Dark Stalker, Light Idol
A story of a Zoroark with an intense crush on a Contest Idol. Mostly solo female, but female/female in terms of her interests and such.
Fifty feet. That's the closest she had ever managed, watching as the white fox made her way around the stadium. She would sometimes shift tentatively closer, but the tightly packed crowd felt like a vice on her heart whenever she tried. It might as well be an impassible wall.
She brushed her hair out of her face, face downward but eyes forward. Towards the back of the crowd, she could feel invisible. Everyone turned forward, their voices jumbled together into an incomprehensible rumble, focused on the contest.
The Ninetales's turn ended, and the next Pokemon, a Beautifly, began performing some its own routine. In the back, she stopped fidgeting, and sank a bit further back into the shadows. Breathing deeply, calming herself, she waited for the rest of the Pokemon to cycle through.
The faceless crowd cheered as she spit glowing, spiraling flames in myriad patterns through the air. Faces turned up, watching the fire dance. But there were some who kept their faces down - never more than a handful, but always at least one, watching her instead.
After the contest, there were other events. Photo shoots, sales pitches for various beauty products, other vendors displaying their wares, interviews, coordinators speaking to their fans, analysis and recaps, and various other types of social gatherings. These were looser events, and always in the back of her mind, she thought there might be an opportunity somewhere, but with fewer people around, she would stand out more, and... continuing that train of thought was terrifying.
It's not that she doubted her illusions. She had them mastered as a Zorua, and she couldn't even remember how many seasons ago that was. But the idea of being noticed, becoming the center of attention, others focusing on her, even if it was just the illusion she wove around herself, was too much to handle.
She skirted the edge of the crowd, waiting for lulls in the movement of humans, before slipping through gaps in the crowd and out of a side exit. Once out, the pressure in her chest faded as she made her way into the woods and back to her den.
The next few days were typical. Foraging for food, checking the illusions around her den, and berating herself for not having the courage to get closer. Fifty feet. It was too cold of a distance. But any step closer felt insurmountable, and gripping her hand to her shoulder, she told herself again and again that she was tired of the excuses she knew she'd keep making.
But! But. Progress comes in not giving up.
Forty feet. The crowd was thinner today, due to the soaking rain of mid June. The Zoroark twisted her crimson mane between her claws nervously. There were still too many people around for comfort, but she forced herself not to retreat. Her eyes were locked on the fox Pokemon in front of her. Forty feet away. What difference ten feet could make - she see her movements so much clearer, the flowing-smooth movement of her fur, proof of care that went into its grooming, the way she scanned the admiring crowd. For a brief moment, looking between the shoulders of two tall humans, she almost seemed to make eye contact.
There were her admirers, and then, there were her admirers. Those that watched her as she performed, and, those who watched so intensely that they stood out among the crowd, even from the back.
The black fox bent over a cut-out log set against the side of her den, legs spread, working her dull red claws against her clit. Her disheveled mane fell across her face as she silently panted, imagining the the smooth fur, the red eyes, the nine flowing tails, of her idol, mind producing the details that distance had obscured.
There was no romance in her mind, but neither was there sex. Her fantasy was at a distance - she couldn't imagine herself being with a creature as gorgeous as that, so she focused on what she had seen, and on her treatment of own body.
She was as silent in the act of masturbation as she was in the crowd - only the slight sounds of her paws shifting against leaves, her carefully controlled breathing, and the minuscule drip, drip, drip of her fluids falling from her fur and splattering against the forest floor. Eventually her legs quivered, and she sank, slowly to her knees, paw pressed against her slit, riding the afterglow in silence.
Thirty feet. That's about how far away the woman was. Brown hair, green eyes, a dark grey hoodie, nondescript. She seemed panicked when a big group filed in behind her, leaving her with nowhere to go but forward. She looked different, but there were the same mannerisms. Twisting her hair, holding her shoulder with one hand, looking away only as she left the stage.
Master-level contests do not continue throughout the year. Coordinators need time to train their Pokemon, to come up with new moves and routines, and to live their lives. Pokemon need time away from the lime-light. Most enjoy the attention and appreciation of their trainers, but few take to the stage. That, in part, was the Ninetales's secret. Anyone who watched her closely - and the Zoroark certainly watched her closely - could see that she enjoyed the focus of the crowd.
It was completely alien, but also a large part of her allure. How could she revel in the attention like that? How could she have so much confidence in herself? The Zoroark fingered her mane again. Her idol had a mane, if it could be given the same name. Blond, silky, and short, compared to her long, ragged hair. The white fox's fur seemed to shine, the black fox's fur was matte and dull. Perfect posture, chest puffed, four legs straight, compared to her own hunched demeanor.
But the difference wasn't physical. The Zoroark could look however she wanted, and, though she felt plain in comparison to the Ninetales, so too was everyone else, in her estimation. No matter how she might cloak herself, she couldn't imagine enjoying the attention of the masses.
The last contest of the season, she'd been pushed to the front by a group of late-arriving humans. It was stressful, but inadvertently she'd gotten closer to the stage than ever before. The memory of that would be enough until the weather turned warm again and the contests returned.
Four ribbons. Green, yellow, red, and now blue, with pink remaining to be earned. Winters are cold, not just the frost and snow, but the lack of the warmth of the crowd. Their appreciation. But part of the fun is finding new ways to be appreciated. Technical skill, force and confidence, style and flair, and elegance were all mastered. Playing to their (her) emotions, teasing them (her), that would be the next ribbon to win.
