Reset Password
Reset Link Sent
| Blogs > TRUCKSLUT69 > My Blog |
My First Blog
|
My First Blog There’s a particular porn ene my partner and I watch over and over and over. I’m not going to tell you exactly what it is, because for some reason a little piece of my brain blushes at the thought of you watching it and judging me. But it contains a dynamic that I find incredibly hot: the bored fuck. Ideally with an incredibly eager dude (or a line-up of them) and a really bored-looking woman. Her expression says ‘I’m bored of you fucking me’ or perhaps even ‘get on with it’, and his desperation paired with her ambivalence makes me a soaking-wet-and-shaking kind of horny. I conjure this dynamic in my fantasies all the time: the bored fuck. The fuck that he wants and she doesn’t care about, but will do anyway for reasons other than arousal. Convenience, , a favour, the fact that the world is ending and they’re the last people alive so there’s no else who presents a better option… Sometimes I picture a kind of take-it-in-turns system, where eager guys sit in a waiting room flicking through porn mags and fluffing themselves hard, while I lie face-down on a bed in an adjoining room. We’re all stranded somewhere together – a warehouse, perhaps. Or an island. Or a world in which there are very few of me and far too many of them. In the interests of fairness, we’ve established a system: once every few months, any of them can fuck me. They take a number, sit in the waiting room, and will be allocated 10 minute appointments based on when they first arrived. In the adjoining room, occasionally I’m strapped down, but more often I’m not. Mostly I’m just lying spreadeagled and staring into space while a guy with a raging hard-on tries to hump his way to climax in the short time he has before the next man’s ushered in. My role is to let each guy fuck me, because I’m of the only people left to fuck. It’s consensual, because I’ve agreed, but it’s boring because it happens so often. The seemingly endless stream of guys who need to empty themselves has g from being exciting to being routine, and what once was a hobby has now become a chore. For them the experience is exciting, because it happens so rarely that they look forward to it for weeks. But to me there have been so many that they all blur into . When you get fucked by every, no is special any more. And the fact that they’re half-starved of cunt makes each fuck functional and quick. I bury my face in the pillow and bite down on it hard as the third or th guy of the day slips his spit-lubed dick inside me and starts to fuck. Rapid, rhythmic pounding that builds quickly to a grunting climax. Sometimes in these fantasies I’ll be strapped down and bent over a table, with my ankles cuffed to the legs to keep me spread wide and ready for them. Other times I’ll just be kneeling naked on the floor, ready to greet their semi-hard dicks with an open mouth. Sometimes I go out into the waiting room and call the next guy by name. He stands up with his belt and zip already und and says: “Thank fuck for that, I’ve been waiting ages. Come on, this will be quick.” His cock is thick and hard and shining with precome, his balls feel tight and aching to be emptied. And as I open the door into the private room, he barges straight in, desperate to squirt spunk into or onto any warm part of me. When we’re inside the room he grips his dick hard in fist and rubs it with firm, almost painful-looking strokes. His eyes are shining with eagerness, and he says “Let’s do this. Show me your cunt.” So I turn and bend over and touch my toes, while he fumbles with himself, pushing roughly into me. I grip my ankles and think of how many more there are waiting in the room, and I crane my neck to look at the clock on the wall while this guy moans and grunts and humps behind me. His ‘aah’ of satisfaction lasts for seconds – I count them off as the hand of the clock ticks round – and when he pulls out and zips his jeans up, he says ‘thank you’ casually. Like what I’ve given him is a free coffee or a hand with a heavy suitcase. I can feel a drizzle of his spunk sliding out of the lips of my cunt, and that seems practical so I stay in that position and tell him to send the next guy in. I bite my lip and grip my ankles harder as the next enters. I can hear him unbuckling his belt and pulling down his trousers, then I feel his meaty hands smacking and spreading and inspecting my cunt. When he’s happy with what he sees – or hard enough to get started – with a “good girl, that’s it”, he plunges in and begins to fuck me. He knows I’m bored here, as do the others. They know that their dicks can no longer make me tremble with lust or excitement any more than a checkout cashier can wax lyrical about a half price deal. I’ve seen every of them before, and each looks much the same as the last. As I have given up on caring, they’ve given up on pleasing me: no tries to make me come like they used to when we started. They know that all they’re there for is to take pleasure themselves: fuck me and finish quick, so the next can have his turn. I don’t even bother to look at his face, because I’m clockwatching until the shift is d. They fuck me, these men, with a sense of urgency and desperation, and they try to forget the fact that the woman lying beneath them is bored of the way that they rew. Bored of the fact that they rew. Bored of the relentless, tedious grunting and<b> sweating </font></b>and fucking. They work away at me because they need it, and as they do it they try to forget how I feel. They try to forget that I feel. Because if any guy thinks too much about how bored I am of being fucked like this, he’d lose the ability to fuck me at all. His dick would go limp and he’d offer comforting hands and kind gestures and empty, whispered words: things I’d only find more dreary than the fact of being fucked by him at all. And if he missed his chance to fuck me today, who knows how long he’d have to wait until next time?  |
Become a member to create a blog
