Hate Fucking a Total Bastard (29f) [FM]

There’s an old expression that love and hate are two sides of the coin. Personally I disagree. Hatred is far, FAR stronger. Love – at least in my experience – is something floaty, whimsical and ethereal, but hatred is primal and visceral. All consuming. Both are unquestionably strong passions, but one is a largely internal and self reflecting affair, while the other both burns and radiates, utterly unable to be contained.

Hatred – real, vein twitching, palm sweating, fury igniting hatred – is something that, mercifully, doesn’t come along very often. While it’s far to say we’ve all got dozens upon dozens of people we may intensely *dislike* (or perhaps that’s just me. My enemies list is sizeable!), there’s a significant void between dislike and blood bursting hate. I dare say there may be a significant number of individuals out there who have been lucky enough to skip through their lives without ever truly hating anyone. And I’m delighted for them (But they also make my dislike list, because I’d never truly trust someone so capable of remaining calm!).

I however, passionate person as I am (that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it) , have hated. With a near violent intensity at times. Precisely six people have scaled the heights through annoyance, via intense dislike, to the lofty position of *hated*. Some climbed slowly, dragging themselves up a rung at a time. Others were so intensely vile that they jumped straight to the top without any middle ground.

This is the story of one of those individuals. And how I ended up fucking him.

I’ll skip most of my usual lengthy pre-amble for this one as, for once, the wider details are largely irrelevant.

Myself and a group of friends were our for a relatively swanky dinner in celebration of Hannah turning thirty. As this was a significant birthday and there were many who wanted to celebrate, in addition to her friends, her family and other various hangers-on were also in attendance. Not that this was a problem, of course. She enjoyed all their company as indeed did we. They were all lovely people, and a pleasure to spend time with.

All except one.

Isaac wasn’t one of her friends. Nor was he one of the family. He was, as he seemed to take great delight in telling us over and over again, essentially a gatecrasher. Someone else had been going to attend but had to pull out at the last minute and, rather than waste the seat, Hannah’s brother took the opportunity to bring along one of *his* friends instead. Everyone had assumed this would be no issue.

They were wrong.

Isaac was, and there really is no other way of phrasing this; a cunt. He was one of those insufferable individuals for whom life had granted quite inexplicable luck but which he believed had all been achieved through his – ENTIRELY NONE EXISTENT- talents. He was an, at best, 5.5 out of 10 man who believed he was an 11. The only physical thing he actually had going for him was that he was relatively tall and did have somewhat arresting pale blue eyes. He had a good job which he’d only picked up thanks to his Dad, and was relatively flush with cash for much the same reason.

But worst, he genuinely believed he was something of a wit and raconteur – a modern day renaissance man. That charm and elan flowed from him as readily as it might pour from a true showman, or from a literal fountain of knowledge.

He was wrong. Isaac was an oafish fuckwit who managed, quite remarkably, to be wrong about – and I am not exaggerating here – literally every single thing he said. For the entire evening. He was utterly unbearable company and the type which is usually best left ignored. Except largely because he felt himself to be a bastion of charm and personification of wisdom, he made every effort ALL NIGHT to take command and control of the conversation. Now I’m not friends with dullards or cowards, and I’m proud to say my friends all gave as good as they got. At least initially. But Isaac was relentless. It was like arguing with a man on the internet. He would never pipe down, shut up or even acknowledge another point of view. And so, like pissing in the wind, eventually everyone realised they were just getting themselves wet with no chance of success, and ultimately gave in, their spirits and resistance broken. Capable now of only idly nodding in his direction but otherwise doing their best to ignore him.

But, faithful reader, as you’ll be aware if you’ve ever read anything I’ve posted previously, I’m not one for backing down.

I can’t pretend I’m especially proud of what I did, and I’m sure there are some – not many, but some – who’d hold me almost as guilty as Isaac for failing to deescalate the situation. Because I called him out on everything. All night. I didn’t relent and didn’t let a single thing drop. He was wrong and was clearly used to simply winning arguments through endurance rather than intelligence. It took less than an hour for him to have earned a place on my hate list. He was ignorant and boorish and, frankly, something of a bully. And I simply wasn’t going to let him win.

I’ll save a blow by blow account of the topics discussed/debated/argued. Know only that he was wrong about everything and everyone knew it except him. Though I was the only one fighting back by the end. It’s fair to say he pretty much ruined the dinner (and yes, I accept I played a small part in it too, as his wasn’t the only occasionally raised voice…), and there was an audible ‘Oh for fuck’s sake’ when he declared he would tag along for after dinner drinks too. As a result, numbers dwindled, and ultimately only eight of us ultimately continued our evening.

