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THE FOLLOWING IS A TRUE STORY FROM MY COLLEGE DAYS
Tonight I'm fucking myself while whimpering at a picture of me and RJ. It's not working as well as it normally does, though, since I've been fucking myself to his picture so much more often these days. (I wonder why? It's been over a decade now, since I've last seen him...) Anyway, I've been cunting myself for a couple hours now, with my biggest dildo, and still haven't climaxed nor even come close. The whole time, I've been looking deep into this picture of me and RJ. Looking deep into the picture of us, and crying.
I'm looking at the one where I'm dressed as Peter Pan. It's Halloween downtown, and RJ is earning extra money on the side as a bouncer. When I see him at the door of the bar—his hairy, tanned and bulging arms; his sloppy, plain black T-shirt—I squeal, and flutter over to him, extra faggoty, then pull him into a hug. (My friend captured this moment on film, thank god.) In the photo, I'm hugging him so closely and smilingly, I'm almost nuzzling him with my tongue. Meanwhile, RJ's face is frozen in time, forever as it was in that moment: (when I almost tasted his neck, in front of a bar-ful of people) he's leering at me sideways, unsmiling. His jaw is clasped tight, in the rage or panic he feels at my touch. He still tries to flash a grin, though, at my hot girl-friend taking the picture. But it barely masks his stabbing hatred of me.
He's right to want to murder me. I shouldn't have been so forward, saying hi and hugging him in public like that (even though we worked together, and knew each other quite well, and he'd fucked me.) One of the first rules of being a faggot is that you never publicly approach any of the men who use your holes. I should've known better, I know, but I was wildly drunk—not to mention dressed like a cartoon fairy-boy. The whole reason I'm a faggot is because my judgment is not the best.
At least I got this wonderful picture out of it, where he so clearly wants to beat me or choke me to death. My God, I loved him so much . . . still do love him, in fact. Very, very much. No man ever made me feel quite as unsafe as he did, before or since. Back then, in order for sex to be pleasurable for me, it needed to feel dangerous, shameful, and out of control. Which is why I fell so hard for RJ—this man I worked with, who drunkenly fucked me twice then threatened to kill me. Sex doesn't get more dangerous and out of control than that; and there's few things more shameful than loving it as much as I do.
Whenever I fuck myself while thinking about RJ, I like to fuck myself "bloody." That's when I make it hurt so bad that the juices and lube spilling from my hole start burning like fresh blood. The truth is: I think a lot about my pussy bleeding. Because a lot of Real Men love it when their faggots tell them to "Fuck my pussy `til I bleed for you like a real girl." RJ was the type of man who liked me to say stuff like that—but only in secret.
In public, though, our "relations" weren't all that discreet; but that's because of him, not me. Oftentimes at work he'd be so cruel and attached to me—following me around, just to make fun of me— that our co-workers started calling me his "work wife," because we were always together. (After I learned about this, I started calling him my "work husband" in my head; but never out loud.) They'd also call me his work wife because I did so much for him. If I saw on the schedule I'd be working with RJ, I'd always bring a little extra snack or treat for him. And I'd fetch him anything he needed, so he wouldn't need to get up. I also called mostly every man "Sir" back then, even guys my own age; so I'm sure as an Alpha Male, he sensed the never-ending well of worshipful servility lurking inside me—and he knew just what to do with it.
Once, while he was eating in the breakroom, he even told me to wipe the food scraps from his beard and mustache with my extra napkin, as I sat beside him on the couch. Then, when he was down to his last few bites of sandwich, he scrunched it into a ball inside his fist and tried to shove it in my mouth. In front of everyone. Half of them laughed—uncomfortably, but still. (There's a couple pictures of this incident, too; but they're taken from behind, so nobody but me saw the hateful gleam in his eyes, as he laughed and fisted his leftovers into my face. Sometimes I fuck myself to those pictures, too.) It's not like I'd ever report him; that was one of the most exciting and treasured moments of my life! Some of the girls we worked with, afterward they were like "I couldn't believe he did that to you!" While all the guys were like, "But why didn't you fight back or do anything?" which quieted the girls' defense of me, as RJ sneered: "Yeah. Exactly." This was before we slept together the first time, but I'm sure he knew how desperately I longed to be touched by him. Even if just by his laughing fist.
