Dear Stalkee - I read your letter. It's time for some home truths.

The story starts way back. In fact, it was simply a matter of tapping him on the shoulder and saying 'Excuse me, but I've been watching you for a while. Would you mind if I fucked you?'

He looked back at me and opened his mouth to speak, and then there was that moment. His eyes just glazed over, you know? I'm telling you - men can't resist me.

I mean, it's not like I'd been following him or anything; I'd just come out of this shop when he slouched past in front of me, his close cropped hair down to his collar because of the way he'd hunched his shoulders up and jammed his hands into the pockets of his trousers. They were work trousers, kind of utilitarian and sparse. Straight down at the front, aside from the jut of his crotch, of course. And just the two pockets at the sides, into which his hands were shoved, like I'd said. It only took a moment to decide I needed to fuck him. I couldn't imagine what he was like under those clothes, but the black t-shirt seemed to reveal his sparse frame, rather than conceal it. He was a man, in any case; not some loose fucker of a teenager, muscles barely showing on his skinny ribs - I mean, no, this guy wasn't some sort of gym freak by any means - I doubt he even worked out - but I could tell he'd got something under his shirt. Something I wanted.

It took me a moment to get to him. He was heading for the cash machine now, slipping his slim fingers into a back pocket while he waited for the woman to get her cash and go, pulling this black sports wallet out into the light and flicking through it for his card. He was looking into its depths by now, and I guess he was wondering how much he needed, perhaps how much he had and what he thought he'd spent since last time he looked. That's what I do, anyway; I'm not organised when it comes to money. But this next part... oh, I've got it off to a fine art, this next part.

I walked up to him as he stood there in the sunlight, slapping the card against the palm of his left hand, staring idly at the woman's back as she shaded the screen from the light and squinted out its details, character by character, and I tapped him on the shoulder.

'Excuse me,' I say, 'But I've been watching you for a while. Would you mind if I fucked you?'

Three things happened, more or less simultaneously: the woman in front straightened up a little and jerked slightly as though she were going to turn round; the guy actually did turn round and drew his lips back from his teeth, all ready to tell me I'd have far more luck if I went off quietly and swiftly to fuck myself. Except he didn't get that far, because by then I had the needle in his thigh and two stunned seconds later I'd got the whole lot inside him. His eyes just glazed over - it's true, I'm telling you - these men just can't resist a guy with charms like mine.

So he's following me up this alleyway by now, his dumb eyes looking into mine as I sit him down on some steps and help myself to his trousers. I tug his shirt out first, and I can hardly believe that the poor sad fucker is wearing this kind of white, ribbed undershirt.

'Still living with mum?' I mutter at him, and his mouth splits into a big drooling grin. 'Wanker,' I say, lifting it up over his head, half-aching to slap the stupid grin off while I do.

His cock is long and slender when I finally get to it, and it flops out of his pants in a satisfyingly heavy kind of way. It's uncut, and the head looks massive.

'Just a little prick,' I say, quickly getting the second lot of liquid into the shaft of his cock. He's grinning at me again, completely oblivious to the needle. Perhaps it doesn't hurt that much, or perhaps it's the drugs. If I were more curious I might try it on myself to find out, except I don't think I'll ever be curious enough to stick a syringe into my dick.

His cock twitches its way to fully hard as I take the opportunity to tug his trousers further down. Time is always important; I know we're shielded from view by some bins at the end of the alley, but I guess there's always the possibility of getting seen. If the worst comes to the worst I'll leg it and leave him here.

I was right about the head; it's at least as wide as the very base of his shaft, and probably wider. In fact when I get my lips down to the base of his cock I can feel it like a wedge in the back of my throat, crushed velvet hot and slightly bland-tasting. The drooling, idiot grin is back now, getting wider and wider as I jam his cock deeper and deeper into my throat, desperate to feel his semen flooding out into me. I'm licking right round the head of his cock, slickening his balls with spit and precum, breaking off and sucking on them while his huge head bobs around near the limits of my vision, glistening purple in the stray shaft of sunlight that's bursting into the alleyway from somewhere. I wrap my hand round his shaft and pull his foreskin back and forth, rubbing his cockhead on my chin and lips, clear ribbons of trailing crystal looping and circling in the space between us as I pull away and back again.

