A/N - Ok, so I'm not RealityHasNoSoundtrack.. I don't think. No, I'm just a big fucking fan of this story and it's been too long since we had an update and I fear, since it's been 7 months and counting with no hope of new chapters, that we never will. So, while the original author is stuck in rehab or got hit by a bus or her laptop really did die of AIDS or something (it's catchy), I'm taking up the charge and pressing forward because I, at least, need a little closure and these girls are just gagging to get it on again. SO, without further consideration for anyone or anything, I present.. the Stalking of Emily Fitch, part deux.

Previously on the Stalking of Emily Fitch, and if you haven't read it you are dead to me until you search for it and read up through chapter 11. Go. Now.

So, in summary: Naomi was obsessed with RnB sensation Emily Fitch. Little Emsy likes the nose candy and is a bit of a kinky fucker and has a boyfriend? Or not, I can't tell. Naomi got hit in the head because she broke up with her ex-gf after a night of strap-on sex with the redhead, and then said ex-gf destroyed her house. And Emily, while trying to get Naoms to come with her to LA to be her personal sex slave/it seems Emily wants a girlfriend and bought Naomi stuff, found the stalker scrapbook that Naomi had made cataloging her obsession. Sophia, eat your little heart out.

Chapter 12

Emily looks over at me with my book in her hands, her face twisted with a mix of trepidation and longing and then, she just laughs. She throws back her perfect face and perfect neck - exposed for a moment - and fucking laughs at me, Naomi Campbell, stalker, mental patient, recently dumped and practically robbed by that fucking cunt of an ex-girlfriend of mine who did such a number on my house, holes in walls and shattered pieces of furniture everywhere and now I'm being laughed at by the hottest girl on this or any other planet. And Emily, she is smirking as she is holding my journal, holding my most intimate desires in her hands and not giving a fuck that I am dying on the spot. Fuck her. FUCK HER. What a fucking cunt she was, is, and I can't do anything but just stand there and take it. She had me (well, yeah she did, does and probably will again) and she knows it. She pulls her face away, wipes her eyes, and continues to flip through the pages of my fucking stalker book, the incriminating red wig she also pulled from the drawer twirling in her fingers. That fucking bitch..

"So.. it seems you like me," she chortles, not even bothering for a second to pretend that this is some kind of misunderstanding, that perhaps it is explainable that I just wanted to feel close to the object of my unreachable obsession for just a second, knowing it would never happen. No, she doesn't give me an inch, and my brain races for justification even if my mouth is opening and closing like some sort of special needs child on their first trip to the zoo.. maybe I was a fucking stalker but people like me never intend or hope that it would get this far, to have our object of lust sitting in front of us, getting a peek into how deep that desire went. I was fucked, am fucked and not in the good way this time, and I knew it and she knew it. Give me a hockey helmet and tie my mittens to my jacket, I'm as good as dead and as good as that small child with learning difficulties if their teacher's aid decided to play a joke and lock them alone in the monkey house at feeding time. Here comes the shit.

Here she is, RnB sensation Emily Fucking Fitch, the girl that wanted me, that followed me, that made me feel things I never felt before and brought me fucking Happy Meal toys when she was the reason I was all brain damaged to fucking begin with, and now she's judging me? The constant party in my pants dies down as my face flushes as red as her amazing scarlet hair and then (fuck me and my insatiable libido) comes back with raging force as she glances up from the pages of newspaper clippings and my stupid, desperate commentary and undresses me with her deep chocolate eyes. I know that sounds cliché, but it happened just then, I was practically sexually assaulted just from her glance up and down my shaking body. That girl ripped my clothes off with her stare once again, and at that moment I know even more than I did before that she is something special. Emily Fitch is a tiger, a leopard, a lion, and I am just a stupid sickly gazelle lingering a moment too long by the watering hole. Oh, fuck. Here she comes and I'm desperate to run away and take a quick glance around the room for escape routes. The door, genius, try the fucking door, Naomi. Right.

