The Stalker – Part 6

The Stalker – Part 6

 

 

Stale beer and chips.

 

“So you got some beers then, hun?”

 

They are slumped on my gorgeous couch; worn, scuffed trainers soiling the carpet beneath their feet, denim clad legs thrown wide, crotches thrust forward, bollocks and cocks pressing against the unattractive, well-worn fabric. Robert has flung his arms possessively wide along the top of my cerise cord upholstery, has his head cocked to one side watching me and it is from his beer soaked, grease smeared, salt and vinegar flecked lips that the words are coming.

 

“Come on. You promised us entertainment and what me and my man Jon here want …”

 

Robert’s extended hand smacks Jonathon lightly across the back of his scalp causing him to raise his chin and bring his puffy, reddened eyes to stare at my half curled and exposed body.

 

“… is some fucking beers. Ain’t that right, Jon?” 

 

 “Yeah … sure … beers … right.”

 

Jonathon’s mouth is struggling to make the words; tongue and lips seemingly thick and uncoordinated, his head lolling down and jerking up involuntarily between each disconnected utterance.

 

“Now I know you are gagging for a bit of this …”

 

Robert’s hand drops to his groin, cups the assorted lumps of soft flesh and thrusts his hips forward a couple of times to indicate the delights that await me.

 

“ … so why don’t you be a nice slut, get us some beers and then we’ll give that juicy cunt a good fucking. ‘Cause that’s what you’ve dragged us down here for … ain’t it … a couple of cocks for the office slut to ride.” 

 

She stares down at me from above my head, wonderfully surrounded by her adoring Parisian dilettantes, her eyes filled with disdain and loathing at my pathetically vain attempts to be her. I can hear her words bouncing through my head, invading my cortex, reverberating in my eardrums.

 

“Tu ne peut pas faire mieux?”

 

 “Ils sont ivres; les salauds” 

 

 “Ils ne sont pas dignes de me baiser les pieds.”

 

And I am nodding, tears forming in the ducts of my eyes with every single slap of her words across my perfectly made up face. I want to scream. I want to stand in front of her; to confront her woman to woman. I want to shout into her smug, beautiful face, so gloriously captured and immortalised. I want her to offer me understanding, benediction and hope, because …

 

“Oui, Suzanne, pour le moment c’est le mieux que je puisse faire.”

 

Slowly I rise; uncomfortable, revealing my naked form once more to Robert and Jonathon’s leering inspection. I hate their hideous male presence in the cosseted, secure boudoir of my home. Despise the way they recline across my furniture surrounded by a haze of beer and chips that, despite my plug-in air freshener, is going to hang heavy amongst the air molecules of my small apartment for days to come. Yet mostly, I loath their sneering, ogling faces, their thrusting obvious groins and my own ridiculously inappropriate nakedness.

 

“Beer … of course.”

 

I plaster a smile across my lips; but I don’t want to leave them here, don’t want to entrust my wonderful personalised living space to them, don’t want them to pick through my mementos, peer at my photographs, study my small collection of books and CD’s, open my cupboards to find them awash with half-started, discarded hobbies of yesteryear, absolutely deploring the idea that in amongst all my collected junk they might find me.

 

Regretfully I turn away, scurry towards the kitchen, pretty diamante heels clipping and clopping beneath me. I hate the heat of their gaze upon my back, despise the fact that my thighs aren’t fleshy enough to hide the gentle swell and soft pouting lips of my sex from their lascivious stares, desperately resist the urge to place my hands across my buttocks so as to conceal its undulations from their undeserving eyes.

 

I clatter into the kitchen; eyes flitting towards the partly consumed vodka bottle standing temptingly on the worktop but there is not time, there is not trust; I cannot desert my inadequate untrustworthy stalkers, dare not leave them alone and unchaperoned amongst everything that is mine. Fridge door flung wide, cutlery draw rattled open, two bottles, tops sprung free and left spinning in my wake as I rush back to protect everything that is me.

