Category Archives: Chronicles of a Cunt

Chronicles of a Cunt

Some people are born fucking stupid and others have idiocy thrust upon them. My best mates sister must be a bit of both because she’s a total fucking moron. I mean she doesn’t dribble on herself or bang the side of head when trying to count, but if her actions this weekend are anything to go by, she’d probably fit right in on one of those special buses for kids with special faces. My best mate and I rolled into his sister’s house on a Saturday afternoon following a heavy couple of days of debauchery involving  narcotics that only vets should use, two overly intelligent antipodean ladies with accents straight out of Prisoner Cell Block H and more recently two very expensive bottles of bourbon. I still stank of that nice sweaty sex smell because I hadn’t showered, Fingerbanger (I’ve changed his name to protect his identity, but he’s not fucking innocent trust me) stank of his own vomit because he’d just heaved up a bottle of expensive bourbon over the front of his shirt.

Fingerbanger had demanded that, as we were in the vicinity, we stop at his sisters house so that he could shower and try to clean himself up. Fingerbangers sister, since splitting with her husband a few years back, hangs out with a load of  fresh faced young spunk targets she knows from work. So when she invited us to a house party that  she was a little nervous about attending that night I  jumped all over the chance. When Fingerbanger came back downstairs and heard what was being proposed he was horrified. ‘What the fuck was she thinking!’ he asked. ‘Could she not see how fucked we both were?’ he quizzed. ‘Look at the fucking state of that cunt!’ he pointed out, waving an admonishing finger in my direction. I tried to look innocent, which isn’t easy when you’re clutching a half empty bottle of expensive bourbon and smell like you’ve been bollock deep in Madge Ramsey all night trust me.

With a bit of cajoling and the promise of some herbal relaxants we managed to convince Fingerbanger that contrary to his extreme paranoia and cautiousness this was actually a very good idea and so off we set.  By the time we arrived at, what can only be described as a fucking mansion, the situation had already deteriorated rapidly. I had tried to piss out of the window of his sisters car as we drove to Cuntingham Palace, when the siblings complained about my unorthodox urination I’d rested my cock neatly upon Fingerbangers’ shoulder almost causing his sister to crash the car into a tree. On arrival I’d not bothered waiting for the pair of them and had crashed every fucking gate this party had, barging unannounced through the front doors, swiping a bottle of miscellaneous spirits from the kitchen side and plopping myself next to the first human being who possessed a love hole I could find.

She was big, she kept saying she was big boned but if that was the case her massive bastard bones belonged on display in the fucking Natural History Museum. Obviously self conscious about her girth, she kept bashing on and on about her glands. To put her mind at ease I dragged her into the garage and fed her my glands for a while. Gentlemen, have you ever been in that tricky situation where it’s almost impossible to squirt your muck? I fucked this monsters’ head for about twenty minutes before giving it up for a bad job. Besides I got distracted by an axe and timber that was clearly set up for providing fire wood, I removed my top and made like a Lumberjack. A few minutes later somebody came to investigate the noise, as he entered the garage he was met by flying kindling wood and a wild eyed, half naked man entertaining a bird who looked like Barney the Friendly Dinosaur.

“Who are you?! What the hell is going on in here?!” I have to admit I was a little put out by this chaps abruptness.

“Who am I?! Who the fuck are you is the real question?” In my inebriated state I thought that my Paxman like, rapier wit and incisive comment would throw him off my scent. It didn’t.

“This is my house, what are you doing in here?!” That was enough to stop me in my tracks somewhat. I’m not some sort of yobish lout after all.

“Oh I do apologise,” I said shaking his hand as he stood there, all befuddled and shit. “I was chopping wood for you. Lovely house you have here. Have you met Barney?” I left him stood there, examining the devastation I’d left behind me. It looked like the Amazon Rainforest after the Annual Brazilian ‘Cut Down a Hectar Just for the Shit and Giggles’ event.