She looks, she stares, she lusts just then and with one final piercing look I feel a shiver run down my spine and into my pants and I know I am soaked through in an instant. Note to self - invest in Victoria's Secret stock if planning to spend any more time with Emily Fitch, knickers ruined and unsalvageable again. She makes me feel completely naked and I shudder again, just from her stare and the knowledge that her fingers are running over the pages of the book I spent so many hours pouring over, lovingly crafting, even to the ruination of my own pathetic life and horrible but not completely awful former relationship and well, my reputation was never really much to speak of to begin with. But Holy Shit those dark eyes, drinking me in without any sort of modesty nearly make me cum, on the spot, the way she is staring openly at me, her perfect cherry lips twisting into a self-satisfied and almost cruel smirk. Emily Fucking Fitch is looking at me like she has just conquered the fucking world and that worries me, immensely. After the "nose candy" and the blowing off fan meet and greets and JESUS, the showing up at my door in some lame-ass disguise and taking on my now ex-girlfriend blow to blow I am not entirely sure what one Emily Fitch is actually capable of, not because she has money but because she is certifiably insane. More than I am even. I am, however, entirely certain that whatever she has in mind probably requires physical pain and emotional humiliation on my part. Fucking bitch. If only she wasn't so irresistible..

I am snapped back to reality by a thigh pressing into my cunt. The RnB singer had slammed down my book on the bed, of course full of splinters from my now ex-girlfriend Adrienne's bitchy destructo-rampage of a break-up kiss off, and pulled me close and practically kneed me in the groin in her eager state. JESUS now I'm the one shitting penguins as my clit practically makes my pussy explode on the spot as she hit me just there on the seam of my jeans. Is that too blunt? Well, fucking hell it feels way too blunt to have this crazy person - and by now I am sure she is a crazy person - decide that she could own me by just pressing her leg all up on me, even if she was responsible for the two greatest orgasms of my entire life. No, don't think about that now (fuck you sex drive, nothing but fucking trouble and blows to the head) and I try to squirm away. Fuck that noise and fuck you Emily Fitch, your music is shitty and I'm never spending another dime on one of your concerts - I'm my own person and never mind this obsession I once had. It's over. I'm done. I don't think that anyone that spent any more than 5 minutes with the real Emily Fitch would even give her the time of day, hot as she was, is, can be and JESUS fucking grinding up on me as she is right now. I groan back a whimper, willing my arousal to get the fuck out and let me crawl away to lick my wounds and I almost succeed, pulling myself away from her pawing hands and I noting with satisfaction that I am still mostly dressed, as I pull away and somehow button my pants up again and clutch my plaid button-down mostly closed around my raggedly heaving chest. I manage to stumble a step backwards and make for the door. So.. this is me running away from Emily Fitch.. something I never though would happen, but the past three days and a hospital visit later and I'm done. I'm going to get out of this room, then get her out of my house, get my book back, and then maybe go like.. cultivate an obsession with Britney Spears or something. Or one of the Backstreet Boys.. or someone, ANYONE, that is completely irrelevant and fuck-all to current pop culture and isn't such a fucking psychopath as she turned out to be. Can I flog myself now for picking the one crazy bitch to be enamored with that would be just as insane about her obsession with me as I always was about mine with her? The reality isn't as appealing as the fantasy, even if the sex was better. Fuck this. I'm done.

And yet, and yet, I find myself suddenly tied to the bed, flat on my fucking back, splinters grinding into my now-exposed skin before I know what happened. JESUS, how the hell did one small, if not incredibly curvy and well proportioned, redhead manage to pull me back from the bedroom door and strip me half-naked before I knew what happened? Ninja skills? Do they teach that at shitty music school or something, how to tie people up with a striped scarf she found somewhere by one.. just one wrist again, nice.. and make pants and knickers disappear? There are now tiny shards of wood digging into my ass and a determined RnB sensation grinding into my exposed cunt with the thigh of her tracksuit bottoms, and I am almost too distressed by the tiny fires in my ass to think about how amazing that silky fabric feels slip-sliding against my soaking wet center. I do manage to suppress a groan, but just one, as a second one escapes when Emily Fitch plunges three fingers straight into my pussy, pumping in and out immediately and not even waiting for me to react. I do, after a long moment, manage to pry open my eyes and take in the fact that she's removed that fucking chav ball cap and wig and replaced it with the red one she found in my drawer.

