Addicted to cottaging

* This is not about me. It is a work of fiction.


Addicted to Cottaging

I had only ever been attracted to women. I had my first girlfriend at 9 years of age, and I still remember her to this day. She was still the dirtiest girl I've been with and taught me many things. My most recent girlfriend was also relatively experimental, and it was this that led me down a dark path.

One night she was moistening my love flute, and I groaned with pleasure as I pumped her throat. It was almost that special time, and I spread my legs farther apart in a power stance.

"Are you ready for your supper?" I asked my girlfriend.

She gave the okay sign with her right hand, and I prepared for evacuation. Then it happened. My world was turned upside down. She put the middle finger of her left hand up my shit pipe, and being worn like a puppet felt so natural to me. Nobody had done this to me before, but I knew it wouldn't be the last time.

I let out a high-pitched yelp, like the one my childhood cat had made when fat Uncle Findlay had sat on her and crushed her spine. The orgasm was intense, and I think I lost half my body weight with the amount of fuck-fluid that shot out of me.

My girlfriend struggled with the intake and began to choke, so I unplugged my flesh tower from her mouth and tried the Heimlich manoeuvre. I couldn't save her, so I called for an ambulance. When it arrived, she was already dead.

At the funeral a few days later, I began to ponder how I would fill my arse in the future. She had quite fat fingers, but it still didn't feel enough. What about a cock? Surely a hot, thick one was just what I needed. I knew that sort of thing went on in the public toilets in my local park, so I decided to try it out. Just the once, I said to myself.

The next day, I found myself in the toilets. I waited by the glory-hole, until a man walked in the next cubicle and gave me a five-inch flaccid delivery. I looked at it for a few seconds, then began to feast like Henry the Eighth. It grew inside my mouth to what felt something like seven inches, and then I took it out. The time was now.

"Can I put it between my cheeks?" I asked through the cubicle wall.

"Be my guest," came the reply.

I slid onto it, and the euphoria of the fatal fingering my girlfriend had given me was a distant memory compared to this.

"Are you happy with my customer service, Sir", said the man in the other cubicle.

"Certainly," I replied breathlessly, "there are no complaints over here."

Then I became worried. I needed to fart, and I wasn't sure whether that was normal. I did it anyway.

"Ooooh, blow your shitty wind on me," said the man in the other cubicle.

His words made me feel like I did when I had been a good boy at school and you got given a sticker to wear on your jumper. I continued to frantically push myself onto his sexual spire. After three minutes, I felt the hot burst of his seed inside me, and it was all over. I needed more.

I sat in the cubicle all day, and I think I took around ten fillings. Fat ones, thin ones, black ones, white ones, they all vanished into my black hole of depravity. I knew I was addicted. I found myself in the cubicle day after day, and eventually I purchased a child's tent from Argos so I could camp outside and be ready as early as possible.

I went on like this for weeks, until eventually something gave way. I was yet again in the midst of being anonymously impaled when the man on the other side finally arrived.

"There's your special delivery," he said, and I recognised his voice straight away. As a child I had overheard that voice saying that phrase when my father had made love to my mother. I knew it was him on the other side.

"Father?" I asked, but I didn't need an answer.

We both stepped out of our cubicles and faced each other. We both knew without speaking that this all had to end. He had to be faithful to my mother, and I had to return to my normal life. We left the toilets and he drove me home. We never spoke of it again.
 
Top