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THE FOLLOWING IS A TRUE STORY FROM MY COLLEGE DAYS
That's what he wanted all along, I eventually surmised. The whole "You made me try it your way, fag; now you try it mine" bit—it was way too clever to not have been rehearsed. My head was spinning as I watched the grin stretch across his face. `Here it comes,' he was thinking, as he gleefully watched my sickness rise. How many other faggots had he face-fucked and porked over the years, before shoving his chew in their inexperienced mouths just so he could watch them vomit? Which is exactly what he was doing to me: just standing behind me and laughing, watching me hurl flaming chunks of my insides down his toilet. After my third volley of puke, it occurred to me that he was saying something. "Get on your knees." And so I sunk to my knees, hugging his piss- and shit-encrusted toilet bowl.
"I'm so sorry for this, Sir," I rasped. "For making such a mess, and for wasting your, umm, your stuff. Your chew." Suddenly I remembered that I was only wearing my skimpy fag undies, so I pulled the thin strap to the side of my butthole. Then I spread my cheeks and raised my pussy up for him, as high as I could in this awkward position. In doing so, my head sunk lower into the filthy toilet. (That's when I realized: there'd been piss in it before I started throwing up. And I secretly hoped that the brown chunks were regurgitated chewing tobacco, not RJ's old turds. . . Who am I kidding? I secretly hoped I WAS sniffing his un-flushed shit.) "If you wanna go again, please feel free." Saying this, I wiggled my winking hole at him, like a dumb dog wagging its tail as it drinks from the toilet. "And you don't have to pull out this time! like I said—" He scoffed to cut me off. "Yeah, HARD pass." "Yeah, I know, I'm really disgusting right now. I'll get out of your hair soon, I promise! I'm just so sorry about all this." I barely got done apologizing, for the millionth faggotty time, before a couple more spouts of puke ejected from my throat. That's when I really started crying. UGLY crying (as if I could've gotten any uglier.) "I just realized," I whimpered, then burst out sobbing: "I just realized I threw up all your cum!" At this, he turned and walked away with a sneering laugh, muttering a "jesus christ" at my pathos. Now I was the lowest of the low; the lowest a faggot can get. Not only was I ruining a Real Man's night, but I didn't even have his cum in me anymore!
Not wanting to bother him any more than I already had, I did my best to restrain my whines and retching. Through the walls, I could hear him pouring himself some cereal and turning the TV back on; and I fell a little bit more in love with him . . . picturing him there, able to eat and watch TV and scratch his nutsack like I didn't even exist: the crying, barfing faggot in his toilet. The dizziness and nausea began to subside, but without his cum in my belly, I was feeling worse than ever. Once again, I raised my pussy up and stuck a finger inside me, hoping to feel around for some precum, or any other trace of himself he might've left inside me before he pulled out. But there was nothing. He didn't WANT to leave any trace of himself inside me; that must be why he tricked me into throwing up his load! I stuck two more fingers up my cunt and fucked myself on this stabbing truth: the fact of my unworthiness. Somewhere in the daze of finger-fucking myself, I realized—not only had my face been rubbing against the inside and rim of RJ's yellowed, shitty toilet bowl; my mouth was open, and moistly panting. I'd been licking the nasty yellow-brown crust of all his old pisses and shits. At first, I was horrified, but only for a moment. My terror gave way to mind-blowing pleasure. THIS was how I could make up for vomiting his cum! I licked and slurped the toilet grime greedily now, fucking myself even harder.