The Ninetales debuted her new style at the beginning of the year, and from the back of the hall, the Zoroark could feel the crowd's disappointment. This was the Pokemon that had won more ribbons than any other? Her charms fell flat, the wag of her tail felt heartless, and the excited tense discussion became confused murmuring.
But, that wasn't right, was it? Even at this distance, the Zoroark could see how intentional this was. The movements were too stiff, too controlled. As the dark fox watched, she could see the practiced flow underneath the stilted moves. One of the other Pokemon, a bubbly-acting Politoed, won a small lead over the other competitors, with the Ninetales in dead last. The coordinator, a young man, seemed overjoyed - he hadn't noticed either, then. It was like watching a parent roll over for their cub, pretending to be subdued by their ferocious attack. Play-acting.
With the lack of excitement in the crowd, the Zoroark was able to slowly make her way forward, only twenty feet away. She could see the expression on the Ninetales's face; concentration and satisfaction, underneath a false mask of frustrated struggling.
Only one viewer caught on to what she was doing (but then, she knew there would be the one). It wouldn't be cute to hold the lead from the start. Emotionally, people love an underdog; she had to give up the spotlight, so that she could steal it back. But, still, there was the one. She had a different emotion in store for that one.
The wild fox Pokemon's tension grew with each contest. Viewing from so close each time, she retreated back to her den quickly but carefully, crafting a different disguise and taking different routes each time. But, once home, replaying the maneuvers she saw in her mind, losing track of the outside world, she'd paw at her slit until they were slick with her lubricant, and until her body shuddered and twitched with her orgasm.
Until, finally, she found herself at the foremost part of the audience, almost against the railing separating the stadium floor proper from the spectator seating. No more than ten feet away.
Her disguise this time was that of a tall-ish human woman, hair in a bun, some nondescript jewelry (humans like their sparkly things, but making her illusion too eye-catching was counter-productive). She'd never used it this one before, but she still felt like the Ninetales's red eyes lingered on her a bit too long - part of the danger of being foolish enough to get to the front of the crowd.
The white fox was slowly undoing the damage she'd done to her own reputation. Cocking her head, charming the audience out of their disinterest, wagging her tails. But each action seemed too significant. When she tilted her head, one eye seemed to catch her own. When she gave a cry, some undertone to it resonated as almost... seductive. When she moved her tails, she turned just enough that, barely visible, her spade-shaped vulva glimpsed out.
The Zoroark's breath caught. It was a coincidence, she just happened to be in the right spot. But this was more than she could have ever dreamed of. The routine seemed to go on impossibly long, and she felt herself soaked by the time it was over. The sight was covered by her layered illusion, and she was skilled enough to fool the sense of smell. She needed to flee the hall, but it took painfully long for the humans to clear out enough to allow it.
On her way back to the den, she replayed the events in her mind over and over, sound, sight, and even smell (close enough to catch the Ninetales's scent with her sensitive nose before her own scent became overpowering).
She made her way through the bushes (real and illusory), down through the tunnel to the main area of her den. She held herself there, barely moving, arms wrapped around her shoulders, shuddering slightly as the sight of the Ninetales flipping her tails up and over replayed itself again and again in her mind. To that scene on loop, she added the Pokemon's whine, trying it out at different parts until it seemed just right (trying hard to keep herself from whining along with it). Finally, the musky scent, only somewhat masked by soaps and perfumes, spreading out through the air and reaching her.
Her grip on herself became tighter, and she felt her muscles clenching. She closed her eyes to visualize better, ignored the sounds of rustling grass and padding ever-present in the area, ignored the feeling of the soft dirt between her claws as her toes clenched against the ground. She hit her first orgasm from thought alone, the sensation slowly growing through her body, starting in her belly before spreading throughout.
She wouldn't let it fade. Pressing her paw against her opening, she could feel her muscles contacting rhythmically, and she started opposing that rhythm with strokes of her claws. The contrary motion caused her crotch to twitch, and she met that motion with increased force, mixing her lubricants into her fur, causing it to stick up in wet spikes.
She brought the smooth back of her claws against her clit, and began moving them in small circular motions. Every few seconds she focused on a different trait she could remember of the Ninetales. Her red eyes. Her pointed face. The orange tips of her tails. The longer fur of her chest. Her paws, catching her weight as she moved across the stage. Her flat tongue, hanging out slightly when she exerted herself. Her vulva, dark, furless, slightly wet. The dark Pokemon's claws circled faster around her clitoris.
Without thought, the Zoroark laid herself against the ground, one leg against the ground, the other raised at the knee. She bucked her hips ever so slightly against her hand as she rubbed herself. The motion grew more intense as her mind started supplying additional details. The soft, smooth feel of her fur, the warmth of her body, the feel of her breath. The Zoroark's pointed face scrunched up, her pointed teeth clenched. More details: the taste of her tongue, and of her...
Her second orgasm hit, her body clenching up, hand quickly brought up to her mouth, imagining the taste of her own vaginal fluids to be those of the Ninetales. She crossed her legs and squirmed, bucking her hips against nothing as she clamped down again and again. She laid back against the section of log, her body wet with sweat, musky pheromones, and lubricant, where her soaked hand tracked it across her dark fur.
So this is my stalker's den, is it? She was so careful to hide her path each time, but a bit of urgency ended that. She didn't even notice me following.
I wonder if I should tell her she just gave her first performance? Or, perhaps, I should let her give a few more. I can see why she likes being in the audience, frankly. Perhaps when this contest season is over, and I have my fifth ribbon, we can celebrate then, an idol and her biggest fan.
Five ribbons. Two foxes. And zero feet between them.