Grudge Fuck

5 min read

I’m bent over his desk, feet as far apart as the black lace panties around my thighs will allow, as he fucks me vigorously from behind. I hate you, I hate you, I think, words repeating like a mantra in time with his thrusts; and then it becomes oh yes, oh yes, as he slams into me even faster, gripping my hips roughly.

I can feel him congratulating himself on his prowess as he squeezes my ass and my moans go up an octave. His smugness at making me want it, at making my lust overpower my loathing, is rolling off him in waves, like a bad odor.

I really, really can’t stand this guy.

I like his cock, though.

I get along with pretty much everyone, but there’s this one guy… I detest him. He’s arrogant, conniving, dishonest, basically everything I despise in a man. Naturally, the sex is insanely hot.

Let’s be clear here, fucking someone you dislike is a bad idea. I take comfort in the fact that he dislikes me just as much, and feels equally disgusted with himself.

It started when we worked, briefly, for the same company. I find sexual tension very stimulating in an office environment, as you’ll know if you’ve read “Cum Shower” or “My Craving For Cock.” My colleague — I’ll call him Doug to spare his reputation, not that he deserves it — couldn’t handle me banging him in the boardroom before a meeting, and then running rings around him in the negotiations. Me, a mere slip of a girl, kicking his ass! The more he resented me, the more I despised him for his competitiveness, until our interactions became outright hostile.

These days we don’t often cross paths, but once in a while I do some work for the old crew, and then Doug and I slip back into our old sparring pattern all too easily. To my eternal shame, I do occasionally succumb to the temptation to do something regrettable.

This was one of those nights.

7:55pm. I’m on my way to a party, but have to pass by Doug’s department to drop off some paperwork. It’s actually his fault that I have to do this, as he screwed up an important task and left it for me to fix, so I’m already in a bad mood.

It’s late enough that I’m expecting the place to be deserted, but as I approach his glass-walled office I see him pop up from behind his desk like a bespectacled meerkat. You know meerkats aren’t as innocent as they look, right? They’re carnivorous, and impervious to certain types of venom — including mine, apparently. They’re also horny little fuckers.

“Hey Rose. I see you dressed up for me,” Doug says.

“Seriously? Dude, I’m supposed to be at a party. If you weren’t such an incompetent asshole we could have concluded this hours ago and I’d be sipping champagne right about now.”

“How about sipping something sweeter straight from the source?” he leers, gesturing at his crotch.

“You disgust me.”

“You can’t get enough of me.”

And so it goes. Here’s the problem. The opposite of love is not hate; it’s indifference*. And however much Doug’s cocksure banter irritates me, I cannot ignore the crazy chemistry between us. It’s like a spinning magnet, one minute attracting me, the next repelling me.

I’m not proud of it, but it only takes a few minutes of flirting, cajoling and trading insults before Doug has me perched on the edge of his desk, dress off, legs spread, rubbing me through my panties. He is very good with his hands, stroking firmly, just the way I like it, increasing the pressure until I’m slippery wet and my lips are flowering open around his fabric covered fingers.

When he finally tugs my drenched panties aside, his fingers slip inside me like a knife through butter; he knows I like a little more roughness and friction though, and crooks his thumb to grind the knuckle against my clit as he hooks his fingers to catch my G-spot. Finger-fucking is an underrated skill, and by the time he has one hand under my ass to lift me and ram me harder onto his thrusting hand, my legs are shaking and I’ve forgotten where I am and who I’m with, I just need to cum.

The arrogant bastard pulls away before I’m ready though, licking my juice off his fingers with a grin I’d like to slap off his face, and unzipping his pants to release his boner. I toss him a condom from my purse and with a sneer he tears open the wrapper and rolls it on. His desk is a fancy one that rises and falls, and he shows off, adjusting it to the perfect height for him to fuck me.

First he teases me, gliding the smooth head of his cock up and down the creamy channel between my lips, stroking it over my clit, soaking it in my wetness. The tip of the condom actually enhances the sensation, working like a tiny clit-stim. He knows this up-and-down stroking is just frustrating me, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of begging for it… Or will I?

“You want it bad, don’t you, babycakes? Ask nicely.”

“Fuck you, Doug!”

“Oh Rose, being a bitch won’t get you this big, hard cock in your hungry little cunt, will it? Don’t pretend like you’re not desperate for it…”

The last vestiges of my rational mind are telling me to walk away and leave this asshole to jerk off at his desk — and the image of me in black lingerie, stockings and heels, pussy dripping for him, will certainly give him the inspiration for that — but self-restraint is not my strongest suit; and his cock is poised at my slick opening. One thrust and he’ll be inside me.

Don’t judge me.

“Please, Doug… please fuck me with that big, hard cock… Nobody does it like you do… You’re such a big man… My pussy needs your cock so bad…”

I’m mocking him, of course, but I see his dick twitch at my words anyway. Satisfied despite my evident lack of sincerity, he grasps my thighs and thrusts his dick home. And oh, it feels good. That first moment of being utterly filled with cock, forced open as it drives inside, is my favorite thing, as I’ve confessed to you before.

He doesn’t hold back, no gentleness or tendresse as he jackhammers into me; I wrap my legs around him, deliberately digging my spike heels into his ass cheeks to spur him on. He pushes me onto my back on the desk, weight on me to pin me down, and I realize I’m lying on his spectacles, probably twisting the frames, but I don’t care. That familiar heat and pressure is building within me, looping tendrils of pleasure wrapping around my whole body like bindweed, enveloping me.

I’m ready to protest when he pulls out just as I’m about to climax, but then he flips me over, bends me over the desk and tugs my soaked panties down my thighs. He kicks my feet apart, slaps my ass a few times, trails his sticky cock over my cheeks and jams it back inside me. Now he powers into me even harder, sheathed inside me right to the root with every stroke, making me gasp.

He pulls back ever so slightly and presses my legs together, making an even tighter, hotter channel for his cock. It feels huge inside me like this, massaging every sensitive spot at once, and the sensation builds to an intense pressure, then bursts in an explosion that makes my whole body buck and tremble. That sets him off, and he shoves even deeper, speeding up to a frantic pace.

I want to regain some sense of control though, so I push him off me — his turn to growl in protest — and drop to my knees, peeling off the condom and taking his sticky shaft in my mouth. I lick away the latex taste, spreading his pre-cum around with my tongue. I love to suck cock but after our frantic fuck I’ve barely begun blowing him before he’s shooting down my throat, big jets of salty-sweet cum that I gulp down as fast as I can.

Rising to my feet, I pull my wet panties back up, put on my dress and get myself together with as much dignity as I can muster, considering my pussy is drenched and throbbing, and my mouth is awash with the taste of his cum. I find my antipathy has dissipated to a mild aversion, passion spent. Maybe grudge-fucking Doug every so often is the only way we can work together. Whatever.

“Gotta go,” I say, grabbing my purse and heading for the door.

“Sure thing, babycakes,” he grins, zipping his fly. “Stop by next time you have an itch that needs scratching.”

“Fuck you, Doug.”

* “The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it’s indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it’s indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it’s indifference.” (Elie Wiesel, Night, 1960)

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More confessions from me here — if you think you can handle it! Maybe take a cold shower first…

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