Not to be discouraged by my earlier failings, I took Barney by the hand and led her upstairs to the bathroom. Very spacious, and well appointed, like Grand Designs on smack. Heated towel rails, gold taps, fancy retro sink. The perfect setting for throwing one into this birds arsehole. We smooched over to the sink, I pulled her knickers off, which was like taking down the big top on the last day of the circus. In, what can only be described as a Herculian display of strength, I lifted her up onto the edge of the sink so as to obtain a better angle with which to slot it up her. It turns out I’m stronger than an antique Victorian hand basin with original fittings and that Victorians had obviously not taken into account that folk might like to balance a baby elephant on said hand basin when producing their fancy dan sanitary wear. We’ve moved on a lot since then. It shattered into a million porcelain pieces, water gushing out in a fountain from the broken stumped remains. I was so pissed off. It should have been me gushing like a fucking fountain not the bastard sink.

I made like OJ Simpson and did my best to leave the scene of the crime. I made it as far as the downstairs bog. This was a million miles away from the Lord of the Houses’ bathroom upstairs, it must have been where he makes the servants shit, I reckon. Not even a lock on the cunting door. It made for very awkward fucking, I had my cock up her arse, with one leg jammed against the door holding it shut. Twenty minutes I arsed that bird for, still struggling to seal the deal whilst swearing every time some fucker tried to open the door. There was a concentrated effort to gain entry into that toilet and eventually my leg gave way throwing me bollock deep into Barney’s ringer. I spun her around and looked over her shoulder at the long, angry snaking queue of desperate to piss party goers. As upstairs was off limits due to some cunt vandal destroying the antique Victorian sink this pisser had become the only available place to relieve oneself. I found myself staring into the eyes of Lord Cuntingham.

“You!” He was apoplectic with rage, I tried waving Barneys massive tits in his direction in an attempt to appease him, but it didn’t seem to work.

“Oh hello my dear fellow! Have you run out of wood?!”

Chucked out with my pants around my ankles and still didn’t shoot my load. Frustrated cunt.

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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.

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Chronicles of a Cunt

Funerals for some people are a way to say goodbye to their loved ones, for others it is a chance to draw a line under their feelings for the deceased and for still others it allows them an opportunity to pay their final respects to a person who touched their lives in someway. For me it is a chance to crack onto vulnerable, mourning tit bearers whose emotions are so raw and ragged that they’ll mistake a salivating bell end for a shoulder to cry on. That’s why when I get the call asking me to attend the funeral of an old mate i’m all over it… ‘of course i’ll prepare a little something to say’ I growl in my most sympathetic tones, ‘hmmmm, oh yes love we were very close he was a great source of inspiration to me,’ I babble, attempting to force some semblance of compassion into my voice whilst desperately trying to remember if the widow I’m on the dog and bone to is anywhere near half fuckable. ‘What? oh yes I’m sure he did speak very well of me…will his little sister be coming?’

Now, I can only half remember this dearly departed fuckwit, I have some nagging doubt as to whether or not we were actual friends or whether he was just some desperate, crazy, random  associate. I seem to have a vague recollection made hazy by the intervening drug fuelled years of debauchery of a disagreement involving me fucking one of his girlfriends, I decide that this is exactly the reason I should attend. I mean what if he married that girlfriend and she’s just been sobbing down the phone at me with the underlying message being ‘come and put something in my bum’?

The grim day fast approaches and I have my respect filled, heart wrenching, and not at all generic tribute penned out in full and well rehearsed. The night before the big day I’m out on the lash snorting coke off a strippers left tit (her right wouldn’t stay still) and when the weak and dreary sun finally filters through the blanket of roiling grey clouds it finds me looking suitably mournful if a little wild in the old eyeball department. Luckily I scrub up well and I’m looking dapper in my black three-piece suit, upon my arrival at the crematorium I am greeted by a tear stained wailing little sister (who I can’t remember boinking) a slightly scowling older brother (who I can’t remember fucking off) and a heartbroken tiny wasted big bottomed widow (who I definitely haven’t fucked before, but am giving serious condition to rectifying that situation) I am ushered into the oppressive gloom of the chapel where hushed mourners sit like plump impatient vultures, Somebody is fucking around pinning something to my lapel and my first shocked words are broadcast across the packed rows of cunt filled aisles on my new discreet microphone. ‘What the fuck is thi…..‘ a nervous titter fills the dour setting and I quickly get myself positioned behind the lectern in case the vultures decide to charge me because of my blurted obscenity.