When I heard him, my heart dropped out my butt. I couldn't tell whether it was a throat-clear, or if it was him laughing at me with cereal in his mouth. But RJ was right behind me, watching me tongue-worship his dirty toilet, with my knuckles plunged up my bunghole. I could NOT get outta there fast enough. "I'm so sorry!" I cried, running to grab my clothes and rush out the door. The entire way home, I cried, thinking of how uncool I'd been, and how he'd probably never talk to me again—let alone fuck me. Why do I ALWAYS insist on getting screwed by all the men I work with? It only ever makes things messy (in the most literal sense.) When I got home that night, I rubbed my fag-clit and fucked myself to beach pictures of him and his hot girlfriend. God, how I adored his hairy belly! and the way he didn't care what he looked like at all, even on the arm of what appeared to be a supermodel. He ate messy foods and drank `til he was red in the face; but to me he was still a God in every single one of his pictures. I couldn't sleep a wink that night. I kept running through everything I did wrong with him. I never should've called him Daddy. I KNEW he wasn't the type of guy to respond to that kind of talk. I knew it like the stains on my clothes, and yet I did it anyway. But I just can't help it. Whenever a boy puts his thing inside me, my mouth just naturally calls him my Daddy. Sometimes I can restrain myself, even though it's extremely hard. But when the boy fucking me is as Godlike as RJ, he's always gonna be my "Daddy" no matter what.
When I got up to get ready and go to work the next day, the goblin in the mirror horrified me. It was a rough night, sure, but it's no wonder he didn't wanna fuck me again while I was throwing up. I'd never looked worse in my entire life. That day, I made sure to bring RJ the sandwich I usually brought him whenever we worked together. But when someone joked that I was his "work wife" again, this time he winced instead of laughed. He still mocked me meanly in front of our coworkers as usual, but he didn't speak to me at all when we were alone. After a couple days of this, his mockery of me started to get much rougher and crueler than ever before. So I stopped bringing him food or trying to talk to him, not wanting to bother him and make the ridicule even worse. A few times a day, I would catch him death-glaring at me. It got to the point where, whenever he was in the room with me, I couldn't stop thinking about all the embarrassing things I'd done with him that night. Vomiting my guts out while fingering my cunt was somehow the least mortifying part of the whole night. So, what was the MOST mortifying? Slurping his crusty toilet bowl? Calling him Daddy, over and over again? Saying he could go to the bathroom in my mouth? No. After obsessing about it every day for a week, I decided the most mortifying thing was when I offered to scratch his dirty itchy butthole with my tongue. From that point on at work, whenever I looked at him, I'd hear it on repeat in my head: "Does Daddy's butthole itch? Does Daddy's butthole itch? Does Daddy's butthole itch?" Why would I EVER say something like that to a man I'd have to see every day afterward? (Oh yeah, cuz I'm a faggot.) One day, someone asked me a question in front of RJ while I was spacing out, and I accidentally started to say aloud what I was thinking: "Does Da—" Luckily, I stopped myself just in time, but I kept stammering to cover it up. "Duh duh duh doyyyy," RJ said, imitating a mentally challenged person, making everyone laugh at me. "RE-tard."
The next week, when his demeanor toward me hadn't improved, I started drunk-texting him apologies every night. Never did I refer to any of the non-straight activities he and I partook in together, though. If anyone would've seen my texts on his phone, they'd just assume I was a spazz who couldn't handle my chewing tobacco. The first night, I texted him "So sorry again that I wasted your chew and made such a mess! How much was it? I'll pay you back for it or buy you some more if you want!" The next night, I sent: "Just say the word and I'll come over and clean your bathroom top to bottom! I'm actually really good at cleaning, so I promise it'll be spotless!" After not hearing anything back from him, either in text or at work, I tried again. "I'm such a dummy! I should've paid you for fixing my car! How much do I owe you?" (I NEVER, EVER, EVER should've given him just a blowjob and sex and beer and dinner for fixing my car! I should have also given him money from the very beginning! Letting me service him was essentially just another favor he was doing for me, for FREE. I'm so fucking selfish and stupid.)