 

They are as I left them. Jonathon slumped, alcohol infused, eyes staring blankly, a ridiculously inappropriate smile playing about those greased lips that only a few hours ago seemed so kissable. Robert arrogantly stretched across the couch I have so often curled up on alone, foetal, arms wrapped about myself, as tears of self pity and self loathing have dampened my cheeks. I detest him; despise his confidence, his masculinity, the knowing superior derisiveness of his stare, his unkempt and unwashed hair, his ill-fitting clothes, his splayed and open legs and the flaccid, uniquely male, muscle that now rests revealed and awaiting me above his unbuttoned and unzipped jeans.

 

Smiling, feet finding perfect positions beneath my oscillating hips, my wonderfully nude and pampered body presented prettily for their appreciation, I come before them chilled bottles in hand … a pretty gift for my wondrous, attentive, adorable stalkers; my delicious, divine boys who have been so incredibly kind to grace me with their presence.

 

I dispense drinks. I kneel before them.

 

“Cheers babe.”

 

I watch as the amber liquid gurgles down the bottle neck, between Robert’s pursed lips and into his undeserving mouth; my eyes skitter sideways to take in Jonathon looking enquiringly at me, before dropping down to rest on the semi-erect flesh that Robert is slowly but persistently massaging between thumb and fingers.

 

“You want some?”

 

I shake my head, not trusting my vocal chords to deliver a simple ‘No’.

 

“Yeah, right! As if you can afford to be picky. So why don’t you wrap those slutty lips about my cock like the hungry whore you are. Or are you just another fucking cock teasing bitch. Huh! Is that what you are? ‘Cause, to be honest, at your age …”

 

He lets the words trail off; sucks at his beer and leaves me to wallow in his wisdom.

 

“’Cause you ain’t getting any younger. Look at you. Look at this …”

 

His hand waves expansively to take in the collected paraphernalia of my single life.

 

“So ya gonna suck my cock or what?”

 

Slowly, unwillingly, I nod.

 

“Too fucking right … well don’t just fucking sit there …”

 

I inch forward, crawl between his thighs, and take care not to touch his denim coated legs as his massaging fingers and soft muscle draw ever closer to my face. The stink hits me; assaults my nostrils, unwashed, unclean, over-ripe cheese, acrid sweat, stale urine all combined in a disgustingly familiar cocktail. I feel fingers in my hair pulling me upward, leading me, guiding me, directing me, my mouth parting, teeth hidden, tongue resting passively in the soft warm cave of my mouth, breathing through my nose, trying to avoid the smell as I feel the partly swollen helmet of his cock pressing at my lips.

 

“Suck it, bitch.”

 

Hateful cock. Despised dick. Fucking loathsome, disgusting prick pressing into the pretty wetness of my mouth. Hate it. Hate it. Hate it. Fucking arrogant arsehole with his flaccid penis.

 

“Yeah babe, that’s right, work those lips.” 

 

Growing in me. Filling me. Pushing my tongue down. Dirty fucking cock. Horrible smegma collecting in my mouth. Revolting taste mingling with my saliva and burning into my taste buds. Want to gag. Want to spit him from my mouth. Spit that decaying skin across his youthful, sneering face.

 

“All of it bitch … c’mon swallow all of it.”

 

His fingers are tangling in my hair pressing me down. Nose pushing into abrasive tangles of pubic foliage, chin banging into the warm lightly wisped soft sacs, hairs in my mouth, catching in the back of my throat, head bobbing endlessly up and down as the hateful muscle grows beneath my ministrations. It’s nudging at the entrance to my throat, rubbing against the loose pubic hairs that seemed to have worked their way backwards in my mouth. Loathsome fucking cock.

 

“Wow … Yeah … That’s it … Fuck, yeah!”