That's why I just sat there and shrugged after the sandwich incident—with RJ's crumbs, and mayonnaise, and scribbles of meat and lettuce still hanging from my face and shirt. Everyone just looked at me quizzically. Why didn't I fight back? Why didn't I yell or protest? Because something's wrong with me. Everybody knows that. The truth is, a little part of me wanted to cry—not because of what RJ did; but because everyone was staring at me, and I hate being the center of attention. To stop myself from crying, I just kept telling myself: "My work husband likes being mean to me in front of our friends—it makes him happy; I like to make him happy." All I could focus on, was the fact that I now had a husband. And he just touched me, in public! And he tried to shove something in my mouth—in front of everyone! I never thought a perfect man like him would ever want to touch me in public. I was head-over-heels in love with him now. It felt amazing to think about my "husband," even if it was just somebody else's joke echoing in my head.
The first time he fucked me, it was payment for him fixing my car. (But honestly, I would've paid HIM to fuck me; so, I still feel really bad about that. I should've just paid him in cash to fix my car, instead of giving him beer, head, and my pussy.) The first text I ever got from him: "Heard ur havin car trouble. ill look at it." Which of course led me to say. "I couldn't pay you anything, not on what we make lol." He said "Just bring me some beer tonight." In the twenty minutes it took him to fix the car, he kept joking about how useless and stupid I was, not knowing even the most basic stuff about cars. I just laughed in my faggoty way and kept saying sorry. (The funny thing is: I probably just should've had my father or brothers look at my car, but I didn't— because they would've given me merciless shit, just like RJ ended up giving me anyway.)
Later that night, I showed up at his place with two six-packs and a sandwich for him from the gas station. Immediately when he opened the door, I burst into breathy and enthusiastic thank-yous for fixing my car earlier, but he told me to shut up, then he annoyedly jerked his head to silently indicate I should come in. He led me to a dark room, with little more in it than a couch and a blaring TV. The NASCAR race on the screen was the only source of light. He sat down and resumed watching it, already partaking of the beer and sandwich I brought him, without so much as a glance in my direction. I didn't dare sit down next to him until he laughed at me and commanded me to.
Before I could stop myself, I said: "I can't believe you watch NASCAR." Upon seeing him get offended, I added: "I mean, you're just so SMART. You're gonna be a doctor, after all." (The last part was said in my "I'm so lucky to be getting just one moment of your time" voice.) My compliments calmed him down. He settled back into his seat, chugged what was left of his beer, then farted loudly as he scratched his nuts under his gray athletic shorts. Then he belched in my face, smirked, and said: "I'm still just a country boy." A country boy, indeed. Just like all the other country boys I went to high school with.
RJ had even played football in a hick town just like mine, and was still dating his cheerleader girlfriend from his glory days. Which meant that anything that would happen between us—it would automatically be illicit, and disgusting, and make me a selfish whore. I mean: I came to his place that night, fully aware of what he planned on me doing for him. What I'm trying to say is: I have sex with a lot of girls' boyfriends and husbands. Because I'm a bad person, a nasty slut, and a greedy faggot. All my Daddies love punishing me for being "such a greedy little faggot" or "such a nasty fucking slut." The least I can do for them is be the greediest, nastiest, most faggoty slut I can be—which involves a lot of no-strings-attached homewrecking. (Therefore, no matter what else I tell you about RJ, you have to promise not to hate him. One of my favorite things is telling guys: "it's not cheating if it's with a fag." See? I'm a bad person for shamelessly forcing myself on men like that. I deserve to be treated poorly. Backwoods men like RJ understand this best, which is why I love servicing them the most.)
We sat in silence drinking our beers and watching the revving cars go round and round. For a long time. When I received a text, I jumped, and cursed myself for doing so. I was being so uncool. RJ remained motionless, still having not looked at me. He asked coolly: "That some guy?" I giggled and said, "Yeah, I'm sorry." "What's his name?" "Will—" "Will what?" Suddenly he was looking at me, for the first time all night. "Will Rinke," I said. "Oh," his face fell, as he turned away from me, back to the TV. "Got a few cousins named Will," he said; "woulda been hilarious if one of `em was gay." I laughed genuinely at this homophobic man and grazed his bicep. "Oh, haha, sorry to disappoint you then." He shrugged; "you fucking this guy?" I've only sucked him off, I said. "Why hasn't he fucked you yet?" "Well, I've only hung out with him once," I lied; "in his car, after a bad date with this random girl. I sucked him off real quick in the driveway, before his roommates got back. He's texting me now to hang out again, so he better fuck me this time." (The truth was: the bad date was with me. We didn't click at all, and I rambled a lot about stuff he didn't care about. But I made it up to him with my mouth in his car afterward. I never thought I'd hear from him again ! I felt bad lying to my work husband, but if he knew the bad date was with me—he might not wanna be my husband anymore.