He was, if anything, even worse at the bar. Somehow louder and even more belligerent. Plus, as I’d been the only one continuing to engage with him, I now had the misfortune of being sat beside him. I fully confess his eyes were even more arresting close up but, those aside, I can honestly say I didn’t find him in the least bit attractive, nor was I in any way considering him a sexual prospect. I’d been in his company for mere hours and yet, already, I knew I *hated* him. And his aftershave smelled of, as far as I could guess, urinal cake.

Now alcohol was flowing freely, the subtleties of debate were long gone. We were fully, and indeed loudly, arguing. At one stage he patronisingly placed a hand on my shoulder and suggested I calm down. I told him that if he touched me again I’d break his fingers. He pulled his hand away so quickly it was clear he knew I meant it.

More alcohol flowed, but I’m not going to blame the alcohol. The arguments continued and ramped up in tension and intensity. More friends departed as I genuinely believe they were embarrassed to be in any way associated with the pair of us – even while secretly encouraging me to not back down since I was fighting on the side of right. I cannot put into words how worked up and furious I was at this utter cunt of a man. I’m genuinely sat grinding my teeth right now as I type this thinking back.

Eventually all our friends had left and it was just the two of us. There had been times I’m certain both of us had wanted to leave with them, but to leave would have been to have conceded defeat. And that simply wasn’t going to happen. So instead we stayed. We drank. We argued. And the tension mounted.

I can’t remember what the final topic was that ultimately broke the camel’s back. Something gloriously inane, I’m sure. The state of our discourse was at an all time low and we were basically just slinging incredibly vulgar mud at each other. Him suggesting that if I was a feminist I wouldn’t even understand what good cock was (how little he knew), and me pointing out that only tiny cocked virgins are in any way threatened by feminism.

He told me he’d make me cum in minutes. I told him he wouldn’t recognise a real female orgasm if one happened on his face.

I honestly don’t know which of us was the one to suggest we actually put this to the test. To be honest it’s entirely irrelevant, as there wasn’t the slightest hesitation from the other to accept…

I do know that I was game for just heading into the disabled toilet of the bar and putting it to the test right there. He declined saying he wouldn’t have room to work his magic. Excellent. I was already winning. He’d chickened out first.

The journey back to his place was incredibly odd in that there was no sexual component to it at all. We weren’t all over each other, nor even excitedly discussing it. Instead we spent the majority of it rehashing an argument about Brexit. Sexy stuff, I know.

He lived in an irritatingly expensive flat. We were still arguing as we entered.

Once inside without pausing for breath and in the precise same tone as the argument we’d been having, he tells me to get my knickers off so he can ‘work his magic’. I don’t even take off my dress. This prick doesn’t deserve me naked. I just slide down my underwear and hike up the dress a little, taking a seat on the edge of his hideously decorated bed. I also pull out my phone and open the timer function.

“Minutes, you said? I’ll be generous and give you three.”

He says nothing. He gets on his knees and pushes his head between my thighs – his shittily sculpted stubble chaffing and irritating my inner thigh on the journey – as his tongue begins to swipe and slobber over my clit.

As suspected, his technique was *terrible*. And I wasn’t just saying it because I so desperately wanted him to fail. There was no precision. No sense of timing or rhythm. Just lots and lots of movement for the sake of ‘action’. It’s not even that I was resisting. Hell, I’d found myself in this position, the very least I could hope for was an actual orgasm out of it. So as the three minute mark came and went – once I’d declared he’d failed – I even started trying to direct him, both verbally and by manhandling his the back of his head with my hands to try to get him pointing and focussing on the right direction.

But ultimately it was fruitless. I’ve had more pleasurable experiences being sat over the wheel of a bus.

Eventually he pulls himself out, telling me I’m just being a stubborn bitch and not letting the pleasure ‘cum’.

“Oh really? Shall we test that?”

I tell him to get his cock out and he smugly obliges, somehow thinking I’ll be impressed by his already hard six-or-so inches. I was sorely tempted to immediately go in for the kill, but figured I’d prove my point more effectively by starting slower.

Taking a firm hold of the shaft I teased the head with only my tongue, running small slow circles around the very tip, meanwhile very lightly caressing and stroking his balls. Glancing up it was obvious he was doing his best to mask hiding his enjoyment of the sensation. Seeing me looking he shrugged, but I continued regardless.

After perhaps two minutes he asks if this is all he’s getting. ‘Was I scared of actually putting him in my mouth or something?’

Almost precisely the snarky comment I’d been waiting for. I push my head forward and in one motion I’ve taken all of him in his entirety in my mouth. In the blink of an eye I’ve gone from teasing the tip to having his balls resting against my chin.