My winning way with a crowd kicks’ in and I’m soon delivering what can only be described as moving sensitive oratory, keeping my head down and eyes on the speech is working well but I decide that despite my dilated piss hole eyeballs I really should look up and try to get a bit of eye on eye with the attentive listening vultures. My eyes scan across the front row, weepy would fuck sister, still angry disgruntled brother, wants’ one in her shitter widow, head in hands wont look up father and finally I’ve been nut deep in her clunge with her tits in my mouth mother….wait, what?!….. My eyes flash back, our eyes meet again and this time there is no doubt in my mind, her eyes may be red raw and a little haunted but there is a definite sex spark of recognition going on, ‘It wasn’t his girlfriend. It was his mother’ the statement bursts from my mouth before I can stop it. There are a few confused frowns and the brother looks like he wants to put me in a box next to his sibling, mother dearest has an almost half amused raised eyebrow thing going on. ‘Who told me what a great lad he was as a child’ I quickly cover up my slip and am quite impressed with my speedy reactions.

I make it through the rest of my tribute with no further outbursts despite extreme provocation from a mourning mother who now clearly wants something inside her box. When all is done she grabs hold of me by the arm and frogmarches me out of the chapel and around the corner away from prying eyes. At first she is furious, how dare I turn up at her sons funeral let alone read the tribute at the service? How could I be so insensitive after all the trouble I had caused by stuffing myself up her all those years ago? Who did I think I was hi-jacking her sons day, had I no shame? I quickly explain that I was there at the widows behest and that I’d totally forgotten about our liaison, I even raised a sultry smile as I told her I thought it had been a young sexy girlfriend we’d fallen out over. Within a minute she’s squatting down on her tottery high heels cock in mouth and within two I’m holding onto her hips’ making life in a graveyard. In typical unrestrained fashion and since we’re in a bit of a rush, I can’t stop myself from cursing coarsely and engaging in a bit of hair pulling. Once I’ve deposited my ashes and dust, we quickly tidy ourselves up and return to the rest of the mourners, who are all gathered in a bustling packed twittering mob near the entrance to the chapel. ‘What are they all doin…‘  My enquiry echoes around the chapel from the speaker positioned over the entrance door. My eyes widen in horror, mucky mum gasps in unrestrained terror by my side and her grasp on my arm tightens, we both start grasping for the still operational microphone as the true scope of what has happened starts to sink in. A roar from the crowd of ‘I’ll fucking kill the pissing fucking bastard!’ is closely followed by a charging father and son combo of vengeance. Kicked the shit out of me they did the bastards, my own fault though I suppose.

Stupid Cunt.

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Chronicles of a Cunt

Well fuck me hard with a thermos flask and collect and store my juices for scientific research this has been a tough old week and no mistake. I know you may all take a bit of convincing on this one but believe it or not their are folk out there who are even more fucked up then me. ‘Go Bollocks, you sick fuckpig!’ I can hear you cry but it’s true! Exhibit A for my evidence? Some daft twatbag has asked me to be his Best Man?! I mean how fucking insanely desperate would a fucker need to be that they’ve resorted to asking me?! I like desperate, I also like the title of BEST MAN and more importantly I love the idea of fucking  one of the bride-to-bes’ sisters (either would do) so I accepted his request courteously and set about plotting.