RJ hadn't looked at me the whole time I was talking nervously about sucking Will off; and he still didn't look at me, as he said flatly: "So you get around a lot then?" (For someone whose life depends largely on his own privacy, he didn't seem to respect at all the privacy of others.) I giggled and said, truthfully: "I'm good at what I do, yeah, but Will's the only one using me right now—"
He cut me off: "Are you one of those gay guys who can't keep a secret?" Again I giggled. "My whole life is secrets, Sir. And half of them are other people's. I know how this goes. . ." (If he only knew about all the handfuls of men who have barked "anyone finds out—you're dead!", or "tell anyone and I'll beat the fucking shit outta you" while raping my hole. Fags know how to keep secrets. A faggot who can't keep a secret is a dead faggot.) At this, he shrugged, then wordlessly yanked his dick and balls out of his clinging gym shorts. Gorilla-like and godlike in the same motion. His musk hit me thickly in the face, like a cloud of marijuana. He still wasn't looking at me, and not talking to me, either; but I knew exactly what to do. The thing is: you never wanna make a man specifically request to be sucked off by a faggot, or be milked by a faggot's butthole. You never, ever, EVER, wanna make a real man ask for something as degrading as that. Just do it for him automatically—then thank him afterward for letting you, if he hasn't murdered your faggot ass.
So that's precisely what I did. My tongue was scratching his balls as soon as I was done licking my lips at the sight of him. To this day, I remember what he looks like down there. The thickest dick I've ever seen. Messiest pubes, too. Only about six inches long, but beer-can thick. With the kind of huge, hairy bull-balls you only ever dream about. Whenever I fuck myself while I'm thinking of RJ now, I make sure to use my biggest dildo, and I make sure to make it HURT. Because from the moment I first laid eyes on his glorious manhood: I knew he was gonna hurt me with it. Really, really bad. (I was right. But I had no idea yet how right I was. By the end of my affair with RJ, he'd turned me into a slobbering fuckhole, sucking and fucking anything in my desperation to forget about the man I used to be work-married to . . .)
My tongue scratched his nutsack over and over again as I deepthroated him, occasionally getting growled at and smacked upside the head when I talked or moaned too loud, or when my head bobbed up too much and I blocked the TV. RJ tasted like Heaven to me—days-old food, and piss, and particles of shit; all frothing in my face and down my throat. I gurgled for him like an old coffee-maker you should probably throw out, though it's still trying to do its best for you. At one point, he coughed and dripped something all over me—which I quickly realized was chewing tobacco slobber. When I stopped for a second to breathe, and wipe the flecks of tar from my hair and face, he groaned angrily around his wad of chew and grunted: "UH UH!" Then he grabbed the back of my head and jammed his massive junk down my throat again. Balls-deep, and I didn't even gag. Just massaged him, with my face and insides, to calm him down—and to apologize for stopping my worship of him, even for a single moment.
I apologized to him with my mouth and throat until my jaw throbbed in agony, and then I knew it was time to put him up my butt. When I repositioned to ride him side-saddle with my other hole, I took great pains not to block any part of the TV. But I didn't try hard enough for my husband. He grunted and slammed me down, into the flannel throw crumpled up at the foot of his bed. What shame!—my mouth had become so awkwardly dry and frothy from the marathon blowjob, the blanket stuck to my tongue for a while. Judging from the taste, he'd never washed this blanket in his life. Maybe his mom had washed it a couple times. RJ grunted and shoved into me from behind while my face was still buried in his filth. I didn't even wait for him to start fucking me before I set to work milking him with my hips and pussy-walls. If my countless hours of sex have taught me anything, it's this: I should always, always, always be the one to do all the work. Real Men work hard enough every day. And what do faggots like me do, except rub our clitties and titties all day, and dream and whine about getting raped by dozens of Real Men—'Real Men, like the one up my pussy right now.'
