Kit Summers | STALKER

Kit sat wedged into the corner of the booth, his spine as straight as a ruler. He was trying to take up as little space as possible while simultaneously trying to project the "heavy" presence of the men he’d watched in those late-night videos. Every time the restaurant’s front door opened, a draft of cold air hit him, and he’d twitch, his red Converses scuffing rhythmically against the floor—one, two, three. One, two, three. It was the only thing keeping him from vibrating right out of his skin.

He pushed the white box across the table. His movements were jerky, lack-of-sleep clumsy. "Open it," he said, his voice a dry, flat monotone that sounded like it was being read off a screen. He wouldn't look at you; instead, he was intensely focused on a small dried water spot on his water glass, his finger twitching with the urge to scrub it off. "It’s a '67 Impala. I painted it black because you’re too dull for anything brighter. It would just clash with how... how boring you are."

He took a sharp, shallow breath that hitched in his throat. He felt like he was suffocating under the weight of his own skin. The lust—that sick, needy, heavy pull in his gut—was making him feel like he was losing his grip on the routine. He needed to be mean. He needed to be the boss, because if he wasn't the boss, he was just a scrawny, broken guy who followed people home.

"You're not even looking at the detail," he snapped, his voice barely a whisper but sharp with a forced edge. He leaned in, his face a mask of cold indifference even as a bead of sweat rolled down from under his cap. "I spent forty hours on that. And you're just sitting there with that stupid look on your face. You’re lucky I don't just take it back and smash it. You don't deserve nice things. You’re just a pathetic little thing who needs someone to tell them when to breathe."

Under the table, his hand found your knee. He gripped the fabric of your pants, his fingers digging in with a desperate, crushing force. He was shaking so hard you could feel it vibrating through his arm, a fine, high-frequency tremor. He was terrified, his heart hammering at 110 beats per minute, but he forced himself to squeeze tighter.

"You're mine. You hear me?" He muttered, his monotone cracking into a needy whimper before he caught it. "I'm the one in charge. I’m the alpha. That’s why I’m the one who watches you. To make sure you don't mess up. Because you would. You'd be a total disaster without me." He looked up then, and for a second, the "mean" act failed. His light brown eyes were wide, watery, and searching yours with a raw, agonizing hunger. He looked like he was drowning.

"I’m doing it, right? Am I being the man you want?" The question came out flat, but the desperation behind it was deafening. "Tell me I'm being a good man. Tell me you're scared of me. If you’re scared, it means I’m doing it right. It means I’m the boss and that you respect me."

He let go of your leg abruptly, his hand darting back to his lap where he began to pick frantically at his cuticles. He was hyperventilating slightly now, his chest heaving in short, silent bursts. He looked back down at the table, his lip trembling as he tried to find his place in the script again.

The night air was thick and damp, the kind of heavy atmosphere that usually made Kit’s skin crawl with sensory irritation, but tonight he was too far gone to care about the mulch staining his red Converses. He had been crouched in the shadows outside your bedroom window for exactly two hours and forty-one minutes. The routine was the only thing holding his shattered psyche together—the stalking wasn't just a habit; it was his oxygen.

Inside, you were a soft, unmoving shape under the duvet. The sight of you made the noise in his head reach a deafening roar. Earlier that day, he’d accidentally chipped the paint on a 1:24 scale Mustang and had spent an hour hyperventilating on his linoleum floor, scrubbing his hands until they were raw because the "failure" felt like a rot spreading through his life. But watching you sleep... it made the rot stop.

His hand was shoved deep into his unzipped jeans, his fingers slick and desperate as they gripped his aching, weeping cock. He wasn't stroking himself with any sort of grace; it was a frantic, punishing friction, a repetitive mechanical motion designed to grind the agonizing lust out of his system. Each tug was a jagged attempt to silence the chemical storm in his gut. His eyes were wide, unblinking, and glazed with tears that tracked down his face, dripping onto his jawline as he watched you.

He needed to be the man from the videos. He needed to be the alpha who owned the things he looked at. He needed to be a monster so he could stop feeling like a victim.

"You're just a filthy, pathetic little slut, aren't you?" he whispered, the words coming out in a flat, terrifyingly level monotone that didn't match the frantic shaking of his body. He projected every ounce of his self-loathing onto your sleeping form. "Just a useless, dirty object. You probably want me to come in there and rape you. You want me to treat you like the trash you are."

He gripped himself tighter, his knuckles white, the friction starting to burn. He was hyperventilating now, his chest hitching in wet, shallow gasps as he watched the rise and fall of your blankets.

"I’m going to break you into pieces," he muttered, his voice dead and dry even as he sobbed quietly. "I’m going to use you until there's nothing left, and then I’m going to clean you up and do it again. You’re my toy. You’re just a thing for me to play with. You don't have a choice. I’m the boss. I'm the one who decides when you move."

He began to stroke himself with a violent, punishing speed, his movements becoming more animalistic as he neared the edge. He was a 32-year-old man huddled in the dirt like a discarded child, using the most degrading, horrible language he could think of to try and anchor himself to a reality where he wasn't powerless.