My drugged idiot is making guttural noises by now, and he somehow has the sense to thrust at my sticky mouth, his hands twitching beside him, a little spastic dance. I jam my mouth right down over his cock again and suck on that massive, berry-red bell end, desperate now for its treasure to spill forth and cover my face and chest with white gold - my shirt has long ago been thrown to the floor and a mixture of spit and dribble is winding a trail down to my stomach. His balls are banging on my chin, making a wet slapping noise which mixes in my ears with his growling, spit-filled drooling and mewling; the rattling clatter of his hands against the metal stairs is reaching fever pitch, and I swallow hard and manage to get his cock right down inside my throat, lips mashed against his pubic hairs, and then at that moment his come just blows out of his cock like some kind of flood, and it's bubbling up my throat and out of my nose while his hands just pound and pound on the railings next to him, the little fingers all bloody and trembling.

And then...


Ah, you're wondering what I'm going to do next. Will I turn him over and fuck him, like I said? Will I stab the needle deep into this fucked meat's neck and leave him to bleed to death? Will I just leave him here, perhaps?

Oh yes, then...

He's fairly easy to get onto his front, actually; you'll know what I mean if you've ever had to lift a dead weight yourself. I spit out the last of his cum into the crack of his ass, blow a string out of my left nostril - fucking disgusting, I know, but in the heat of the moment, just about anything goes. I begin to rub my own cock head in the slick nook of his hole. It's as hard as it's ever been by now, and I just kind of lean forward and let it all slip inside him, all eager and wet with the guy's own spunk. My balls nestle nicely against him and I end up gripping the railings above me to get plenty of leverage into my thrusting. It doesn't take long, and he grunts away happily while I fuck him, not even complaining when I get a little carried away and bite his shoulder hard enough to draw a shallow curve of blood.

'You're a damn good fuck,' I tell him afterwards. 'We must do this again.'

I'm courteous enough to do up his trousers for him, although I don't bother to wipe down his cock, and I leave the spunk dribbling out of his arse as well. I have to leave him something to remember me by when it all wears off, surely?

We leave the alleyway together, he obediently shuffling after me as I lead him to a nearby bench and sit him down.

'I'll get you a lollipop,' I tell him, making off swiftly, leaving the poor fucker sat there on this bench saying 'lollipop' to himself, his hands still trembling slightly. But I'm telling you; I mean, you must have spotted it by now - men just can't resist a guy like me. I had five more before I got caught, anyway. Five more guys who couldn't keep their eyes off me...

There was this delivery guy. I'd hate you to get the idea that I've got this thing about work clothes, but he was in this rather fetching pair of trousers that were almost the same as the first guy I mentioned. When I say first guy, by the way, I don't actually mean the first guy by any means. Hell no; I've been doing this for years! Never been seen, never been caught. My little cocktail usually sees to that, along with this misplaced sense of male bravado they seem to all have. I mean, quite what they think they're doing with spunk between the cheeks of their ass I'll never quite know, but to my knowledge no-one's ever said a thing about it to anyone. Except the once, of course, which is where the fifth guy comes in. Fucker.

Anyhow, these work pants were set off quite nicely by a dirty old t-shirt and a fairly dirty jacket too. And, well - who am I kidding here? - the main attraction was the dirty great cock I was sure I could see the outline of when he moved. I even dropped the pen I was supposed to be signing with so that I could bend down and get close to that monster prick. And it just had to be a monster prick, believe me - a pair of pants doesn't get packed out like that without a fairly substantial piece of meat behind it. Of course, as it happens, two minutes later when I get his clothes off ready to set him up in the white room I find out that the greater part of that mass was a pair of rather substantial balls, and though they hung down pleasingly low from his cock I was still rather sorry to find that the dick itself was, on the whole, a disappointment. Fairly small shaft and head, foreskin unfortunately not in evidence and a rather matted look to the pubes. In all honesty, it didn't smell too good either.