Can I take a moment to linger, as I'm being fucked senseless by the object of my intense desires, that this girl must be the most narcissistic individual on the planet that she discovers I used to role play in my sex life - to pretend I was fucking her when I was doing my cunt of an ex-girlfriend, not that I really blame her for being a cunt when deserved some of it but splinters on the bed was a step too far - and then when I'm actually being fucked by Emily in my house, in my bed, she puts on the red wig? If I wasn't close to cumming all over the place from her touch, and if I wasn't still in some serious pain from all the splinters digging into my naked ass (somehow she let me keep my shirt on, even if it was ripped open again and my tits are bouncing everywhere that her mouth isn't sucking on them) I would applaud myself for the amazing color match I managed with that wig. I mean, serious pantone color exactness right there, where I can see through my haze that her own bright red locks are sticking out from under that stupid thing, that her face is twisted in all kinds of self-satisfied smirks and moans as she tosses her head back again and I try to make her look at me when I regain use of my one free hand and I somehow manage to pull the wig off. She snaps her head back down and looks at me with a serious scowl on her face and pushes her fingers into me harder, but for once not instantly removing my hand from her neck, letting me touch her, and just looking at me - something in her expression changes for a brief second (like.. affection? Oh, Christ) before it's gone again and she thumbs a quick motion over my now-engorged clit and makes me cum, hard, staring me in the face with a hard look in her dark eyes. I don't even dare close my eyes or turn away as she buries her fingers into me with a sense of determination that I know, right now, will be the death of me if I don't get a little of that power back somehow. Later, cause oh, Jesus Mary and Joseph I think this isn't the best orgasm ever, what with the splinters in my ass, but it's definitely in my top 5. The two top positions, of course, occupied by the runner up.. Emily Fitch fucking me with a strap-on in her crazy fucking dungeon room of kink the night of her concert, and.. ding ding! the top spot occupied by Emily Fitch eating my pussy in her sister's car the next morning. Another reason to invest in Victoria's Secret? I'm still convinced the RnB sensation stole my fucking knickers that day. Anyway, enough of past conquests and lost causes cause right now, oh fuck me, right now she's sending me over the edge, she's got herself pushed so far into me I wonder if she's prospecting for gold or something, cause the way she looked at me for a moment just then told me she thinks my pussy is all kinds of mint.

What Emily Fitch, shit singer, great dancer, all around crappy human being does not count on, is that I'm managing, despite the dopamine coursing through my brain and despite the fact that I'm half-restrained, half-dressed and still have fingers buried deep inside me, the fiery pains prickling against my skin are keeping me sharp and for once I don't black the fuck out after I cum. Thank you, destructive powers of disgruntled ex-girlfriends, I think I might have to call the police on your melt-downy ass - but right now, I'm thanking my lucky stars and smirk back at the redheads gorgeous face, now distracted by the view of herself in the full-length closet door mirrors (fucking narcissist! I said! I did!) as I manage to get my hand free from that tie wrapped around the bedpost. It seems ninja skills aren't just for tiny twin psychopaths anymore. Before she knows what's happening this time, and the squeak of protest torn from her lips spurns me on that I have the upper hand this time, and because I am such a fucking gentleman I even pull the duvet and top sheets off the bed before I shove her down on it and pin her there, arms pinned, her fingers finally out of my pussy and trapped by my hands above her head.

Oh, I smirk again, show a little teeth this time as I take in her furious expression, and she starts swearing at me in that adorable husky tone of hers. Oh, she tries to get away, but the advantages of being in a relationship with a girl that did not hardly ever want to fuck me and certainly not ever fuck me while wearing a red wig as I fantasized about someone else means that I know how to angle myself and then I certainly know how to move my hips to get the attention back on me (and they hardly ever say no) after I start kissing up and down their necks. From the squirming below me, it seems that RnB sensation Emily Fitch doesn't have the power to resist my sucking on that little spot on her neck behind her ear, either. Perhaps she is mortal after all. I don't know if that makes me some kind of creepy rapist-type but hey, I fucking know what works and I fully intend to use it to my full advantage this time. Enough getting fucked, and getting fucked over for this Naomi Campbell, enough blows to the head and soreness in the morning and sneaking out windows and being dismissed without any consideration. This time, I get my piece too. This time, I'm going to make the woman of my ultimate wank bank material scream my name like I'd imagined so very many thousands of hours. Yeah, that's what got me caught jerking off at work that one time, stupid fucking unlocked doors, and for some reason with the perfect redhead now pinned below me trying to shove me off, growling threats at me, it turned me on like nothing else that I might get a bit of revenge. Take that, retarded children everywhere, at least I'm going to get mine in the end.

