The Model (Kraftwerk)

I hated him.

Sucked his cock.

Hated him.

Slapped him in playful fury and laughed at the wide red mark on his preternaturally reddened face. Kissed him with angry passion backed up against the flimsy chipboard walls of my flat and wanted to bruise him. Every week, I fucked him with bile in my stomach and poison on my lips.

“You can make plaster casts of cocks. A vibrator made of your best feature. Something to remember you by.”

His fingers in my cunt but I’m doing most of the work. The screen in front of me jerks with the shuddering of the bed but the notion tickles me. Clone the cock of your choice.

“Suck it.”
His fingers in my hair; I wriggle, seeing as he won’t move enough to make me come. I’ll come out of spite. I’ll come and I’ll use him like he uses me.
“So that’s a no, then. Spoilsport.” He slid his fingers out of me and when he tried to push them into my mouth, I bit them. Hard.

Then I sucked his dick anyway because why should this fuckwit spoil my nice evening.

A few days later he came over again, proffering a box.

“Present.”
It always was his way to take the things you said as a joke and make reality from them. And arrogant. The most arrogant man who ever lived who of course would relish someone so in love with his cock they wanted a copy of their very own.

He watched me read the instructions, mix the plaster, and suck him hard with hate-fuelled efficiency.

I already knew about the other girls. He was so matter of fact about them. Like I shouldn’t be surprised that I wasn’t enough for him.

He grabbed my tits as I sucked, half-heartedly pinching my nipples through my t-shirt until he was solid, eager for release. He yelped as I dipped him in icy plaster, and I sniggered. It set quickly enough and as I was mixing again – silicone this time – he escaped to the bathroom to wash the residue from his erection and tug himself back to his full length so I could finish what I’d started.

I met him in the corridor, his coat and bag in one hand, his jeans in the other.

“You’re excused.”

“What?”

“For the evening. You will not be required.”
He looked down at his erection, bobbing between us.

“But-” He gestured down.”
“Oh. But I already have one. And in my favourite colour, too. Bye.”

Wicked Wednesday

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