The whole time I fucked myself on RJ, I just kept thinking about how lucky I was, and how I didn't deserve him. It made me wanna cry, looking at my pale skinny arms, my scraggly body hair that used to be blond, and my ugly little flapping dick, all flickering hopelessly in the glow of the TV—with its tires loudly ripping into asphalt and tons of excited men yelling. Never had I been more grateful that men rarely look at me during sex. I'm so ugly and he's so perfect, I giggled in my head, as I begged out loud for his load. He didn't like the begging, though. He shut that down real quick, with a grunting open-palm to the back of my head. He shoved me back down into the matted flannel mess. Though numb and burning, my mouth detected Dorito crumbs. Hot Dorito crumbs, all over my face. He wasn't even eating Doritos, I realized, as I licked his old crumbs. This blanket's so disgusting. His dog probably sleeps on it. I licked it greedily now, over and over again, moaning a little innocently, like I was making out with the captain of the football team. As I massaged my husband with my butthole, I closed my eyes and thought about how sloppy and adorable he was. Who knows what all he's wiped on this blanket over the years. . . My husband's such a silly-billy. . . I wish I could do all his laundry for him, to make his life easier . . . for the rest of my life. . .
The din of all the men and the cars on TV began making me really jumpy and scared. I couldn't hear myself think about doing my husband's laundry anymore, to calm myself down. And I seriously needed to calm down, because his beer-can schlong was starting to make my pussy feel like scar-tissue, with how hard I was loving on him—and still, he hadn't made a single sound of pleasure! A panic attack developed in my chest: why was it taking so long to make him feel good? Most men would be on their second or third load inside me by now. The silence in the room cut me deeply, with every quiet slam of my buttcheeks into his belly. (Oh! His glorious belly! The whole time I'd been slurping him earlier, I marveled at the sight of my husband's perfect redneck Daddy belly!)
Next to the dead silence of our fucking, the blaring of the TV made me a nervous wreck. Loud noises have always made me panic inside a little, ever since I was a young girl. I mean, BOY! Lol. I can be such a stupid faggot, especially when I've got a crazy crush like I do on RJ. Luckily, whenever the roaring crowds of men and cars behind me made me jump, they also made my pussy clench around RJ's beast—real tight and needy-like. (A few times when I did this, I even whimpered like a hurt little puppy, just to see if he would notice, get mad, then yell at me for being weird. Which he didn't . . . unfortunately.)
Why hasn't he gotten me pregnant yet? I kept asking myself this question, again and again, as I milked him—each time a bit more panicked than the last. Maybe I can't make him cum because I'm not as pretty as his cheerleader girlfriend (whom he eventually married and had kids with.) Her name is something moneyed, like Maitland. Yeah. Real MONEY name. Rich and beautiful, too, and so much better than me in every way. (How many hours did I spend creeping on RJ's Facebook profile—all the pictures of him shirtless on the beach with his girlfriend at her family's vacation home. . . No wonder RJ wasn't jizzing up my hole yet! I should've just brought him the money for fixing my car—instead of the beer and the food and my pussy; he probably would've liked cash better than this. . .
At one point, I found myself on the verge of tears. Partially because the girthy sausage up my bunghole was starting to burn and stretch me like HELL; and partially because it'd been over an hour, and I still hadn't been able to make my husband sperm my hole! after using BOTH my mouth AND my pussy!!! Any time I get used by a man (or men,) I'm always hyper-aware of everything that I might be doing wrong, or that I could be doing better. This often leads to panicked and racing thoughts, like these I had while RJ, my "Work Husband" was fucking me passionlessly that night:
`That's it then, it must be his bangin' hot girlfriend. God, I bet she's such a psycho fucking bitch, and doesn't even give him ass or dome ever. If I were his girl, I'd worship him like a fucking GOD—every morning, noon, and night! with ALL my holes! and do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted it! And I bet she doesn't even appreciate him. She probably always picks fights with him, and makes him do stupid shit; just because she's pretty and was never told no as a child. It breaks my heart to think of my work husband having such a bitch of a real girlfriend. With an ungrateful cunt like that for a girlfriend, no wonder he's gotta resort to using some disgusting faggot like me. She must be better at sex than me, too, since I still haven't been able to get RJ's nut. Guys will nut in anything. If he doesn't wanna nut in me, that means there's something wrong with ME. Every man who's ever fucked me eventually loses interest and doesn't feel like using me anymore. The common denominator is me. I'm not good enough to be used for a long time. I'm way too weird-looking, and annoying, and crazy, for any man to keep fucking me for more than just a couple weeks or months. Maybe I'm getting too old to service hot guys. I don't look like a teenager anymore. I'm in my mid-twenties! and fag years is like dog years, so that means I'm . . . 175 years old!!! I bet my ass is all wrinkly from being so old and over-used. Oh my god, I'm probably so fugly next to his girlfriend. It makes me wanna DIE! No wonder he hasn't finished inside me yet. I'm so worthless, I can't even make a man cum! And that's the easiest thing in the world to do. A baby could do it. What's wrong with me that he doesn't wanna knock me up? Wait!—What's he saying?!'