When our situation still hadn't resolved by Friday, I got sloppy drunk began drafting a mortifyingly confessional text to him. It started out something like this: "You wouldn't think throwing up in front of a guy would be so embarrassing for me. I mean, I throw up ALL THE TIME to stay skinny so boys will still wanna fuck me lol But I guess that's more of something I should keep behind closed doors. I've never even thrown up on a guy's dick—and I've taken 13-inchers down my throat before! I guess I've got Master Adam to thank for that. He's this 30yo man who trained me how to deep-throat when I was 17. I'm so sorry I'm so disgusting. . ." On and on it went, for two more paragraphs: divulging shameful secrets I'd never shared with anyone before; promising to do things for him I'd never done for anyone else—like blumpkins and double-penetration. For hours, I re-read and edited, making sure it was perfect. Until I just hatefully deleted the whole thing and gave up on ever hearing from RJ again. Then I took another swig to drown my sorrows, and it hit me. It'd been right in front of me all along! The very thing burning my insides right now and making me crazy—it could be my salvation! "I'm drinking some of that whiskey you like, if you wanna come over." Within minutes, I heard back: "ok".
For some reason, I wasn't suspicious at all when he arrived and suggested we take a walk in the woods. (Even though the whiskey was INSIDE, and taking a walk outside meant we might actually be seen together.) So lost in euphoria was I—just be in his presence for real again, with him looking at and talking to me, even in straight-guy grunts—that I didn't care where he was taking me or why. After walking about ten minutes into the darkening forest, we came across a ginormous root that reminded me of RJ's thick and tan schlong. He sat down on it, and I could tell he wanted to say something, so I sat down next to him. It soon became clear that I would have to be the first one to speak. "I'm so sorry again," I breathed, "for everything. And for texting you so much lately. I've just been so embarrassed, and I only texted you this week when I was drunk—" He interrupted, eyeing me judgmentally: "You get drunk every night?" (So did he, but I didn't dare say that.) "Yeah," I giggled. "I don't know what's wrong with me. It's, like, the only way I can slow my brain down and just be a normal person. . ." After a long pause, he asked, "Don't you think you should be on meds for that instead?" If he were any other guy in the world, I would've touched him while I flirtily said this next part: "Well, YOU tell ME! After all, YOU'RE the one who's going to be a doctor." (But, even alone in the wilderness, I didn't want to make RJ uncomfortable.) He grinned. "Nah, I'm just in it for the tits." At this, I doubled over laughing. He really was the smartest, funniest, most perfect man in the whole world. Not only was he gonna hold people's very lives in his hands every day; he was only doing it to get his hands on lots of tits, and make it easier to fuck them. As my laughter subsided, I almost forgot myself and touched his hairy thigh. My God, he wore gym shorts like nobody I'd ever seen. Finally, I steeled myself to ask: "Do you forgive me for everything?"
He didn't answer for a long time, just eye-fucking the sunset. All at once, the whole world became an ice bath full of mosquitoes, and my heart was racing a million miles per millisecond. Eventually, he confessed to me that his girlfriend told him she knew he'd been cheating on her; and it'd happened the night after I'd sucked him off with my mouth and my butt. So, naturally, he'd just assumed that I was the one who told her. "WHAT?! I swear ON MY SOUL that I would never, ever, ever do anything like that to you!" I pleaded, which made him laugh. "I know," he said, slapping his hand on my shoulder for just a tiny blissful moment. A couple days before, he'd learned that it was actually one of the other girls he'd been fucking that'd told his girlfriend. "We're still together and everything, but she was really pissed. And the whole time, I thought it was you. . ." This is when he confessed that he'd been contemplating murdering me; that's how upset he'd been. During his drunkest and darkest moments of the last couple weeks, he said, "I just kept thinking . . . all my problems would go away, if I just got rid of you." (This confession was especially unsettling because of our sleeping arrangements at the time. Suffice it to say, it was the kind of temporary job that required all of us to bunk on the same premises; and all of us had access to a Master Key that would let us into everyone else's rooms. This whole time, my life had been in danger, and I'd had no idea. . .) Slowly it dawned on me that I'd been brought into the woods, at night, alone with this man.