 

Hate! Hate! Hate! His stinking, rotten flesh banging into my throat, drool escaping my mouth, coating my chin, dripping down onto those disgusting, semen filled plums as I bash repeatedly into them. Fucking, shitty, adoring, dilettante, Parisian picnickers; drunken, arsehole stalkers. Hate them! Hate them! Stomach tense, bilious, nausea swirling endlessly, body dry heaving as I ram my lips down once more to suckle on his filthy cock.

 

SLUT

 

Jonathon’s hand is on my arse, fingers pressing into my flesh, pulling my cheeks wide as I try to wiggle away from his probing fingers. Slapped. Hard. Mouth forced down onto Robert’s stiffness. Gagging involuntarily. Unwelcome tears brimming in my eyes and cascading down my cheeks as two fingers press into my tightly squeezed, unwilling and arid pussy.

 

WHORE

 

Jonathon’s Fingers spearing into me as I try to wriggle away. Robert’s hand pressing my face down, holding me fixed, lips closed about his base. HATE! HATE! HATE! Fucking me; ripping at my flesh, pushing through clenched me, every thrust painful, loathsome and unkind. Lips pulling back, teeth barred, closing about his awful manhood. Want to bite. Want to sunder. Want to hear him scream as my teeth rip into his disgusting flesh and blood soaks my mouth.

 

BITCH

 

I’m dry heaving, stomach spasming and convulsing with every assault on my abused pussy. My body shaking as I feel his odious seed rising along his repulsive shaft; heading ever upward towards my sucking, suckling, unwillingly accommodating mouth. Sobs explode from my throat, nose dripping, tears coating my face. Hate them! Hate them! Hate them!

 

Robert’s cum spurts hot, salty and wondrously sticky to coat my waiting, eager mouth as I slurp greedily down on his gorgeously twitching shaft eager to swallow my reward.

 

HATE … ME

 

I lie foetal and sobbing on the floor between Robert’s wide flung feet, knees pulled up to my chest, arms wrapped tightly around them, face buried into the carpet, ignoring them both; the soft words and gentle caress of Jonathon’s concerned hand about my shoulder and the distant braying noise of Robert’s indifference. Unmoving, body twitching, I wait as the noises of their gradual departure unfurl about my hidden features until finally I hear the unmistakable sound of my front door slam and quiet descends once more onto my world.

 

My legs tremble uncontrollably as I totter into the kitchen; hands shake and bottleneck clatters repeatedly against thick glass as the oily thick vodka glugs reassuringly into the waiting tumbler. I don’t stop until it is full; until there is enough alcohol to burn away the shame and disgust that glowers within my heart.

 

Four undiluted glasses is all the bottle contains and it isn’t enough to either cleanse my palate or absolve my sins. Forgetfulness, oblivion, mind numbing drunken emptiness is beyond what I deserve yet is so attainable with just another bottle. Somewhere I have a coat and a purse and a bag. Wobbling precariously atop my slender heels I set off in search of all three.

 

I can feel her eyes on me as I clatter about my suddenly alien living space. Mocking me, pitying me, comparing her joyous life as Manet’s wife to my own empty, twisted, pointless existence; and with every step I feel her haughty perfection weighing down on my bowed head and inconsequential shoulders. I find my coat and fling it over my nakedness; find my bag complete with all my daily survival kit scattered chaotically amongst its compartments; and ready, complete once more, I turn to confront the face of Suzanne Manet starring down at me.

 

“Je ne vaux rien, Suzanne. Je ne suis qu’une pute, une salope, une dévergondée; une moins que rien.”

 

The door reverberates noisily in its frame as I slam it behind me and stalk off into the night.

 

 

Author’s Note

 

Did I not warn you dear reader? Did I not express my concern as to where this might lead? Did you listen? Or did you lose yourself amongst the fluffy delusional trappings of her mind?  

 

And now she has fled; barely clothed and vodka fuelled; gone to stalk the streets in search of …  

 

In search of what? What is it that this poor damaged creature seeks?  

 

I worry for her; I truly do; and I hope that you might too.  

 

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

 

Your humble servant, 

 

Cum Girl x