He certainly hadn’t been expecting it. He practically fell backwards.

I was relentless. I coated his cock with saliva from both my lips and my tongue, and with every motion retracted until just the tip was once again touching my tongue, to having him fully swallowed again. At some point during this he makes some comment about feminists and cock sucking, but I wasn’t listening. I had a point to prove.

It takes almost no time at all before I feel the all too familiar twitch of a man on the verge of ejaculating. For a moment he tries to withdraw – I think to try to hold back entirely so as not to prove me correct – but I don’t let him get away. I put my hands on his thighs and pull him forward again.

Realising he has nowhere to go he instead changes tactic, takes ahold of my head and starts actively thrusting into my mouth. It completely ruins the rhythm I’d built up but it didn’t matter, he cumming regardless. Shot after shot hit my tongue as he held my head there. Not that I had any intention of pulling away. There was a moment when i considered holding his cum in my mouth and spitting it back at him, but I wasn’t entirely sure what point what would make. So I simply swallowed.

No sooner had he finished cumming than he squatted down beside me and gave me a badly misjudged kiss. Clearly he was a guy who relished the taste of himself. (Not inherently a bad thing I should add, but given that I’d shown no inclination to kiss him at all, it was an odd moment to start).

Not missing a beat he smugly declared he’d actually wanted to cum. That’s why he’d fucked my face. I’d helped a little bit, but he’d ‘like he usually does’ had to get himself to the finishing line.

Absolute bollocks of course. It was such an obvious lie. I *HATED* him.

He told me proudly that he’d be recharged soon so we could go again, but that maybe seeing my tits might help. I suggested he should maybe take a second stab at giving me an orgasm first given his failure the first time. I also pointed out that I was one -nil up.

He commented that clearly I must use my dildo too much and so only a cock can now get the job done (Surely a contradiction in terms. Another win for me). Clearly the prospect of competition aroused him as readily as it does me as, in a remarkably short time, he was apparently ready to go again.

He stripped, and I almost laughed out loud when I saw him physically retract his (admittedly only very slight) gut. He then lay on his bed and suggested I jump on top.

I told him he could go fuck himself. I’d already put in the work while he’d done almost nothing. He got up, called me a bitch again, and pushed me back onto the bed.

And then he rammed his cock into me.

He fucked like a man with a point to prove. Which, frankly he did.

Initially he was awkwardly stood beside the bed, fucking me while I lay back with my legs hanging over the edge. – Much the same position as I’d been in for the oral sex. It soon became apparent though that the heights weren’t quite working and he soon abandoned the position, instead electing to get on top of me for some classic missionary.

He paused briefly to finally remove my dress, at which point he began licking and sucking on my tits like a man who’d only ever seen breasts before on a screen. Suddenly I was having a moment of realisation of why the fuck was I even doing this. I’d already won, proved my point and proved myself the victory. I wasn’t into him and there’s only so far attractive eyes will go.

But then he passed some other stupidly inane comment. I barely even registered it, but whatever it was, it reminded me instantly how much I hated this man.

And that’s where the passion was.

I made a comment back, and immediately followed it up by reiterating an argument point I’d won earlier in the evening. This had the desired effect and *infuriated* him. He let out a string of abuse and started thrusting harder, as though if he pounded hard enough he might get me to shut up.

But I didn’t relent. Because it was starting to feel amazing. The fury had somehow reached synchronization with the pleasurable tingle. Something had changed and something was building.

We began trading abuse backwards and forwards. I’m pretty sure I slapped him fully in the face at one point. I told him to fuck me properly and not like a beginner, getting myself on all fours so he could take me from behind – my own personal favourite position for finishing.

He’d been worked into a stupor. He was pounding me from behind with everything he had – mixing some spanking and clumsy hair pulling into the equation for good measure.

But I was like a bolting horse. I was practically blind and deaf to whatever he was doing or saying behind me. I had only the vaguest awareness of his actions, barely even registering when I’m certain he slipped a rogue finger into my arse.

I don’t know what the final trigger for my orgasm was. Possibly just time itself. But when it hit, it hit hard. My front half collapsed on itself and I experienced a full ‘moaning loudly into the {ugly) sheets orgasm. Seeing me cum was apparently all it took to finish him, as he pulled himself out with only enough time to cum over my arse. (Or perhaps that’s where he was aiming. I was otherwise distracted at the time)

It was, even to this day, one of my top ten orgasms of all time. And it was with a man I truly despised.

It’s not love and hate that are two sides of the same coin.

It’s *lust* and hate.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/rvxfrk/hate_fucking_a_total_bastard_29f_fm