Post-apocalypse relief duty: Servicing him

Image by the genius Stuart F Taylor

Next in the wank-tales series, in which I tell you some of the fantasies that I masturbate over (and which are precious to me, please don’t kinkshame), I’m gonna take you forward to an unspecified point in the future when most of humanity has been wiped out and the remnants are trapped in huge communal bunkers. This piece includes some dubious consent (potentially non-consent, but I’ve tried to write a few consent cues into the text so it’s less brutal than it is in my head). As explained before, I have a kink for misogyny, and fantasies about being used fit the bill for that kink pretty well. As per previous stories like free use secretary, this is not a how-to manual for life, it is only fun in fantasy and role play. Features some BDSM/beating, aggression and coercion too. Here’s a story about being on post-apocalypse relief duty.

Post-apocalypse relief duty

“You’re three minutes late,” he tells me gruffly as he walks in and slams the door. I stutter out an apology and a brief explanation: the last guy took a while to get there, and the Contract says I’m rationed at least five minutes to clean up before the next one.

“Fuck’s sake,” he sighs, pulling his cock from his pants. “Let’s get on with it then. Face down ass up.”

I do as he tells me, on the floor of this too-small, windowless room. There are, of course, no windows in the Complex, and the beds are all in service in the main dormitories. As a token gesture towards comfort (theirs or mine, I’m never sure), there’s a rug on the floor and a few tatty old cushions. No matter how I arrange them, I still leave each shift with aching knees.

Spread,” he barks, kneeling down behind me. I can hear the shuffle of his fist against his cock – keeping himself good and hard before he plunges in.

I remember this guy from last month: he was angry then too, and the month before. Always so angry. I don’t know what shift he’s been assigned, but from the way he takes it out on me I assume it’s pretty stressful. And physical, too. His arms are powerful, and I have no doubt he could pin me if he wanted.

Some of them like to take their time: using up every second of their fifteen-minute allocation. They make requests that I can tell they’ve spent the whole month dreaming up: ‘lick it slowly all around the tip’ or ‘open your mouth wider, so I can spit in it.’ Occasionally they just want a cuddle, or to have me stroke their hair and tell them that everything will be OK. But that’s rare. They only get one time slot per month, after all – the majority will rinse it for everything. Gripping me with hands that are quivering for the thrill of touch. Kissing with open, greedy mouths, all tongue and saliva and aggression till my neck hurts and my stomach lurches. Fucking me with pricks that strain and pulse with an urgency that goes far beyond ‘lust’ and tips into ‘despair’. Milking every minute of their rationed time, before finally letting go a month’s worth of pent-up desperation.

This guy’s in a hurry. It’s not my fault that the last guy overran, but it’s me who’ll bear the brunt of his anger. The buzzer will go off like clockwork whether he got his full time or not, and I can tell the panic’s rising in his chest: what if he doesn’t make it? What if it he has to retreat, diamond-hard and full to bursting, to wait another agonising month?

Or sneak to the toilet just along the tunnel, where he can fervently beat out a frantic, unsatisfying conclusion. The sound of his clenched fist smacking on sweaty skin, echoing round the cold, tiled walls.

He won’t let that happen. Not again.

He kneels behind me and pulls down his pants. Puts one hand on the small of my back, forcing me into an arch before him. Spitting on the slit of my cunt and smearing it with the head of his prick, sighing all the while as if to remind me that he knows he’s been ripped off.

“I said ‘spread’,” he tells me again, so I do. I reach behind with both hands, leaving my neck twisted at an odd angle on the floor. My back arches further as I part my cheeks, stretching myself out so I’m open and ready.

I don’t care that he feels hard done by. I can’t really care, I don’t have the energy. I just bend over and do as they want, then collect my ration stamps at the end. I’ll do this a few times a month as my contribution to the collective cause. And in payment for the services I need in return, of course. So I don’t give a shit if he gets his full fifteen minutes: as long as he manages to come, I’ve done my job.

“Ready?” he grunts, like he gives a shit. I tell him ‘yes’.

He plunges in. Fucks me swiftly. Sharp, neat strokes, like he’s fucking a doll. Or a hole in the wall. Or the sofa cushions. Makes these little breathy gasps of exertion, as he does it: uh uh uh uh uh uh. He doesn’t need me to do much, just provide a hole, and that I can do quite efficiently. I clench the muscles of my cunt tighter – a trick I learned early on. It gets them there much faster, means the next guy won’t have to wait so long to get started. Might not be so angry when he walks in the door.

The cunt-squeeze trick doesn’t always work, but this time it helps. He interprets it as a body-cringe of pain.

I can tell this guy’s got a streak of the sadist in him: it gets him off to hurt me with his cock. Grunting and shoving and grunting some more, he works me like I’m gym equipment, hips smacking against the flesh of my bum like this is my punishment for lateness.

I can tell from his noises that he’s close. He whips off his belt and passes it beneath me, holds one end in each hand so it’s like a strap across my hips. Yanks back on the belt to haul me onto his cock. Make sure it’s buried good and deep inside on each in-stroke. Jerking the belt roughly so I cannot pull away.

