Sometimes, like many humans, I have fantasies that are grotesque and dark and weird. And sometimes I have days where I can think of nothing else to write, so with a sense of weary resignation and vague self-disgust, I tell you one of the odder ones. It’s a not-quite-non-consent story that, I think, is an escalation of the fantasy dinner party. So if you like this kind of thing but the below gives you shudders, you might prefer that story instead.
For the record, it would horrify me if it happened in real life: that’s kind of the point of it. But as a film I play in my mind when I’m masturbating, something about the atmosphere and the attitude makes my cunt twitch.
So there’s a guy, and he’s sitting at a desk. He’s not pleasant. By which I don’t mean there’s anything specific about his physical appearance: he’s just a horrible guy. A proper arsehole. The kind of person who’d have a six-figure salary, his own office and a secretary he hired because she made his dick twitch, and he’d feel like all these things were his as a matter of right.
Give him your own physical features. Paint an age on him, shape his body, make him look however you like.
But the only important thing, to me, about this guy, is that he disgusts me. For me this isn’t done with physical features, but with the attitude. Lip curled in a sneer. A grunt for ‘yes’ or ‘no’ when someone comes into the office to offer him something.
He’s facing the door to his office, and in front of him is a computer, showing porn. The type of porn is important: cheap, easy, clickbait free-tube-site porn. If someone comes into the office they won’t be able to see his screen, but it doesn’t matter, because he has the volume turned up loud. Why shouldn’t he? He’s earned his office and his high-back leather chair, and the right to have his dick out of his trousers and in his hand at lunchtime.
His right hand is fumbling busily with his cock, and in his left hand he holds a sandwich.
Something meaty. Dripping. Thick globs of sauce run down his fingers. Streaks of brown-and-red-something which he doesn’t bother to wipe. It smears his lips and jaw. As he eats he keeps on fumbling with his dick: short and fat and twitching under his rummaging right hand.
He pinches the head of it between two fingers, shaking it like he’s frustrated. Occasionally laying the sandwich down, he presses buttons on the keyboard, bringing up different porn videos or skipping to other bits. He frowns. Snarls. His frustration is palpable.
He buzzes me into the office, clicks his fingers, and points to his dick.
The command doesn’t even need to be spoken. I’ll suck his dick because he’s clicked his fingers – not because he’s asked. If he vocalises anything, it’s in the form of a grunt. A kind of struggling, aching grunt: one that conveys his desperation to come, and the simultaneous expectation that I’ll do this for him.
So I do.
And as I take his cock in my mouth, I can taste the sauce he’s dripped over himself. The sticky, barbecue-scented grease that he’s wiped from his fingers. He keeps watching porn, eating his sandwich, paying me no attention save for the occasional hard push on the back of my neck.
He’s still struggling to come. Even with the sensory overload that has each simple, lizard-brain need attended to at once, still he can’t come. He’s growing redder in the face, jaws working hard against the sandwich and eyebrows knit into a frown of desperate concentration. He skips further through the porn, grunts once more as the tip of his cock hits the back of my throat. Absent-mindedly wipes his fingers on the collar of my shirt, before grabbing the mouse and moving to a different video. If I come up for air he clicks his fingers again, ordering me back quickly.
And I work.
I suck harder. I spit on his dick and use my fingers to help where my aching lips don’t seem to work.
And he grunts, moans, sighs. Turns the volume up on the porn and stuffs his mouth even further with food. Dripping and clenching and chewing. Occasionally lifting his hips to thrust further into me. Each stroke growing more desperate in his single-minded quest to get it over with. To spit his watery come into my mouth, before ordering me to clean the desk up.
He presses the buzzer to summon someone else. And as I pick up the pace, sucking and licking and fucking my own throat with his cock, that someone else enters the office.
“Take off your belt,” he orders. Through a mouthful of grease and meat and sticky, dripping sauce he explains. “I can’t come unless you’re beating her.”