Chronicles of a Cunt


Sometimes the Gods of Fate and Destiny smile upon the deserving and sometimes, just for fun, they whip aside their togas (I like to imagine my anthropomorphised deities in a somewhat Romanesque fashion), squat down on their haunches and drop a divine load of faeces over us hapless mortals. As hapless mortals go, I’ve had a fair showering of saintly shite in my time. Because I recognise and understand that it is an immutable part of the human condition to laugh at others misfortune and because I know the type of sick fuck character you’d have to be, to be on here reading this in the first place, I thought I’d let you all have a little peek into the disastrous events that plague my unsavoury existence.

Not impressed, not impressed at all. That is the one overriding impression I have of the dainty but gormless spunk target sat next to me. On first impressions she’d seemed like just the type of bint I could picture my cock in, Blonde(ish), big milk bags, small waist and a vacant look in her eyes that lets’ me know that whilst she won’t be winning any Nobel Awards in a hurry, she does know a thing or two about making men pull that face where they look like they’ve eaten a lemon soaked in vinegar. You know the type, she can talk for two hours about an episode of Americas Next Top Whore, a show which only lasts for 40mins, but will just look at you blankly and ask sweetly if you want her to hold your dick should you bring up any other topic.

So on the surface there was absolutely no reason why I shouldn’t invite her to the complimentary free bash that my former employers are hosting at a fancy dan castle come hotel. My old boss always invites me in the vain hope that I’ll fuck her again, not realising that the only reason I bashed her in the first place was to get a pay rise. Well that and because I wanted to know what it would feel like to get wanked off by somebody with fingers made of sticks and leather and who wore more rings then Mr T. I digress. I spend a three hour drive listening to Miss Vacant prattling on about horrific reality  T.V shows that somehow seem to be more important to her than actual reality before she finally cottons on to my intense look of unbridled indifference and boredom and offers to get her gums around my plums. She was a 5/10 at best and I nearly crash the car when she decides to spit the fruits of her labour onto my freshly dry cleaned trousers. I should have let that be a warning sign of things to come, but I was too busy thinking of the other things to cum.

We finally arrive at the hotel stroke castle and after a bit of careful dabbing I can negotiate the checking in procedure without the Receptionist thinking I love the place so much I just shot my glue in my keks. Little Miss Spittyspunk is still rattling on inanely as we climb the stairs following a spotty teenage hotely working person to our room, she won’t stop cooing and awwing at the place, ‘Ooo isn’t it plush,’ she breathlessly gasps ‘Wow, it’s so posh, I feel like a Hollywood movie star,’ she gushes. Given that we’re about ten miles north of Scarborough, I’m starting to wonder what fucking ghetto this inexplicably impressed cock hole comes from. We get to our room and after managing to shut her up long enough to rattle one through her, another lacklustre performance on her part, I make my excuses by telling her that I need to go and find some of the fuckers we’re supposed to be eating with tonight.

Her Good Lady of Fate and Faeces promptly douses me with a good dose of her brown benevolence as the first person I stumble into is Ms Leatherfingers, she smiles at me with her faintly yellowing teeth and a sexually predatory gleam enters her bespectacled eyes as she sashays towards me in attempt to show me that she still has it. She doesn’t. Unless it refers to a potentially dodgy hip in a year or two. Grasping my arm in her Skeletor like grip, she frog marches me into the bar, trying to whisper in my ear about all the things she wants to do to me, in what she probably thinks is a sexy gravelly provocative manner but is actually reminiscent of a dog with asthma.

Well, not this time Ms Reaper, oh no. This time I’ve come prepared. ‘Oh I’m sorry’, I say as I take a healthy gulp of my drink, ‘but I have the new bird with me and I don’t think she’d take kindly to finding me with another lady’s tongue in my arsehole.’ Game. Set. Match. Or rather that was what I was hoping for. This dreadful, sexual ghoul is more persistent then I’d given her credit for though and made brave by the gin and tonic she makes a play to grab my bell end. I let her. I don’t want to fuck her but I could never say no to a public wank in a bar, but that’s not on the cards’ either apparently. She let’s go and asks if my new model is better than her or whether Miss Vacant would do the same depraved acts that she promised me. I let her down gently by advising her that blondey had already let me rail her arsehole and shoot in her mouth and that was just on the journey here, I proper filth it up to make sure she gets the picture, but I’m pretty sure that all I’m achieving is making her gash drip with all the sex talk.

Taking my leave of the half pissed geriatric cougar I venture back upstairs to get ready for the meal, Miss Vacant is still getting ready so I fill her in on the events just so she doesn’t get curve balled at the meal should Ms Leatherfingers get a bit touchy feely. The naive slut slug can’t believe people act like this and asks me for some gory detail, which I provide. I tell her how I once came in my bosses eye whilst she held it open. I tell her how I once fit my whole fist in my bosses ringer. I tell her how I once inserted a ruler and various other office stationary into my bosses gaping trench. Shocked and head still shaking at least this boring wench feels a little sympathy for me and she promises to keep everybody’s hands off me but hers. Which was the exact point of her being there, so all good.

We walk into the dining room and I share a few brief nods, hugs and smiles with some of my ex colleagues, before turning to introduce the new fuck piece to the old wage enabler. There are two horrified gasps, followed by shrieks, ‘Mum!?’ ‘Miss Spittyspunk?!’

Slept on my own that night. Unlucky Cunt.

2 Comments

Filed under Chronicles of a Cunt

2 responses to “Chronicles of a Cunt

  1. frankenstein169

    What a lovely ending to your depraved story!
    So being freaky in the sack is not passed down in the genes then?

    • Nope, sexual preferences seem not to be genetically inherited.

      Apparently neither are claw like Mr T hands, I might have had a little fucking warning if they were…

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