"Oh. . ." I said meekly. "Well . . . I'm so sorry that all of that happened to you! Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?" With this, I stood up to stretch into a fake yawn, making sure my faggotty pastel booty-shorts slipped down just enough to expose the top of my hairless crack. "You know, I've still got half a bottle of whiskey back in my room, with your name on it. . ." He stood up behind me, at the exact moment I turned around. My hand grazed his godly belly, and he didn't even recoil. We were standing so close; it was killing me not to sink to my knees for him. His breath hit hotly on my face in the cold night, "Then let's go." I chuckled deeply, leading the way. "See? I always know what my men need." That is to say, I led the way until we reached my front door, at which point he muscled past me and went straight for the bottle. The sound of his gulping filled the night, then his burning breath filled my mouth. He didn't offer me any, but his tongue on mine got me buzzed enough on its own. Nothing makes me feel more special than when a straight boy is so drunk and fucked-up that he forgets what I am and kisses me on the lips. Before I knew it, I'd been pinned against the wall, and RJ was ripping off all my clothes. Even in the pitch-dark of my room, being nude before RJ felt like I'd just been stripped naked in front of the entire world. When he broke away from our embrace, my whole body shivered. Now he was ripping his own clothes off, before lying on my bed. He made himself perfectly at home there, lying in what I call the "Blow Me, Bitch" pose—where guys fold both their hands behind their head, and put a shit-eating grin on their faces.
Of course, I prepped my cunt for his monster-truck dick before he got there. But I still couldn't help myself from lubing him up with my mouth a bit, before we got to the main event. I inched my way up his legs, crawling up from the floor onto my bed. Since I'm only human, I had to stop for a while to make to French-kiss his ripe nutsack and shove him down my throat. Only a handful of times, though, because I was desperate to finally ride him (like I'd been dreaming about doing since the moment we first met.) In one fluid motion, I expertly mounted him and lined up his destroyer with my hole. My pussy-lips gobbled him up painfully in one gulp, but I was careful not to register anything on my face except soul-shattering happiness. The only problem was: my insides were squelching around his thickness, from all the lube I'd crammed up into me. So I screamed and whined in my most girly voice: "OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD, DADDY, YOU FEEL SO GOOD!" I prayed this would cover up the disgusting sounds that my cunt was making while it tried to swallow RJ again and again. My girl was definitely choking on him at first, but I soon managed to work myself into a noiseless rhythm around him. Once I squashed the squelching pussy situation, I was free to start apologizing: "I'm SO sorry—I know you don't like being called Daddy. But I just can't help myself . . . when I've got a God like you up my cunt." RJ was a tough audience. This whole time I'd been struggling to milk him—all the way up, and all the way down—he hadn't made a single sound, or even shifted his face the slightest bit. But I expected this, given how stoic he was on the first night I serviced him. Luckily, I knew from experience exactly what he wanted to hear. "Oh my God! Your girlfriend is SO fucking lucky. . ."
"Oh yeah?" he perked up, still in `Blow Me Bitch' pose. "How come?" I giggled, astonished. "I mean. . . Just LOOK at you!" With hearts in my eyes, I launched into a breathless listing of all his body parts and what's so perfect about them: his arms, his pecs, his belly, his thighs, his calves, his huge manly feet, his hair, and OH MY GOD his perfect face. The whole time I gushed about his sexiness, my clenching butthole was giving his nutsack sweet little kisses whenever they touched. My face flushed red when I began talking about how I sometimes jack off to pictures of him on Facebook, and how my mouth waters every time I see him at work. I couldn't bear to look at his stony, penetrating eyes any longer. Downcast, I continued: "I mean, if I was your girl—" He cut me off with a too-loud laugh: "Which you NEVER will be, just so we're clear." "Ohmygod, I know!" I yelped; "I'm so sorry for being so weird, it's just that. . . I can't help thinking of how great it would be: waking you up every morning, with whatever hole you requested the night before; bringing you breakfast in bed; doing all your laundry; cooking all your favorite stuff. And I'd let you fuck whoever you want, whenever you want, because that's what GODS do." With that last part, I giggled and clenched around him extra tight, making him say "Fuck yeah it is!"
