This erotic fiction is the next in the emotional fucks series and OH MY GOD did I enjoy writing it. Previous fucks have included the pity fuck, spite fuck and rebound fuck – today we’re embarking on a hate fuck.
I hate you so much I want to see your come face. Want to feel every inch of your cock inside me as I crush you with my thighs. In my mind, I picture the bile that must surely pump through every vein of your body getting stuck in the arteries near the top of your legs when I squeeze you, then swelling and churning as I let you go.
You mean so little to me that you mean everything to me. This shadow-you, the one that’s so grotesque and detestable it cannot possibly be real – occupies my every waking, wanking thought. I see you sneering and I wonder: would he also sneer that way at the moment of climax? Would he take the pleasure I’d yanked from him and twist it into that self-satisfied smile?
I want to find out. I want to hate fuck you.
You are not a person to me. You’re a cartoon drawn by Steve Bell – all angles and red faces and smug self-congratulation. You are the keening shriek of a ranting Jeremy Kyle. The grimace of Gordon Ramsay having a Kitchen Nightmare, and taking it out on waiting staff paid less than the minimum wage. You’re the trolls who pop up on Twitter with ‘well, actually’ on their lips. You smell like retweets of Donald Trump Junior and your soul is the sickly teal of the Brexit Party. You’re Giles fucking Coren, drunk. And on cocaine. At a party for Top Gear enthusiasts in an iceberg basement in West Kensington with a fancy-dress theme suggested by Brendan O’Neill.
I want to hate fuck you. Want to take your cock and suck it like it’s poisoned – which it is – and taste whatever awful stuff comes out. It surely can’t be spunk. You will grip my hair and shove me harder onto your dick, then grunt like Henry the Eighth tearing fistfuls of chicken off a carcass. I’ll drool and choke on every inch of you, and marvel that when I look up with tear-streaked eyes you are far too arrogant to see the hate that’s in them.
I want to hate fuck you because I want to see what you do when you feel like you have won. You will fuck me bent over, of course, because in the hate fuck dreams I have about you, you are barely more than a rutting animal. You don’t have thoughts or needs or wants, you just have this instinct to act. So I’ll position a mirror at the end of my bed, bend over in front of it and ask you – as if I like you – to please please put it in me. Please fuck me. You pathetic, miserable, evil fucking cunt.
Fuck me like Piers Morgan would – all giggles and sweating and insipid, pathetic boasts:
“You love that, don’t you, you eager little bitch? You love my cock. You love me. You want it, don’t you? You’ve never had it so good.”
Fuck me so badly, so clumsily, so selfishly that the contempt I hold you in now pales into tragic insignificance. Grab my hips and thrust into me with a passion you could never truly feel. Because who in their right mind would look like you, act like you … be you … and feel anything that comes even close to genuine joy?
Get your dick so far inside me that when I clamp down on it with my cunt you whimper like a whipped puppy, and your smug mask slides off your face as you tell me “Not yet! I want to make the most of this!”
Then look me dead in the eye as I do it again. And again. And again. As I smile at your face, reflected in the mirror, and ape your Etonian sneer. Then come inside me, with an eager, piggish grunt and a twitch of your gammon-pink cock.
I want to hate fuck you until I see what sprays out of you when you come. If your cock spits bile the way your mouth does, and if your hands tremble and shake the way they do if you think that you’re winning in an argument. Do you smile knowingly, the way you do when you put on your ‘Devil’s Advocate’ hat? Most of all, though… Most of all I want to know what you shout out when you come. In that split second when all you can feel is the pure, physical rush of joy that comes with orgasm, what do you say? At the moment when your brain is blank, and your mouth can’t do any harm, just moments before I tell you just how deeply I fucking loathe you: what will you say?
I can only guess.
And that makes me want to hate fuck you even more.