"—yer mouth! Quick! Gimme yer mouth!!!"
So elated was I to hear ANYTHING from him, I couldn't process the words at first—until he grabbed me by the jaw, and muscled me toward him. Then I understood. Perfectly. In the way you understand breathing. I plopped him right out of my butt, with a squelch, then eagerly forced him all the way down my throat in one gulp. His meaty hands dug into both sides of my skull, while he yanked on my hair with every spurt of his cum. He pulled out of my mouth suddenly—ouch!
"I getcha in the eye?" he chuckled. "Yeah, sorry," I giggled, like it was all my fault that my ugly red eye was crying sperm tears in front of him. "Nice," he said, disinterestedly, after he'd already looked away. . . to grab his phone, and text somebody. Or scroll through Facebook. Oh wait! I smiled, thinking maybe he was taking a picture of me—all red, and coughing, blinded and decorated by Daddy's cum. . . . Never mind, he wasn't taking a picture of me. I relax back down off my tiptoes and remember that I'm completely naked in front of RJ, while all his clothes are still on. Why do I always always always get naked when serving men, no matter where I am? Oh yeah, because men always love me to be as vulnerable and helpless to their whims and violence as possible. That means me naked whenever possible and Daddy NEVER naked—even when he's using me. After about a minute of ignoring me, he suddenly turned the TV off, drowning the room in dead silence. The cricket army outside was deafening. All I could hear was my "work husband" not looking at me, and not talking to me—after we'd just fucked for the first time, and he'd been using both my holes for hours. Never had I felt more desperate and needy than standing naked there in front of him, with the NASCAR turned off. I couldn't help myself from whining: "Dadddy . . ."
RJ didn't even twitch away from his phone. Didn't even grunt. "Um, Daddy, I just wanted to say—you know, you didn't need to pull out. You could've tried to get me pregnant. I wouldn't've have minded at all, I love it when my Daddies get me pregnant—" At this, he grumbled, jumped up from the bed, and knocked right past me. On the way to the bathroom. I chuckled as I heard his robust stream cut through the dark, quiet, empty house. Along with all his straight-guy congested farts. My God, he was perfect. "You never need to get up to use the bathroom when I'm in the room with you, you know? I drink piss, I—"
"SHUT UP. Don't be gross," RJ grunted from the bathroom. Immediately I giggled and said, "Sorry, Daddy, I know I can be really disgusting." After noticing RJ scratching his asscrack under his athletic shorts, I asked him instinctively, straining my shy, tiny fag-voice over the sound of his robust MAN-piss. "Oh! Does Daddy's butthole itch? Cuz I actually love to scratch men's dirty bungholes with my tongue! it's one of my favorite things to do with my Daddies—" "NOT. YOUR FUCKING. DAD!" He yelled in a bro voice, slamming the toilet seat down and flushing his pungent piss. I almost started crying when he yelled, even though he yelled in a jokey way. I tried to pass off the tears as he looked at me. I pretended it was just inflammation from his cum in my eyes. "I'm sorry, Sir. I know I'm really fucked up. I'll try to do better next time." As I moved to put my skimpy underwear on, RJ gently shoved me back down onto his filthy bed. "Ah, ah, ah! Where do you think you're going?"
"I figured you'd want me to get out of here. Maybe you have other plans, or you're gonna hook up with your girlfriend or some other girls or something. . ."
"You're not going anywhere. You made me try it your way, fag. Now im finna make you try it my way. . ." With a Devil's grin—how many times had he done this to the fagsluts he used?—he roughly jammed a wad of chewing tobacco in the side of my cummy, reddened cheek. At this point, rivers of tears were streaming down my face nonstop. I mumbled around the stuff, asking him whiningly what to do. "Just don't swallow it," he laughed, having turned all his attention back to whatever (or whoever) he was fiddling with on his phone. Probably his girlfriend, or one of the other girls from our work that he's fucking. God, I love that my Daddy is so popular. I mean, my HUSBAND. My "Work Husband," I mooned inside. But I noticed soon I became lightheaded. And I knew all at once: I needed to throw up.
Please let me know what you think. All I wanna do is help you cum, and also learn how to be a better writer for you; because there's a lot more to this story, and I wanna tell you every detail as best I can. You can also hit me up on IG: DaddysNastyF4g5lut; but just be warned that some of my writing there is fictional.