If this weren’t a free service, I’d say he was getting his money’s worth.

My face is pressed into the rug which smells like must and spunk and basic survival. He fucks me faster and moans a little more.

“God dammit,” he pants, but I don’t reply. He’s not talking to me: I’m not there. I’m just a hole he’s fucking. A hole that right now isn’t giving what he needs to get.

“Fuck’s sake,” he adds, in the tone of a man about to kick a broken vending machine. I’m not afraid, I know this guy. I know the limits of what he’ll do, and if I’m honest I’m alright with it. I’m not into the men who need a fifteen-minute girlfriend: the vicious cunts are way more fucking fun.

I pretend not to have heard him, just shutting my mouth and pretending I don’t exist. He continues to plough into me, punctuating each word with an extra-brutal stroke. “For! Fuck’s! Sake!” and then, for good measure, “bitch!”

He spits it almost angrily. Glances at the clock on the wall. There are four minutes left to go of his too-short appointment, and if he can’t come now then he’ll wait another month. The unfairness of it enrages him, and he rocks back on his heels, pulling his cock out, dripping wet from my twitching cunt.

The belt he folds over in his hand: once, twice. Then without warning he lifts one arm – strong and muscled, his work duty is clearly something physical – and brings it down hard on my arse.


My whole body jolts at the shock of it.

Then again: thwack.

Now, once more, with feeling: thwack.

Again, with despair and rage: thwack.

I can’t see him because I’m still face-down-ass-up, but I imagine a look of pure fury in his eyes as he lashes at me with the belt in one hand and beats fruitlessly at his straining dick with the other.

“I’m gonna fucking come today,” he growls. Again, he isn’t speaking to me. He’s not angry with me, not really. Like all of us, he’s angry at the world which collapsed, and this life in the bunker: this half-life, really. And once a month he has fifteen minutes to try and forget what is dead on the surface. A blissful quarter of an hour during which he can take all his pain and misery out on the wet, tight hole of a semi-stranger, until either the buzzer goes off or he comes.

Wouldn’t you be angry too?

I don’t soothe him, he’s not one of those. He’s not after pity or solace. Instead, I do the one thing I know will work, as it’s worked for countless others like him in the months and years since we hunkered below ground and these things became necessary: I start to cry.

“Ouch,” I tell him in a whimper that sounds almost real. Add “you’re hurting me,” for good measure, and let the tears start to flow down my cheeks while he gives me a thrashing.

“Fuck,” he says, kneeling forward again and pushing his dick inside with urgency. Like it hurts and my cunt is the only thing that will soothe it. I squeal as it goes inside, and feel him twitch at the sound.

That’s it,” he says, fucking harder. “Almost there.”

He takes the belt again and this time passes it around my neck. Wrapping it once around, then gripping both of the ends good and tight in one rough fist. Still fucking into me, he tugs on it gently, and I pretend to choke and twitch my cunt tighter.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s it. Oh god. Oh god.”

Then with one last hard yank on the belt around my throat, and a final deep thrust of his cock, the first shot of cum starts to pump from his dick and relief crashes over him, along with his orgasm.

“Fuck. That’s it,” one more pump.

“God, fuck,” and another.

To milk those last few squirts, I gag again, and as he tugs the belt one final time and empties the dregs of his load, finally looking down at me and seeing a real live person, he drawls a mournful:

Sorry… I’m so fucking sorry.”



Note: ‘post-apocalypse relief duty’ is a fantasy, not a how-to manual for real life (obviously), and it is never a way to treat someone unless they’re fully into this kind of role-play and you’ve both discussed it in detail beforehand. If you’d like more stories in this vein, check out free use secretary part 1 (the interview), or get a couple of extra wank tales when you sign up to my Patreon. Join for £2/$2 per month or £22/$22-ish per year. Or don’t. No pressure. Times are tough, innit. 

Also please remember that I am currently unwell and taking a month off work. This post is pre-scheduled, as all the others will be until April, and I am not checking emails, comments or social media very often. Please click that link if you’d like to understand more. I would very much appreciate your patience if I cannot respond to you quickly.


  • fuzzy says:

    more. please.

  • Regular reader says:

    Jesus, that last detail about the apology was perfect. Also, I love the marmite and spearmint polos tag.

    Have you read Lightning Rods by Helen DeWitt? Strikes me as something you’d probably enjoy, in terms of exploring the ‘service’ side of things, with quite a bit of satire involved. (On a less literary note, the Czech Fantasy porn series as well, which is rather more glory-hole-y, but very much a service thing).

    (Fuck, I’m still hard after reading that – ridiculously hot)

  • Tony says:

    Always been a big fan of post-apocalyptic fiction, and now I’m a bigger fan ;-)

  • ftandhubby says:

    The glory of being used for someone else’s pleasure/relief. I hope I’m in your bunker come the apocalypse. Of course in my apocalyptic fantasy my partner has to do her duty. Thanks for the story hope the time regrouping is going well.

  • Steve says:

    God that was good!

    One after the other ! Good Girl ! I could see the spunk running still warm from the previous fuck !

    Hot keep it up 👍

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