Sharon the FuckMeat

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Sharon?” is the first thing he says when I pick up the phone, just in case, it’s an employee or, God forbid, my husband answering.

My heart pounds and my vulva immediately begins to juice when I hear his voice.

“Speaking,” I reply, barely able to say a word because my throat is suddenly clogged with the sexual desire rising in me.

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

The former is the trigger, the code that means I’ll be putting aside my carefully constructed life as a well-respected, high-flying political executive for the evening.

He murmurs the number I’m going to take later that afternoon, is fourteen.

 Fuckmeat 14.

It’s humiliating and I adore the wrongness of it. The contrast between me as a professional and the warehouse slut excites me in a way I can’t define.

“Thank you,” I say, outwardly calm.

Inside, however, my body is raging.

A signal from my phone that his email has arrived: the directions to the venue, the location of tonight’s lewd soiree.


The thing is, as I get older my sex drive increases.

I’ve chaired 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 and rub myself to orgasm till climax hits me.

It was when I went to a therapist that this sordid chapter in my life began. I wanted to stop smoking and, the treatment worked but, what the perverted bastard also did, was do a little rooting around in my psyche while I was under his influence, 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. I suck cock and let men fuck me and my mouth. They can come in me or all over me, I don’t care.


My habit is to pre-book an anonymous chain hotel where I can remain in that corrupted state for as long as  I can normally masturbating as I relive the previous hours.

I’m supposed to be at a dinner tonight, but when I hear that obscenity breathed down the phone the die is cast. It doesn’t matter who I’m letting down.

I 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.

With my bolthole prepared and my husband informed of my absence from the familial hearth, I can focus on the depravity I’ll be participating in later on. My pussy clenches, already sodden with anticipation. I consider rubbing myself off but 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. The place is an old storage shed of some kind, maybe red brick but it’s too dark to tell.  When I climb out of the car

It’s dark and the 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 recognize him, of course. He indicates I should follow, his head jerking towards the offices.

I step through the doorway, the portal a blank space like a missing tooth, the door is 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 ambiance, three battery-powered lamps in a lantern style.

“Here she is,” I hear him say.

And after that, it’s up to me.


They’re a good mix of ages. From twenty t sixty.

“You,” I say, looking 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, then I stagger to my feet and unzip my skirt. My clothes, usually one of my working suits of the skirt, white blouse and jacket

I’m bare beneath, except for garter belt and stockings. It’s what II usually wear The high heels are another touch, 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 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.

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 to a lot of the time and it’s difficult to concentrate.

I’ve got cocks in my face and my hands. One squirts the hot stuff into my cunt, slides out, and then another horny bastard is right there, crashing into me, his bigness and width displacing the earlier deposits.

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

When it ends. The stuff drips out of my pussy, the mattress ruined.

My stockings are laddered and ripped; my hair is a dirty mess. I’ll have bruises on my arms and thighs from where they’ve dragged me around to suit their urges.

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

When I get to the hotel I have to have my coat buttoned up so I don’t get odd looks from the receptionist. I’m still in the holed stockings; my skirt is cum-spattered, too. I stand at the desk while the girl gets on with the check-in process, sure I must reek of illicit sex and I wonder what she’d think if she knew.

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, 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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