made it the place I'd guarded least. And yet it was the most sensitive spot of all — and the instant she pinched it, that strange pressure that had been quietly building inside me broke loose. I felt as if I'd been released from some eerie urge, my whole body awash in catharsis, set free.
When I looked it up much later, I learned that when the G-spot is worked over, a pressure builds just in front of the bladder, and that sustained stimulation brings on the squirting you only ever see in adult media. But at this point, barely any time into being a woman, I had no way of knowing any of that. As a man, I'd never needed to understand how a woman's body responded. All I knew was that "women have something that feels even better than climax" — it wasn't a sensation that would ever be mine, after all.
And so I felt it — something I'd never imagined myself capable of feeling, my entire body shaking in a way no mere orgasm could compare to, shuddering with a thrill of breaking free from everything that had held me down — and I came, without even a word.
(Nngh…!)
But precisely because of that, I didn't know. Didn't know that the wet slapping from behind me had been the sound of the stalker masturbating this entire time. That the sheer, overwhelming volume of precum welling from the stalker's furiously aroused cock had run all the way down to her balls, and that every stroke made her thighs smack against them — flesh striking liquid, that lewd slap-slap-slap. The cock I'd owned as a man had never been that size, nor had it ever produced that much fluid. So I never once suspected that the persistent squelching behind me was the stalker getting herself off.
(Cumming…!)
Even as the stalker throbbed and came all over my ass, I had no idea. I was still reeling drunk on that colossal sense of liberation, with no room left to register any outside stimulus. A pleasure bestowed by an immense liquid unlike anything that merely passed from a urethra had me on the edge of madness — so I never noticed the stalker's cock spraying its seed across me.
But I found out soon enough.
Because the stalker kept pressing down on my weak point — the area just above the G-spot — my squirting went on and on, and she lowered her cock, still slowly spilling cum through its long, dragging ejaculation, pressed the glans — burning hot with surging seed — against my urethra mid-squirt, and pumped her cum straight into my mucous membranes.
“AAAAAAAAAH!…Wh—?!!!”
That absolute liberation you might call transcendent — it was being trespassed upon.
“…Huh…? KYAAAAAAAAGH!”
A cock beyond any comparison to the one I'd once owned — even the pressure of its erupting seed existed on a different plane. If an ordinary man's climax was a meek, trickling stream winding downhill, the stalker's ejaculation was a river burst its banks after a deluge.
'??????????!!!!!!'
I'd thought I'd gotten used to female orgasms. The stalker had wrung dozens out of me by now. But squirting was an entirely different beast. I hadn't known that when the G-spot is pressed again and again, fluid accumulates — and that letting it out is what squirting is. I hadn't even been a woman for two hours. I hadn't even peed yet, so I didn't know the sensation of needing to go — a woman's urge. If I didn't know what a woman's urge felt like, there was no way I could see a squirt coming. Unlike the resonance in my womb, something in my lower abdomen prickled with urgency — but I took it for nothing more than a natural reaction to a woman's G-spot being worked. And so I didn't know, and took the squirt dead-on, completely off my guard.
Squirting had felt incredible. An immense catharsis, a liberation worthy of being called rapture. But this time was different. My urethra — strung taut and hypersensitive from force-carrying that gush of fluid, every bit as wrung-out as the liberation I'd just felt — received, as if this exact moment had been the target all along, the touch of the stalker's cum bursting violently forth. And I felt a heat like being set aflame and an overwhelming pleasure, both at once.
“AAAAAGH! Aagh!”
'…???!…?!!!……!!!'
I screamed aloud, and screamed inside. With my whole body, I understood that in a truly extreme moment, a human being can't even beg for her life. And so, two seconds — an eternity, to me — crawled past.
(Nnh…)
The stalker pressed her glans right up against the entrance of my anus — I was half-unconscious with pleasure — milked out her seed with one long stroke of her hand, and then, as if even a single drop would be a waste, kept milking the remnants from her cock by hand. My anus, parted just slightly by the enormity of the pleasure, went on receiving that cum as though taking it in were its proper duty. And her cock, hesitating a moment before the scene spread out before it, finally tapped against my asshole — and the glans, as if only now doing right by the female in front of it, came once more.
— splurt… splurt —
(Haah… haah…)
A proper release, unlike the leftovers squeezed out by hand. But because the stalker had reined herself in, holding back as much as she could, the female before her — still far from regaining her senses — never noticed the feeling of hot cum filling her body.
(Phew… I'll save what's left and put it properly inside, where it belongs.)
If anyone had been watching the stalker murmur to herself from behind at that moment, this is what they would have thought:
'That woman's back view is to die for. But what's with the woman in front of her?… Wow.'
Because they'd have seen the stalker's ass trembling in the lingering aftershocks of her climax, and the woman who'd been taken by force slumped face-down, rear thrust high, looking for all the world like she'd passed out cold.
(Good work, anal training.)
Using her cum as lubricant, the stalker stirred my insides far more easily now. To make the female before her fully aware of how well and thoroughly she'd been fed. And because this was an act for stimulation rather than pleasure, she'd even slipped the thimble off her finger.
“Nn… nn……”
And with my mind scoured hollow, that outside stimulus let me claw my way back to consciousness by the slenderest of threads —
“…S-save meee…”
Only then did that frail little plea slip out of me, every consonant dissolved to mush.