'Change of plan,' I say to him, and drag him into the shower where I give him a good scrub down with a flannel and some rather nice oatmeal scrub that I save for special occasions like these. Of course, even a fairly vigourous rub-down hasn't brought his cock into life, although mine is becoming uncomfortably hard inside my jeans, and I can feel a slightly erotic stickiness where the head is pressed against my thigh. Incidentally, I've thought about adding the second drug (an easy-to-make derivative of phentolamine mesylate and a few polypeptides - I knock it up myself in the basement, believe it or not) to the initial injection but each time I've tried I've always ended up having to reinject it directly into the guy's cock, so it's hardly worth the trouble. Anyway, with a dose of that in him he's soon stiffened up nicely and I'm ready to get him back into the white room. He seems a little more alert than the last one and grins happily at the camcorder as I push him onto the futon and slicken his cock up. His stomach has to be seen to be believed, and I can't help but run my hands over it. He smells and looks so clean and fresh, and aside from the slight flush of the drugs his skin is a beautiful milky colour. Licking his chest brings memories of warm oatmeal and cream.

'I could eat you up,' I whisper in his ear, licking across his lips and chin. 'But I won't...'

He seems more alert than the others, and I kiss him experimentally, but he simply lies there passively, so I settle for shoving my cock in there instead. His eyes defocus as I fuck his head, and I slap his cheek to bring him back to me.

'Suck, you bastard, suck!' I hiss, amused at this violation of his body. I fuck him for a little longer, then get bored and withdraw my cock from his mouth, leaving his chin and lips sticky and glistening.

'You've got to watch this, alright?' I say, waving a hand in front of his face before jamming my head down close to his and flapping my tongue about, pointing and miming, occasionally slapping him half-heartedly until he finally gets the idea and flaps his tongue obligingly back at me. I part my ass-cheeks and squat over his thick, bouncing tongue, which wetly tickles my arse and sends warm waves through to my cock. Aside from a couple of slaps to keep him going he's fairly adept at this, all things considered, and I get my fingers in there to help his tongue work its way inside. Eventually, I just sit right down on his face and let him get on with it as best he can, content to merely squat there on my knees for a while with his tongue slathering and slapping about underneath me and the camera taking it all in, although I must admit I do wish there were some way of getting it down here where the action is. It seems so remote up there on its tripod, sometimes.

I find myself crawling down his body now, turning round so I can see his face as I nuzzle his cockhead against my wet and wide-open hole. His smile when I sink back onto his shaft is just about as broad as a smile can get, and the spit on his cheeks reflects the light and gives him a kind of beatific glow. I run my hands over his stomach as I slide up and down his meagre cock and I'm just reaching forward to take one of his nipples in my mouth when his cock slips out of me and slides up the crack of my ass.

'Fuck,' I say as it begins to pump warm spunk over my back, and I almost thump his chest in annoyance; I would have if I hadn't seen the expression on his face - this expression of absolute slack-jawed adoration coupled with a deep and guttural rumble from somewhere in his throat.

'Darling,' I say, reaching up to touch his face instead. 'You couldn't help it, could you?'

Imagine the most inaccessible man you can. Who would it be? There are men everywhere in this world; strutting up and down the street with their girlfriends - such a waste, when you know they truly want to be with you. If I turned round in the street, there'd be a hundred men turning away suddenly, ashamed of their lust for me, I'm sure of it. A hundred, if not more. A hundred. At least.

It's not that I want to humiliate them, you understand. If they didn't want me to do it they wouldn't ask. And they do ask for it, you can see that, surely? I can recall sixteen separate guys, so far, usually one or two a month. They come and find me, the ones that can't control themselves. There are hundreds of them altogether, I know that for definite, but there are precious few who are going to dare to admit it. But I can tell the ones that are going to dare, I can pick them out in an instant. And they're the ones I take. Builder, soldier, biker-boy; trucker, fucker, wanker, sucker... they're all much the same... and it doesn't matter to me one bit, so long as they get hard for me when I want them to.

So then there was supermarket guy. And I don't hold much in the way of happy memories for him, because - oh, sure - he couldn't resist it either, this fuck of a man, with his tight jeans and his smooth shirt, all muscled and filled-out, all fuck-me and fuck-the-consequences. Oh, yes - he was the one I'd always wanted, sure enough - smooth ass, smooth cock, smooth fucking attitude, yeah... smooth enough for anyone, that guy; smooth as the ice that spills you down the slope and lets you dash your head to pulp on its smooth crystal hammer. And I didn't take the warning - fuck the warning, I thought, fuck that - it's no more a warning than this guy's anything but another piece of meat.

