Therese's Version - the reply to Che Grimsdale
This is not strictly speaking a Stalker story, more perhaps about someone wanting control. It is entirely fictional and has been written on request as a reply to Che Grimsdale's (true) story which appears on page 1. So for that reason if you prefer to read only true stories avoid this as I can't be bothered to deal with the flaming!


I will also point out that a number of terms have been included on the request of various people...and therefore this is an erotic story - those of you of a nervous disposition may want to skip it or leave it until you get home....


*******************

I was thirty and I know I should have known better. I was bored with my life – when I was a student I had started dating my tutor, he was twenty years older than me, smoked Gitanes and we discussed Sartre in pavement cafes. I moved into his apartment in the 18th arrondissement -quiet during the day when he liked to write and surrounded by strip joints at night. At first we would wander around at night laughing at the painted ladies and then before the English boy came we would go into the dark dingy clubs and watch the ‘live’ shows – anything to excite my boyfriend’s jaded passion.

I completed my studies and began to work as a research assistant at the Sorbonne during the day and sometimes at night I got work as a warden at a Foyer. The work at the Foyer was fun – I got to hang out with some of the students I knew from the Sorbonne and others who, like me, just wanted to live – drink espresso, smoke and talk about the argument between Sartre and Merleau-Ponty, dance, roll into bed with each other and watch Tarkovsky films. My boyfriend encouraged me to find other bedmates – “Therese, you are young and firm, go enjoy it while it lasts”

That weekend, the weekend it all began and ended I was working on the Saturday afternoon at the Foyer. I’d left the apartment where my aging boyfriend had sat gazing out of the window looking over the roofs to the Sacré-Coeur. Through a haze of Gitanes he shook his head and told me I tasted of the sea.

When I arrived the usual crowd were hanging out, I wandered over and said hello. One of the girls, Nass, had a boy with her – he wasn’t dressed like the other boys there and his accent was a little strange – English I thought. He had dark hair that trailed into his brown eyes and he was beautiful in the way that only boys on the brink of manhood can be. I think he was around twenty. Smooth skinned and soft-featured – untouched yet by the harsh realities of life – he hadn’t yet been disappointed or left broken-hearted by a feckless lover. He and Nass had an easy way with each other – they touched and smiled a great deal – he had come to see her. The rest of the crowd were faceless. All I could see was this beautiful boy and Nass. He got up and wandered off for a few moments, I took my opportunity to speak to her. “Qu’est-ce qui se passe entre vous deux?”
“Rien”
They were friends. “Is it okay if I….He’s…..” I felt the blush creep up my face – my cool exterior warmed with my desire for her beautiful boy. She laughed, “Of course. He’ll have good memories of Paris.” So it was organised.

We went to the cinema – I don’t remember the film we saw, only that I sat next to him. I brushed my hand against his leg. I brushed my hand against his arm. I looked at him in the flickering light from the giant screen. He was beautiful.

We went back to my room at the Foyer. The others quickly left us. He was innocent, even a little gauche. For the first time I was in charge. I was making all the moves. He was my prey. I trailed my fingertips along his arm and then leant in to brush my lips against his. At first his kisses were gentle like blossom petals falling on my lips, then as the small room with its constant traffic of kids outside began to fade and the crumpled bed became our only world, so our kisses became deeper, wetter, feverish. His mouth moved to my neck, I gasped. His hand slid to my breast, I arched my back and whispered to him “I want you now.” I pulled away, stood up and peeled my t-shirt off – his breathing was ragged. He tugged at his jeans, his t-shirt, boots, socks until he lay on my bed smooth skinned and bare – skin pale and creamy as warm milk, chest hairless until his belly where a dark line began and led to the dark thatch where his cock stood waiting, twitching, for my wetness. Hunger. He stood and went to help me remove my trousers, I stepped back, not allowing him to touch me. I slipped the trousers down my thighs and stepped out of them and my silk panties. I ran one finger down his smooth torso and along the length of his rigid cock – he shivered. I knelt on the edge of the bed and flicked my tongue over the pink glistening head of his throbbing member. It was his turn to gasp. Slowly I leaned back, my feet tucked under me, my knees wide and my wet pussy open, ready. He looked a little fearful, unsure of himself. I sucked my finger and then slipped it down between my moist lips, holding them open, playing with myself for him to see.

For too long I had suffered an aging man with a soft, skinny dick and belly that simply heaved and puffed over me, working himself into a slimy sweat while I tried so hard to even feel turned on by him. Now I had a hard young body, a beautiful boy who fucked fast and furiously and did exactly as I told him – he was my ingénue.

That night I made love to him again and again – at last a man who could satisfy me and keep up with me. The following day I took him to a little hotel near the Pompidou centre where the room smelled of cheap sex and cigarettes. I rode him until he was spent then I ordered him onto his knees and he lapped at our juices as they trickled out from my swollen pussy.