Emily, thinking she's all clever with that chav disguise of hers, apparently didn't think that her tracksuit bottoms (such attention to detail) were going to be my favorite thing ever because they have snaps, all the way up and down and now they're on the floor and I didn't even have to move more than a few inches to my right, and I keep one hand holding the redhead's wrists above her head while I rip the silky pants off, snap by quick snap as she stops squirming as we both realize she's not wearing anything underneath. That little minx, I fucking love it. Oh, and damn, she must be excited by my new dominant side cause she slams her head back on the bed, exposing her neck and pushing her perfect breasts, still clad in her fucking classic David Beckham Man U jersey and her nipples poking up and all hard and rubbing against my bare chest as I lean back over her. I'm grinning now, grinning and Christ I can smell how excited she is as that musty scent wafts from between her legs (and probably mine too) as she grinds her exposed pussy up into mine. I know what she's doing, trying to make me distracted so she can flip me over, but I see the glint in her eye before she can move and I grab the tie, still dangling from the headboard, and wrap her wrists tightly, probably a bit too tightly, and now I know I've got her and I can take my time. Payback, Emily Fitch. You're mine now and this is the moment I've been waiting my whole pathetic life for, to slip my fingers over the wetness now pooling from between her legs and staining the bare mattress, hey it's not like I was going to keep any of this shit anyway, now that it's all busted to hell, and I thank my lucky stars once again that Adrienne had thoughtfully left the headboard intact, even if she had wrecked everything else.

I look back up at Emily, her eyes practically black with lust now, and Jesus if that doesn't make me practically cum right on the spot, again, but I'm busy now - there is a Fitch twin tied to my bed, the right one, the best one, and I'm gonna fuck her. Let's take a minute to consider how we got here, and how amazing that fact is. I'm going to fuck RnB sensation Emily Fucking Fitch and she wants me to. God, she's giving me these throaty growls as I move slowly downward and she can't do a fucking thing about it, thank you, random sailing camp my mother shipped me off to when I was 12 - that knot tying class finally came in handy, for once - her wrists, unlike mine, won't be going anywhere and she gets this after another moment of struggling. She opts to let me do what I want rather than make her hands turn purple like some kind of freaky grape sausage bundle. Ewww, well, you get what I mean. Back to the divine pussy of Emily Fitch, and now I get my first proper taste as I settle myself between her legs and shove down her bare thighs on the bed. She's glistening in the afternoon light and fuck, if there isn't wetness dripping down the sides of her smooth inner thighs and making a puddle collecting under her bare ass. It's a glorious sight, and I dive right in, my previous slow pace forgotten instantly as the sharp sweet tang of her cunt hits my lips and I go a little mental at the deepest moan I have ever made escaping my throat that is mirrored by an even deeper growl from the pop star writhing underneath me. I can't stop, I won't stop, and my fingers two at first, slip so easily into her. All that shit I said before, about how she's horrible and I'm done and she's a psycho and I'm setting myself up for nothing but pain? Fuck. I really don't give a fuck anymore because sliding in and tasting the most glorious cunt in the world and perhaps the chance to do it again (and I really really think I need to do this again, even though I just started) and I know just now that I will put up with literally anything to fuck RnB sensation Emily Fitch as often as possible. I'm a goner.

Oh, and so is she as I steal a glance up her naked body and I see her biting her lips and squeezing her eyes shut in exquisite agony as I slip another finger inside her and start to twist a bit, curling my fingers up in and out as I thrust into her, slowly at first and then faster and faster as her hips start slamming her soaking wet cunt into my open mouth and it's all I can do to keep up. I wonder how long it's been, if ever, since this chick got sorted good and proper by someone (oh, like big dykey me) who knows how to push all those buttons. I guess she must have had some idea how good it would be, giving me diamonds and all, and for a brief moment I thought I should earn them as I feel her cunt tightening around my fingers after a few more deep thrusts and I curl my fingers up toward the ceiling and press them there, hard, riding with her as she gasps "OH, FUCK, NAOMI!" and comes in a rush with a strangled cry and slams her knees into the side of my already tender skull. I didn't even get to revel in my conquest, because again, fucking again I blacked out. Or she knocked me out. Emily Fitch fucking knocked me out while I was making her cum! Bitch! Looking back on it now, I consider that going for the G-spot with someone as deceptively strong as Emily Fitch when she is that tightly wound and I've got her wrists pinned but not her legs, well, let's just say my first thought when I woke up on the bed, was fuck, it's dark, but the second was I need some of those 5-point restraints from the psychiatric hospital if I am ever going to survive any kind of mutual sexual relationship with that fucking crazy person. The third was.. fuck, where did she go? cause the tie is dangling from the headboard and the RnB singer was nowhere to be found. And the fourth was.. fuck me sideways, she took my fucking stalker book. And now I'm really fucked. The special needs children in my throbbing skull are pointing and laughing at me, and I can't find my pants anywhere.

A/N- Oh, I think they're headed to LA next. Oh, poor Naoms.. I don't see that going much better for her either.