But I'm saying too much. It's an explanation, this writing, I guess, not a damnation. And damnation and confession come uncomfortably close when you write too much of yourself into a piece. And if I write too much of myself I'm not writing enough of him, I'm sure...

He was smooth, like I said. Smooth flesh laid over fine, fine bones. Hell, he was the devil himself when it came to smoothness and charm. He made his way round those aisles like he was made to sashay up and down all day, with his tight ass swivelling on those hot, hard thighs. If I'd thought it would have helped I'd have laid down in front of him and pretended to die, just to feel those lips pressed against mine. Except I didn't have to, of course. Because just like the others he couldn't keep his hands off me, and so when I injected him I knew I didn't really have to do it, I knew he'd have just as easily got down on his knees and fucked me like a dog merely because I'd asked him to, simply given him permission to touch me. I didn't have to jam him full of drugs to have his body, you know I didn't. He wanted me anyway, I know it. I didn't have to.

But I did. It makes them pliable, you know. And when you mix pliability with their love for me anyway, well you've got the perfect fuck-buddy then. A hard cock and a hard body's all I've ever wanted, and if there's a mind there as well then you've got yourself a bonus, like three melons on the reels of a fruit machine. Okay, so he didn't come with a hard cock built in any more, but when I'd paid for his groceries (Cash; I'm not stupid.) and smiled at the assistant in that particular way when he dropped the bag I gave him it was fairly easy to get him back to my car and into the rear seat. I toyed with the idea of fucking him there, but settled for merely touching his flaccid cock for a while, leaving it hanging down between his legs, trousers down round his ankles, while I drove back home. Occasionally, at the traffic lights, I'd turn round and fiddle with it, just tugging it about a bit, watching his face all the while. To be honest, it can get a little boring just watching the same look of vacant indifference, and oh, the boredom is why I should have known, really I should have seen it coming, just like I'd see him coming by looking at his face if I were to take his prick in my hand and toss him off there and then. But the pleasure, you can't imagine the pleasure of turning round and seeing an erection there, hardly moving but for the throb of his heartbeat.

'What the-' I said, hardly believing what I could see. Astonishment got the better of me and I sat there in the face of the green light, reaching out with one finger to prod and poke at the granite cock. His expression changed ever so slightly from the vague expression of who-cares-what, and I should have seen it coming, I truly should.

But ego, I hate to admit it, you see, but my ego got in the way. He's hard, I thought, he's fucking hard. Already. No injection needed. And that alone, that alone, should have told me what was going on. No injection needed. I should have asked why, I should have realised that the first injection makes it impossible to get hard. Why didn't I realise that? Why?

So we're back at the flat; I've got him on his front, propped up on lightly-haired, muscular arms, holding him loosely round the waist with his cock inside a blow-up doll, and I've already taken a few pictures for my own personal amusement, of this guy with his cock shoved in Inflatable Lucy, every guy's fuckable friend. And, oh - did I neglect to mention that I'm boring my own cock deep into this guy's buttocks, probing out his tight little asshole and fucking it hard and fast for all I'm worth? Did I neglect to mention that every time I actually give his tight little asshole a fuck he's jamming his cock deeper into Lucy, giving her a good solid fucking from behind without even knowing it, his cock primed ready at the entrance to her plastic rectum. (Her 'anal orifice', as the tacky little leaflet put it. 'Lucy likes it any way she can get it, and with her deluxe vaginal, oral and anal orifices you'll be spoilt for choice.')

Without even knowing it, that was the key. Because he did know it. And it was at that moment, just as I chose to shoot my load right inside him, that he chose to speak up.

