Fuckmeat 14 107214179114

Short Story

 “Sharon?” he says when I pick up the phone. He always asks first, just in case it’s a secretary or, God forbid, my husband answering my mobile.

 My tummy flips when I hear his voice. Heat rushes south and my vulva immediately begins to juice.

 “Speaking,” I reply, barely able to utter the word because my throat is suddenly clogged with the sexual yearning rising inside me.

 “Fuckmeat,” he says, the gross obscenity followed by a number.

 The former is the trigger, the code that means I’ll be setting aside my carefully constructed persona as a well-respected, high-flying political executive for the evening ahead. Instead, I’ll make my way to some seedy location – the sites he chooses are always run-down places like abandoned warehouses due for demolition, sleazy, despicable buildings perfect for the corruption that takes place.

 The latter is the number of men I can expect to find waiting for me. That afternoon he murmurs the number I’m going to take is fourteen.

 Fuckmeat 14.

 It’s humiliating and degrading, abdominal that I let them at me, but I love it. I adore the sheer wrongness of it. The contrast between me in professional mode and the warehouse slut excites me in a way I can’t articulate precisely. It’s insane, really. The risks are huge – personally and professionally catastrophic if it goes wrong and I’m recognised. And the risk is increasing; I’m appearing on television more and more these days.

 One day I suppose it’ll have to stop. But I don’t want it to.

 “Thank you,” I say, outwardly calm, the consummate professional.

 Inside however my body is raging.

 The phone vibrates a few seconds after I hang up, a signal his email has arrived: the directions to the venue, the location of tonight’s lewd soiree.

 ***

 It isn’t vanity when I say this, just a simple truth corroborated by years of experience and even a couple of newspaper articles. Men, and a surprising number of women, find me attractive. I’ve been pestered by men as far back as I care to remember, and journalists have mentioned my looks in their writings about the Party and my role within the political engine of the country.

 I know I’m considered hot, I’ve been told often enough – sometimes in quite crude terms. It isn’t conceit, please don’t think that. It just is what it is. I haven’t done anything on purpose. It’s just the way I’m made, a random clumping together of organic material that just happens to affect men in a certain way. The thing is, as I get older, the allure seems to be increasing. And so is my sex drive. My libido is revving constantly. There, inside me where nobody can see, desire for the carnal bubbles away. It’s been known for me to chair a meeting on auto-pilot, working in a cool manner while my pussy snarls for man meat. Sometimes it gets so bad I have to lock myself in a toilet cubicle and rub myself to orgasm, heels skriking across the tiled floor as I sit on the pan and brace one hand against the partition wall, bottom lip between my teeth to stifle the shrieks of joy when my climax hits me.

 It was when I went to a therapist that this latest sordid chapter in my life began. I wanted to stop smoking and went to see someone on the recommendation of a friend. The man suggested hypnosis, to which I agreed. And the need to smoke left me. The treatment of three courses worked a dream and I haven’t smoked or wanted to smoke in three years.

 But, what the perverted bastard also did was do a little rooting around in my psyche while I was under his influence. Apparently I told him of innermost desires and fantasies, leaving nothing out. He winkled all of the sordid urges from the deepest, darkest recesses of my mind and then he … programmed me to respond to the codeword Fuckmeat, which is what I became. I’m a gangbang slut, a cum-whore, a bukake babe.

 They do say a subject under hypnosis can’t be coerced into something they wouldn’t do anyway. If I don’t have the capacity in me to kill, it wouldn’t be possible for me to be influenced to commit murder; and I doubt I’d be one of those stooges on stage that flap their arms and crow like a cockerel, either.

 But I’ll go to some seedy destination and take on all-comers, which is a rather apt way of putting it. I’ll suck cock and let men fuck me. I’ll wank them off, ski-poling a couple while bouncing on a dick, a cock in my pussy with another in my mouth. They can come in me or all over me, I don’t care. When the mood is on me nothing matters except cock, semen and my own body’s needs.

 Afterwards I relish the debauched look, gazing at my reflection as I wonder at just what it is that turns me on so much about the bedraggled slut I see looking back at me. My clothes, usually one of my working suits of skirt, white blouse and jacket are soiled beyond saving. I’ll have ropes of silvery cum glistening in my hair. Ejaculate will be drying on my face and breasts, my buttocks smeared with the stuff, gloop seeping out of my cunt.

 When it’s done I try to remain in that corrupted state for as long as I can. My usual habit is to pre-book an anonymous chain hotel where I can hide for the night, snuggled in bed redolent of cum, normally masturbating as I relive the previous hours.

 So I take the call and immediately start to plan. I’m supposed to be at a dinner tonight, but I never ignore the instruction when it comes. When I hear that obscenity breathed down the phone the die is cast. It doesn’t matter who I’m letting down, what function I abandon. Not complying is simply inconceivable. It never, ever happens.

 I end the meeting and call my husband. “Something’s come up,” I say, curt and to the point. “’ll be away from home tonight.”

 He mutters something but I’m not listening. In my mind I’m already fuckmeat.

 Once my husband is cut adrift I read the email and note the location, booking a hotel nearby.

 With my bolthole prepared and my husband informed of my absence from the familial hearth, I set about the myriad other minutiae of detail necessary to get me out of the dinner. It takes some doing, a couple of tersely worded phone calls included, but, finally I can begin to wind down from work and focus on the depravity I’m assured I’ll be participating in later on. My pussy clenches, already sodden with anticipation. I consider rubbing myself off but deny myself the pleasure. I don’t want to dilute any of the build-up. I’ll save the orgasms for later.