First off the bat and being new to this whole procedure I was at first overwhelmed by all the shit that was expected of me. Soon my intrinsic nature kicked in and I managed to dodge all of the boring bollocks which I have no interest in and get stuck into organising the stag night, which apart from the speech and boinking bridesmaids is the only aspect of this fucking circus that I’m willing to get involved in. Now because the only person I really know is the Groom, I’m a little unsure of what type of Stag Event people are expecting. This is easily solved by setting up something that I  would want to do and fuck what all these strangers are bleating about . I set up a  three dayer in Amsterdam amidst worried calls from strange men I’ve never even spoken to and looks of alarmed concern from the future Mrs Knobhead. Even the Groom-to-be is starting to realise he’s made a MASSIVE error of judgement.

Fast forward a few months to last weekend and I’m the City of Sin sat in a pungently smoke filled room with approx twenty unknown, vacantly grinning men. There’s more glassy eyed expressions going on then in an American anal porno. The Stag is nudging me,  he is worried that his father and uncle are not going to make it and insists that maybe me force feeding them two big space cakes each was not a good idea. I’m more worried about myself to be honest, the various mushrooms and weed based products i’ve consumed have left me under the impression that my mate is an actual stag.. and as a concerned, nervous looking stag is quite a comical looking fellow I can’t help but roar with laughter into his bemused, confused face. I pat the bag by my knees making sure that the full leather effect gimp suit I have just purchased is to hand.

I knew what would pick the timid fuckers up and I was bang on right but drinking in Amsterdam is expensive, luckily most of these fucking lightweights are smashed out of their faces after several pints with chasers so it doesn’t completely rob me of all my casheesh. Getting them into the swing of things we soon have the Stag dolled up in his brand new S&M suit, complete with collar and lead. Even Stag Dad and his Uncle Knobhead are perking up as we march him through the streets of Amsterdam, passed slut filled windows and into a Live Sex Show, where we are promised ‘Quality Sleaze and Filth’  The beer is kicking into these typically average British fuckers and their starting to get a bit rowdy in the show, being two feet away from birds having at each other with banana’s probably doesn’t help. Which gives me an even better idea, like a lightening bolt of miraculous epiphany thrown from the fist of  the God of Fucking. I move amongst the crowd, soliciting contributions from those who I feel are likely to be willing co-conspirators.

I’m speaking to a Russian Slut, who’s Bikini is a neon looking Star Trek number, she’s leaning  casually against the door frame letting me ogle her massive tits. Her English is very good and she grins at me nodding as I explain what is required from her, she tells me that she’ll need half an hour to prepare, but no problem. Thirty minutes later and my co-conspirators and I have dragged the Stag who is pretending to be an unwilling victim to his destiny. He sees Russian Titwhore and stops struggling.

We all stand around waiting for the Stag to emerge, like a butterfly from a neon spunk filled cocoon. Five minutes in we hear a startled whelp, I allow myself a grin and waggle my eyebrows at my new friends who chuckle sheepishly like a bunch of schoolgirls. About ten minutes later we are all treated to a horrified yell of shock, swearing and anger filled roars proceed the Stag bursting from the whores window.  He has not pulled his mask back on, tears are streaming down his face, hate fills his eyes as he swiftly scans the awaiting pack. They alight on me. He chases me through the street for at least half an hour, until I loose him. I even had to fucking rent a new hotel room for the night.

Apparently the plastic sheet spread over the bed had not triggered any concerns. The massive pair of milk bags and tight round arse had entranced him so much, that although shocked at the intruding butt plug being introduced into the proceedings, he allowed its’ continued presence. It was the swift removal of the intruder at the point of ejaculation forcing him to crap himself freely and uncontrollably that pushed him over the edge. It moved him to tears, the big bloody baby.

I spent the next two days alone. Apparently it was not appropriate for me to arrange this type of scenario. Apparently my services as Best Man are no longer required. Apparently I am sick for thinking of such a thing in the first place. Apparently I will not be fucking two Bridesmaid sisters in two months.                Bastard Cunt.