At this point, he reached up to grab me and SLAM me down onto the bed. It was hot and damp with the sweat he'd shed while I rode him. Before I could whimper for him to get back inside me, he plunged balls-deep up my cunt. Right away, he began beating up my pussy. I cradled his face in my hands lovingly, hoping that would slow him down a bit; but it only made him grunt and pound into me harder. His every thrust felt like a knife digging into my lungs; and that's when I remembered: this man had not-too-long-ago been wanting to murder me. "You didn't reallllly think about killing me . . . did you?" I whispered. "Ohhhhh yeah," he laughed; I shivered. "How . . . how were you gonna do it?" Suddenly he got serious, still grunting a little. "With the gun my old man gave me." This moment chilled me to my very soul. Someone honestly came close to shooting me to death; then less than a week later: here he was, in my bed, making my butthole burn. The moment was so overwhelming, I felt like I was having a panic attack. He'd even confessed to me that he almost ended my life this week, then less than an hour later, he's up my cunt for Round Two. I love it when men can rip you apart inside with nothing but the truth. The truth of how little you mean to them. . . Then again: do you contemplate murdering people who don't mean anything to you? So many thoughts and feelings rushed through my head, about this growling man between my legs. To stop myself from crying, I joked: "You wouldn't wanna use a gun, though. Can't they trace those things? You'd have been better off using a knife." He opened his eyes and looked at me, for the first time since we'd started missionary; and a disturbing smirk cut itself across his face. "Oh yeah, you're right. . ."
What followed was an awkward silence more painful than death. So I cleared my throat nervously and asked: "where would you . . . um, where would you stab me, then?" "Psh, right here," he said, putting a hot meaty paw on my heart like I was the stupidest bitch in the world. "No no no," I laughed; "that would go way too quick! You're gonna be a doctor; I'm sure you can think of a better way to do it. I thought you wanted to make it HURT." His entire demeanor changed when I said this. He was really gonna enjoy this game. "Well . . . maybe I stab you in the cunt, like I'm doing now," he chuckled, with a raised eyebrow, sticking his tongue out douchily. "Ugh, that'd be like fucking a bitch on her period, though," I point out, making him almost die laughing. It was the happiest moment of my life, to make him laugh like that inside me. "I mean," I continued: "I assume you're gonna be fucking me as I die; because, otherwise, what's the point? . . . I think you should stab me in the brain a couple times; then I bet my death spasms would feel really good on your dick." He flecked my face with spit and laughter, leaning down to growl in my ear: "I like the way you think." Feeling romantic, I moaned and moaned, wrapping my legs around his torso even tighter, pulling him into me, my hands desperate on his back. "Yeah?" I crooned; "Does Daddy like that?" My use of the D-word made him groan and smack me hard upside the head. No longer was his face next to mine. He was glaring down at me and ripping into me, without humor and without heart. Only anger, and annoyance. "I'm sorry, Daddy!" Tears rushed to my eyes as he smacked me again, harder this time, and clamped a hand over my mouth. "SHUT THE FUCK UP! DON'T BE GROSS!" Rivers now gushed from my frightened face. Suddenly I was a little kid again, making my Dad and brothers angry on purpose, just to see how rough I could make them be with me.