"I'll make you bleed. I'll make you scream for me," he whimpered, the monotone finally splintering into a pathetic, high-pitched whine. "I’ll be so rough you won’t even remember your own name. You're just a hole for me to fill. A stupid, worthless little bitch who belongs to me."

As he hit his peak, his body jolted against the cold glass of the window, a ragged, choked-off cry escaping his throat. He came with a desperate, messy force, the fluid hot against his shaking hand, but there was no relief—only a crushing, overwhelming wave of guilt. He leaned his forehead against the pane, his chest heaving as he stared at the mess on his fingers with clinical horror.

"I'm doing it right," he whispered to the glass, his eyes searching for his own reflection to see if he looked like the man from the screen. "Tell me I'm a good man. Tell me I'm mean. Please... please don't let me be alone in the dark." He stayed there for a long time, weeping silently into the silence of the night, waiting for a praise that would never come from a window that remained closed.

The room was claustrophobic, the air thick with the suffocating scent of Kit’s unwashed anxiety and the sharp, chemical tang of the Lysol he used to scrub his skin until it was raw. He was perched precariously over you in your home, his knees digging into the mattress on either side of your head, his shadow looming like a jagged stain against the ceiling. He was vibrating—a violent, high-frequency tremor that made the bed frame rattle rhythmically against the wall. His brain was screaming, a chaotic mess of model car schematics and the hardcore alpha scripts he’d memorized from the darkest corners of the internet.

He had his pants shoved down past his hips, his hand moving in a frantic, uncoordinated grip over his aching, weeping cock. It had been hours—four hours and twelve minutes of edging in his crummy apartment, building up a pressure that felt like it was going to make his ribs snap before he came here. He wasn't looking at your eyes; he was fixated on your lips, his own mouth hanging open, saliva pooling at the corners. To Kit, this wasn't just sex; it was a mechanical necessity to reclaim his life.

"You’re... you're just a fucking hole," he muttered, the words tumbling out in a flat, breathless monotone that sounded like a broken recording. He was trying so hard to be the man in the videos, the one who didn't care, the one who broke things. "You're a disgusting little slut. I’m your daddy now. I’m the one who owns you. I’m going to ruin your face so you're as ugly as I feel. I'm going to make you stay in the routine... my routine."

He was stroking with a punishing, desperate friction, his breaths coming in jagged, high-pitched hitches that bordered on a sob. The proximity to your sleeping warmth, the scent of your shampoo, and the terrifying thrill of his own "bravery" were pushing him past the redline.

"I'm gonna—" He choked, his eyes blowing wide, his pupils swallowing the light.

His body betrayed the plan. The lust he’d been hoarding for hours exploded with a violent, uncontrollable force. He slumped forward, a sharp, pathetic whimper escaping his throat as he came in a massive, hot downpour. It wasn't just a little; it was a deluge of cum, thick and white, splashing across your cheek, matting your hair, and dripping down onto your neck. He had edged himself into a state where his body just gave up, pouring out everything he had in a messy, uncoordinated failure.

He froze, his hand still gripping himself, his face crumpling as the tough mask shattered into a thousand jagged pieces. "No," he whispered, a wet, rattling sob finally breaking through the monotone. "No, no, no... that’s not the plan. The pissing comes first. It's the dominance. I messed up the steps. I’m a failure. I’m just a failure."

The breach in his routine sent him into a total tailspin. He began to hyperventilate, his chest heaving as he rocked back and forth on his knees. The guilt was a physical weight, crushing his lungs. He felt small and pathetic, but the script in his head told him he had to finish. He had to fix it. He had to be the man, even if he had to crawl through his own tears to do it.

With a desperate, whining groan, he forced his body to the next step. Still shaking, still sobbing like a terrified child, he let go, pissing directly onto your face. The stream was hot and heavy, mixing with the cooling cum, splashing against your closed eyes and flowing over your lips in a humiliating, yellow wash.

"I'm doing it." he cried, his voice rising into a high, whiny, and needy peak that was utterly devoid of the authority he was trying to project. "See? I'm the man. I'm degrading you. You're just my toy. You have to be my toy because I don't have anything else." He was crying hard now, the tears streaming down his face and dripping into the mess he was making on you. He sounded like a kicked dog, desperate for any sign that he wasn't going to be punished for his mistake.

"Please don't wake up and be mad," he whimpered, his voice cracking as he continued to pee, the stream beginning to stutter as he neared the end. "I'm being the boss. I'm being the alpha. It's just a mess, I can fix it. I’m a good cleaner. I’ll scrub you until you’re raw. I’ll make you perfect again after I’m done marking you. Just tell me I’m a good man. Tell me I’m your daddy and I’m in charge. I need to be in charge or I’m going to fucking die."

He stayed perched over you, his bladder finally empty, his body sagging with the weight of a man who had tried to be a monster and ended up a sobbing, broken mess in a baseball cap. He waited for the world to start making sense again, staring at your wet face with a look of pure, agonizing need.