 “Fourteen,” I mutter to myself, the number thrilling me. “Oh God,” I whine, wishing it was time.

 ***

 He’s chosen a good site this time: sagging chain-link fence, gates leaning like drunks, not a window unbroken in the two storey block. The place is an old storage shed of some kind, maybe red brick but it’s too dark to tell. A railway siding runs alongside, long rusted into disuse, weeds between decrepit sleepers. When I climb out of the car and crunch my way across the shattered tarmac I can smell the bitumen stink of the railway sleepers, picking my way carefully in my high heels, heart thumping now the moment is on me.

 It’s dark and dank inside the shed, all deep shadow and mystery; hidden menace that’s the perfect setting for a Halloween fright movie. Inside, it’s a cavern of a place, easily the size of an aircraft hangar, a vast open area with a row of what were once offices along one wall. In fact, the click-clack of my heels on the concrete floor brings forth the zombies, men appearing out of the shadows – fifteen of them if I had to guess.

 One of the men detaches from the cluster. I recognise him, of course. He indicates I should follow, his head jerking towards the offices. He leads me to a particular door, entering the room, obviously expecting me to follow – which I do.

 I step through the doorway, the portal a blank space like a missing tooth, the door long since gone. Inside I see he’s prepared it well. There’s a mattress on the floor and some low-wattage lighting for romantic ambience, three battery-powered lamps in a lantern style.

 Shadows flicker and I hear the shuffling of feet.

 “Here she is,” I hear him say.

 And after that, it’s up to me.

 ***

 They’re a good mix of ages. I’d say the youngest is not much more than twenty, the oldest up in his sixties perhaps. Not that it matters to me, all I care about is the cock, I’m not bothered a jot about the man driving it in.

 “You,” I say, pointing to the youngest. “Come here.”

 He does as he’s told and I’m soon on the mattress, on my knees, his cock in my mouth as I tug him at the root and suck hard.

 I remove my jacket and fling it aside, fingers at the buttons of my blouse as the young man fucks my mouth; then I stagger to my feet and unzip my skirt, shimmying to get the thing past my hips.

 I’m bare beneath, except for garter belt and stockings that is. I usually wear some kind of added incentive for the boys. The high heels are another touch – there’s no way I’d wear precipitous Blahniks at work, they’re purely my “fuck me shoes”.

 I suck at the youngster for a time before lying on my back and inviting him to climb aboard. He jacks his cock for a few seconds, looking at me, his expression feral.

 “Come on,” I urge, rubbing my clit, legs wide. “Put it in.”

 He gets down and slides in, his fuck stick splitting me open.

 “Oh fuck, it’s divine,” I groan, hips rising so I can fuck up onto his dick.

 The young man goes at me while another kneels and offers me his cock. I lift up so I’m on one elbow, my mouth full of an enormous lump of male gristle.

 I gag and cough while hands maul my tits and the one in my cunt fills me with semen. I’m still going at the huge mass of cock between my lips when my pussy is filled with another one.

 It goes on for an hour, six of them coming inside me, the remainder unloading wherever they fancy.

 “Jesus,” I splutter at one point. I’m on my hands and knees and one of them has just dumped his cum into my pussy. “If you lot don’t stop coming inside me I’m going to get pregnant for sure.” It’s a lie of course, I’m not capable of conceiving, but some of the men seem to like the idea of leaving me knocked up.

 During the time in that sleazy warehouse I have men in my cunt and my mouth. I let them fuck me as long and as many times as they can manage. Two or three are repeaters, I’m not sure of exact numbers, it all gets too confusing, but I think some of them have squirted into my pussy as well as dumped a load on my face or breasts. Anyway, I’ve been coming myself a lot of the time and it’s difficult to concentrate. I’m squealing and groaning and begging for more, climax after climax boiling inside me. Half the time I’m not sure who’s inside me and who I’m sucking. And I don’t much care. It’s all about the perversion, the debauchery and my ruination.

 I’ve got cocks in my face and in my hands. One squirts the hot stuff into my cunt, slides out, and then another horny bastard is right there, squelching into me, his girth and length displacing the earlier deposits, my body farting around the dick that’s fucking into me.

 “Use me, boys!” I squeal, exultant. “Just use me any way you want. I’m just fuck meat. I’m here for your spunk.

 When it ends I’m plastered with semen. The stuff drips out of my pussy, blobs of it glistening in the dim light, the mattress ruined.

 My blouse, which I lost about halfway through, is opaque with jizm. My stockings are laddered and torn; my hair is an unkempt mess. I’ll have bruises on my arms and thighs from where they’ve dragged me around to suit their own urges. There’s spunk in my hair, on my face, and all over my tits.

 God, it feels gorgeous. My pussy is tender and my jaw aches, but I could quite happily go another fourteen men.

 When I get to the hotel I have to have my suit jacket buttoned up so I don’t get too many odd looks from the receptionist. As it is I look that I’ve been dragged through the proverbial hedge. I’m still in the holed stockings; my skirt is cum-spattered, too. Someone dirty bastard jizzed on it, leaving it spotted with viscous semen. I stand at the desk while the girl gets on with the check-in process, sure I must reek of illicit sex. My face burns with shame as I take the key, and I wonder what she’d think if she knew just what I’ve been doing.

 Then I’m in the room, tomorrow’s suit hanging on the rail, my pussy jammed with a rubber cock while I go through the evening’s events again.

 I’m such a dirty slut, but I do love it, although I am a little concerned I’m getting out of control. Still, I just hope it isn’t too long before I receive another phone call.

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