His hand started to limpen, then slide down to my neck. I couldn't help but whine: "Is Daddy still mad—" But before I could even finish, my throat collapsed inside his crushing grip. "WHAT DID I JUST TELL YOU?" he screamed, just like my real Daddy used to do. I tried to say sorry for real, but it just came out as death-rattle and sputters. After a while he asked "You gonna be good?" I wailed like my life depended on it: "UHHH HUHHHHH!" He let go, and it felt like he'd just saved me from drowning. "Good!" he griped; "jesus christ." Seeing as how terrified I was of him now, I was hoping his violence had brought him closer to finishing; but in actuality, it seemed to bring him further away from it. He now fucked me with detached frustration. "If I'm bad again . . . are you gonna beat me real bad?" I whimpered. "I'll beat you to death right fucking now, if you don't shut your fucking mouth!" In that moment, it became clear to me: we were no longer playing a game. We were two severely damaged grown men, drunkenly fucking, and anything could happen. Part of me really wanted to call him Daddy again, but I feared it would leave me with permanent brain damage. So, instead, I clenched around the scary man with everything I had, then pulled him into me as hard as I could. While I did this, I begged in his ear: "PLEASE rape a baby in me, Sir! I need your baby up my cunt so bad! You make my pussy hurt so good! No man's ever put it in me like this before. . . " This kind of talking did the trick. Soon after fantasizing about shooting me, stabbing me, beating me, and almost (actually) strangling me to death, he flooded my hole with burning hot seed; and all was right with The Universe. Until I gasped as if truly being stabbed, when he yanked out of my hole almost immediately. My butthole hadn't even kissed his nustack goodbye! "There's that baby you been bitchin' about," he scoffed. "Don't be hittin' me up for child support." I laughed weakly, but really I was devastated that it ended so abruptly. "At least let me clean you off!"
But he smacked my face away. "Never go ass-to-mouth, idiot; you could get really sick." (I refrained from pointing out that HE was the one who'd shoved his slimy dick down MY throat after the first time he fucked me.) "Sorry, Doctor," I giggled, rubbing my stinging face; "But I don't mind, really! I do it all the time! Anything that goes up my butt goes right back down my throat for cleaning," I chirped, reciting one of the first rules of Faggotry; "That's just what you've gotta do, when your pussy is a nasty shithole like mine haha." He shrugged, wiping his dirty dick on my sheets, not even listening. "Your funeral, faggot." On his face was a look of absolute indifference. Almost like he was annoyed to still be there, just moments after cumming in me. My pussy—which was, just a second ago, on fire and gaping with pain—now felt cold and tight. I tried to reach a finger in, to scoop out some of his load and smell it, to make myself feel better; but my hole wouldn't let me in. When he finished streaking my sheets with lube, cum, and ass juice, he began dressing without a word. Him zipping up his pants sounded like my heart being pulverized against a brick wall. I recognized that look in his eyes. I'd seen it dozens of times before, from dozens of different men. He would never be using my holes again; he might never even speak to me again. He didn't say goodbye, or so much as look at me before he left. The door slamming behind him made me wince.
I cradled myself to sleep that night, imagining that RJ was a respected and wealthy doctor, like he deserved; and I was just some random drunk bitch he'd raped a baby into, before going home to his real wife and kids, and never even trying to see me again. That fantasy baby in my belly made me warmer inside than any whiskey ever has. Somehow, he never got around to treating me like he used to. He still mocked me mercilessly in front of our coworkers, calling me a "RE-tard" and stuff; but he never talked or joked around with me when we were alone. Every day, he'd flirt with all the other girls we worked with, right in front of me. One day, I had to interrupt him while he was talking to a girl I heard he was hooking up with. She looked a lot like his hot girlfriend, so I was happy for him. "Sorry to bother you," I said; he cut me off: "Then why do you do it so much?" And he and the girl both cackled, together, with undeniable chemistry. Those might have even been the last words he ever spoke to me directly. As painful as it all was, I wouldn't trade those blissful moments with RJ's cum inside me—not for anything in the world.
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 stories of my sluttery where this came from, and I wanna tell you them all in as great of detail as possible! You can also hit me up on IG: DaddysNastyF4g5lut; but just be warned that some of my writing there is fictional.