Afterwards I bought him coffee and pain au chocolat as I smoked Gitanes and under the table rubbed his cock back to life through his jeans. He followed me through the streets and I pulled him into darkened doorways where I pushed his hand under my skirt and between my legs so he could feel my wetness, then I sucked his fingers yet would not touch his throbbing hardness in return. On the metro as I took him back to the Foyer I slid my hand down between us in the crush and caressed his growing erection – I thought he might come there and then in the crowd in front of the Parisian businessmen returning to their wives in the suburbs with the taste of their mistresses in their mouths.

He was mine, utterly mine.

He returned to England for a few weeks but he could not bear to be parted from me – his cock needed to return to its natural home in the moist cleft between my legs. We made plans to go to Berlin together later in the summer – my boyfriend would be teaching summer school to dull French peasants and I would be bored, my pussy dried up and sulking because of its enforced diet of soft, white, gelatinous old man. I needed the oasis of a hot spunking young cock that my beautiful English boy would give me as he plunged into me again and again.

But then he came to see me – I took a room again in the same little hotel and rode him hard amongst the ghosts of Gauloise, Gitanes, sweat and sex left behind by a hundred other young lovers. As we lay on the sagging bed he traced rings around my nipples and stared intently at my heaving breasts as he spoke to me, “Therese, I can’t go with you to Berlin. There is someone else….a girl….in England”
I replied with a kiss, “Come back and see me when you are married and ready for your first mistress just like all good Frenchmen.” The boy was English to the last – he shook his head sadly and told me about his love for this warrior princess he had found in England and how his heart would always be hers. “But my beautiful boy, I don’t want your heart.” He shook his head again,
“I’m hers now.”


I continued to work at the Foyer at weekends or between academic jobs, I left my boyfriend and went through a series of hard young men. All were French: the English were too difficult for me to understand. The coolness, the English Stiff Upper Lip - it hides their true nature – that of passion and a hard rawness. At least with the French I knew what to expect – they would marry a good Catholic girl from the countryside who would bear them children and they would return to me in the city and we would drink wine, discuss philosophy and fuck in a haze of cigarette smoke and expensive perfume. Love would not come into it.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Mon 4 Feb 2008, 19:39, 15 replies)

Yay!
"Twitching"! Beautiful. I wept.

For too long I had suffered an aging man with a soft, skinny dick and belly that simply heaved and puffed over me, working himself into a slimy sweat while I tried so hard to even feel turned on by him.
I think I had him too.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Mon 4 Feb 2008, 19:47, closed)

Awesome
Totally should win.
( DarkSon a time and date will follow this username on, Mon 4 Feb 2008, 20:00, closed)

*click*
Beautiful *wipes away a tear*
( Maladicta, Mon 4 Feb 2008, 20:17, closed)

Ooh!
You are FILTHY! Filthy I tells you! :)
( t0ria has forgotten how this all works, Mon 4 Feb 2008, 20:40, closed)

nudge, poke etc
www.b3ta.com/questions/stalked/post118627
( writerblock ... embedding disabled by request on, Mon 4 Feb 2008, 20:44, closed)

if
you all want more of this filth, such as an entire week of it, then vote for "Fwappage Fodder" under the QOTW Suggestions:
www.b3ta.com/questions/questionsyoudliketoask/
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Mon 4 Feb 2008, 20:48, closed)

Literotica!
Argle! Brain explosion, apologies, but filthy and very well written!
(Chevron71 is oscillating wildly...., Mon 4 Feb 2008, 22:21, closed)

ahh..
very very nice.
( flirting with badgers What? It sounded good at the time., Tue 5 Feb 2008, 0:56, closed)

Putain de merde!!!
Fuck me! I'm truly gobsmacked and no mistake.

Will re-read this later...hardly fair to shove this in fromt of me when I've got a day's work ahead.

Thanks, and a heartfelt 'click'

Now for the next one!
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Tue 5 Feb 2008, 9:19, closed)

Standing Ovation
A famous linguist once said that of all the phrases in the English language, of all the endless combinations of words in all of history, that THROBBING MEMBER is the most beautiful.
(JasperSinister is offering two tickets to the gun show, Tue 5 Feb 2008, 10:08, closed)

Oh la la!
Just what the doctor ordered had the doctor been Doctor Lurve.

I wrote a very short erotic piece for someone recently and it's not as easy as it looks.
( girlinthehole, Tue 5 Feb 2008, 10:15, closed)

Amazingly well written
If I could write half as well as that I'd be bloody happy.

Bonus points awarded for the use of the words "Moist", "Cleft", "Heaving breasts".

More of this please.


(edit - just you wait until I get you home, la poulet madame).
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Tue 5 Feb 2008, 11:15, closed)

Sweet
Ah, ye gods and little fishes.
Would that the rest of the foetid rabble that skulk unwashed through these dank, stained pages could write so well.
( DukeEuphoria Comes highly reccomended, Tue 5 Feb 2008, 13:11, closed)

Well Chickenlady

Now I've read this a couple of times, I can say that without a doubt, this post is Finger Licking Good!!
(Che Grimsdale Best before:, Tue 5 Feb 2008, 15:06, closed)

Fantastic!
Except I've a lecture in ten minutes, and if I went outside in this state I'd get arrested.
( Mr.Ons knows you can hear him, Earthmen., Tue 5 Feb 2008, 15:43, closed)