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Chronicles of a Cunt

Every now and then I will give you all a little insight into the type of fucked up nonsensical shenanigans that transpire in my everyday life. Prepare to be shocked and awed at the truly bizarre shit that happens to me.

This weekend was always going to be expensive. I am attending the opening of a plush new cocktail bar and the fuckpiece with me is one of those young, classy, drop dead gorgeous, spoilt brat types. You know the type; she’s been relying on her tits, fanny and face ever since school and hasn’t even learnt to suck cock properly yet because she’s so fucking reliant on her good looks and implied popularity that she feels no need to practice her sexual technique. Brainless, vapid, boring and predictable, but above all, easy meat. I keep telling myself it will be worth the expense just to drop a ladle or two of  ‘I can’t believe it’s not spunk’ onto her chin.

We strut our stuff into the largely empty cocktail bar, making quite the couple, turning heads as we enter. The first thing I notice is that I have miscalculated very badly. The waitresses and barmaids are all wearing bikinis and hoola skirts etc and some of them have got my old fella doing the twitchy dance before i’ve even made it to the bar. I’ve bought this expensive little princess out when what I’d much rather be doing is getting one of the bikini barmaids on all fours.

Resigning myself to having to settle with a blowjob off of one of the bikini bitches in a toilet, I begin working my magic and charm. Little Miss Richfuck is deposited with a long suffering acquaintance in a corner, whilst my sordid charm offensive starts to get underway on the other side of the bar out of sight. Half an hour and a satisfyingly empty ballbag later, sees’ me traipsing around this fucking pretentious shitehole looking for Princess and my mate.

I’m on a balcony overlooking the now heaving dancefloor, using  my vast array of peeping tom skills in an attempt to locate my errant party. There’s a tap on my shoulder…It’s a Banana…a 7 1/2 foot tall Banana.  Or rather a dickwad dressed in a banana costume.  I mean of course why wouldn’t I be addressed by a spotty student dressed as his favourite yellow fruit on a balcony overlooking a dancefloor? I ask myself.

Bananaman isn’t happy, in fact he’s downright scowling at me. I nod at him in a reassuring manner in an effort to persuade him that I didn’t mean to encroach upon his territory, before making my way passed him. He puts his hand upon my chest to stop me… ‘What have you just been doing with Kat?’, asks the annoyed banana. ‘Who the fuck is Kat, and why are you touching me?’ I growl. The young fruit removes his hand but not his scowl. ‘Kat is my girlfriend,’ he says pointing down towards the bar and indicating to me that the lass who’s gob i’ve just filled is his paramour. ‘Ahhhh’, (on reflection not the most confident rebuttal to hand) ‘I didn’t realise she was taken mate sorry.’ Which i think is quite polite considering he’s an irate banana.

I’m in a headlock….a Banana has me in a headlock…a stick thin student dressed as a comedy phallic fruit has me in a headlock…

I’m kicking a Banana that previously had me in a headlock repeatedly in his big yellow bent foam head, when all of a sudden I am set upon from behind ‘Security’ I silently curse to myself…but no! Why is that hand and arm so fucking hairy, what exactly has hold of me?! A Gorilla has attacked me from behind, I can only assume him and the Banana are friends or at the very least aquanitances.

I am now in a pitched battle with a Gorilla and a Banana on a balcony overlooking a heaving dancefloor. The Banana is soft and is hanging back, but the Gorilla is surprisingly nimble and punches like a freight train. Every blow I land on him bounces off his furry ape suit.

There’s cheering, the sort of bloodlust filled chant that I’m sure Gladiators used to cherish on ‘fight a fruit’ day in Ancient Rome. I allow myself to be distracted for a brief moment as I realise the entire episode is being filmed from somewhere and now all three of us are projected onto a large cinema screen overlooking aforementioned dancefloor. The fuckwit plebs below are howling for blood and baying for a victor. How Gauche I remember thinking just before the Gorilla kicked me in my nuts.

And yes. I did still fuck Princess Naive later that night. She thought I was brave. Thick cunt.

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