Image by the brilliant Stuart F Taylor
When I started writing the emotional fucks series, I posted a revenge fuck story from the perspective of Judy – a woman who had been deeply wronged by a past lover, and sought revenge on him later in life. I liked her, and I really enjoyed writing that story. But – dark secret – I enjoyed writing this pity fuck even more. It was fun to try and write a character so horrible that someone he’d fucked at the age of 20 would bear such a grudge that she’d leap at the opportunity for revenge even 40 years down the line.
Please take that as your content warning for this piece: everything in it is consensual, but that doesn’t mean it’s nice.
Show me a man who wouldn’t respond to a woman mewling like a lost kitten, and I’ll show you a fucking liar. Who could look at a delicate, porcelain face like Judy’s, streaked with mascara after yet another session of fruitless begging, and not think ‘Sure, I’ll spear that bitch with my cock’? Don’t lie. Don’t tell me you’d wait for more noble reasons. What nobler reason could there be to fuck someone than she was begging for it, and I was happy to give it to her?
It wasn’t the first time, either. I’d spent so many mornings trying to peel her grabby little hands off me as I tried to extricate myself from the silliness of the sordid night before. Drunken silliness, might I add. Eventually I realised the only way to get rid of this particular demon was to exorcise it with a good, hard pity-fuck.
Piercing her snot-streaked face with my cock seemed to give her a remarkable degree of satisfaction. In front of others she feigned poise – a pretence at smartness with even, perhaps, a tiny hint of naiveté. In private my dick was her pacifier, and I’d croon ‘good girl’ the way she liked me to, all the while holding her messed-up head in my hands to make sure the ridge of my dick hit her throat at just the right angle. Say what you like about her whimpering and whining and the creepy way she’d make a beeline for me at parties, she made up for that unpleasantness by being a greedy little cocksucker. She wanted every inch of it, even if it made her choke. So again, I’d ask you: what man would do less? Who among us has the strength of will to keep saying ‘no’ when there’s a needy slut begging to choke on it?
I admit that my behaviour on those other evenings wasn’t good. Perhaps ungentlemanly. I should never have led her up the garden path, or let her believe that I cared for her. I imagine I’ll be in my sixties before I stop kicking myself for saying the ‘L’ word. At that she was hooked, and she turned from this bouncing, doe-eyed nymphette into a grasping, suspicious bitch.
“Don’t you love me?” She’d wheedle at eleven PM, if I tried to peel off with the boys instead of ordering a taxi for two. In those moments I’d feel a flash of something remarkably akin to hate, tempered only slightly by the inevitable lust that comes when you’ve topped up on whisky and there are two neat curves of tit just begging to be freed from a plunging neckline. The wheedling I despised, but I knew that before long that wheedling would turn to her releasing my tortured cock from my suddenly-too-tight trousers and embarking on a spot of that cocksucking she was so good at. And from cocksucking it’s but a short step to having her scrunched up like a pretzel beneath me while I plunder her poor little cunt.
So I’d book the taxi.
The morning after I’d feel grim. She’d feel grimmer. We’d both know, when we looked at each other, that this thing would never last. That she could never keep me tied down as I could never love her. It wasn’t just that her father was a nobody – she herself was a nobody too. Just too… nothing. Needy but never interesting. Desperate but never enticing. Meek and mild and eager to please, and so very easy to get bored with.
So she’d beg me to stay, and slobber on my dick, and if I felt sorry enough for the poor bitch while she sucked it I’d flip her over and plunge in – big, long, hard strokes, like each one of them was a slap to put her in her place. She’d moan and squeak and wriggle and say she loved me, and all I could think about was how magnificent my cock looked in her wet little cunt.
“Do you like that?” I’d ask her, over and over. “Is that what you want?”
“Yes,” she’d squeak. “Oh yes. That’s all I want. Fucking give it to me.”
So I did. Hard enough that sometimes I wondered if my fat cock would split her in two. Deep enough that I know she sometimes bruised for days afterwards. Exactly as she wanted it, as she’d begged for it. Every Saturday morning, after every drunken Friday night, for the whole of the first year of my twenties.
Beggars belief, doesn’t it? That I spent so much of my glory years servicing someone who would never be of any use to me herself. Dispensing cock to her like it was morphine for the pain she felt when she realised I’d never love her. Shooting doses of my cum into her wide-open mouth, and watching the wretched faces she’d pull as she guzzled down the medicine. Drink up, dear, it’s all you’re getting.
But fair play to her, she was grateful. Sometimes, after I’d cum inside her, she’d nuzzle in to try and grasp at some affection. A head resting on my shoulder, perhaps, or an arm thrown casually – desperately – across my chest. But although she took these little liberties, she always remembered that I had my limits. After a few seconds of that nonsense, she’d go back to what she did best: wriggling her delicate little body down the bed, so she could suckle the taste of her wretched cunt from my cock.