'Fuck,' he said, quite plainly, and his vocalisation stunned me into silence. In an instant I felt myself wilting inside him, which left the second spurt of semen dribbling out of my semi-flaccid cock with a reluctance that almost pained me, and my cock just shrivelled up and slipped out, half-spewing a final dribble of spunk out onto his beautiful balls, leaving me sadly desperate to draw a finger up the underside of my dick to expel that last spurt of come with a little more force, because I knew now that I would never come again with this man. It seemed like such a sad way to end it; this abortive, gravity-fueled seepage. And these events alone were indignity enough, more indignity than I thought I could bear, except that then I was thrown off as he turned over quickly and that was more indignity still, and to have him kneeling over me with his cock bobbing in my face was like swallowing liquid lead, burning my insides, hurting more even than when he started to pummel and beat my face and head.

Confusion, in truth, that's all I felt. I bent forward, frantically trying to cling to what I knew, trying to take his purple head between my lips, sure that all I had to do was give this guy the blowjob he craved and he'd stop hurting me, stop making my ribs crack like this, that sex had to be the key. And yet no sooner had my lips touched the tip of his dick than he leapt to his feet and kicked me across the room to the far corner where I finally found the strength to lie and choke up vomit onto myself. I couldn't understand what had happened; perhaps his love for me was too great for the drugs to stifle. I just didn't know.

But it was a warning, I know that. And how I wish now that I'd taken heed.

He was gone when I finally managed to uncurl myself from the corner of the room. There seemed little point in dragging myself after him so I spent the next few minutes examining myself for further damage. For a moment I thought I was vomiting up blood, but the cut turned out to be a gash along the full length of my upper-left gum; in fact my entire mouth was bruised and the inside of each cheek felt raw and lacerated when I dared to probe it with my tongue. I hardly dared to touch my ribs; already the bruises were beginning to rise within the flesh, and oh, how it hurt to breathe. I'm not an expert; the thought that this might happen never occurred to me, but I didn't think I could go to an expert either. Turning up at the hospital just didn't seem to be an option, or at least it seemed a most foolhardy option. I thought I'd live with it, and if a spike of bone ended up piercing a vital organ then I think that they'd all just have to live with it too. Someone would help me, I'm sure.

It was a long time before I dared to allow any of them to come near me. I'd avoid them in the street; my cock hard against the hand in my pocket as I thought of all the things they wanted me to do to them, but I knew that just at this moment I didn't dare go near them. I'm sure some of them teased me with their bodies; summer is hardly an excuse for bare-chested posing, for moody half-smiles and deep, dark eyes, and it's even less of an excuse for fucking with a man's mind.

The guy that did it, the one that finally broke my vow of celibacy, was only young; twenty-three, twenty-four. I can't, now, justify why I felt I had to have him. I'm sure if he hadn't almost got down on his knees and begged for my prick I might well have just left him where he was, walked past the guy and on up the street. But that wasn't how it was going to be, was it? You did come up to me, didn't you? I just can't remember what you said; it was all a kind of blur. I think the only part of the world that stayed still was your face, just hanging there while the whole of the universe circled round us. But I should have known, I should have taken the warning. I did it anyway - I slammed a dose of the same half-assed batch into your veins, just like I'd slammed it into the last one.

I don't understand why you did it. Sixteen, I had, sixteen men that I can remember who all but kissed my hand and thanked me sincerely for the service I'd done them. I don't count you in that number, of course, because I haven't quite had you yet; maybe you noticed? Ah, but we were nearly there when you squealed, weren't we, and I really just want you to know that I don't understand why the fuck you did it. They thought it was a cry for help, and it could be, perhaps, that you were just too polite to tell them it was pure jubilation. But I don't know for sure, my dear. I have this effect on men, you see, and it's made me a sort of expert over the years. And yet despite this, despite all this experience, despite this still I don't understand why you just couldn't have kept it in for another few steps, nor why you dug your knuckles into that broken rib as you dragged the syringe out of my pocket and dashed it on the ground at their feet. I don't know if I ever will. And I don't know what's going to happen now. But I wanted to say one last thing to you, now you've read this and you know the pleasure you might have had with me. I just wanted to say fuck you, my dear, because you're going to get none of it now. So here it is, out and plain: screw you, sugar, there's plenty more men in here, decent guys who have the courage to carry out what they've started, who know how to keep their mouth shut. But, that's how it goes. Fuck you, my dear, fuck you.

Maybe one day... when I get out of here, eh?

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