Pump and Dump

A good raw fuck is a thing of beauty.

Now don't get me wrong, I like everything about sex, I like all the trappings. But when it's time to get down to business, the main event for me is the fuck. I want it bad that way. I need a man to drill me, stick it to me. Don't give me that finesse stuff, just go ahead a fuck me; make me feel it. Matter of fact, as much as I enjoy all the fancy stuff, and I do, that stuff is all icing on the cake. When I get down to it my favorite position is with the man on top.

Like I always tell them, I prefer a man on top, where he belongs! It's kind of funny, isn't it, that they call that position missionary-style?

The missionary-style, like it's some sort of religious experience. I guess it might be, depending how you look at it. Call it pre-ordination or something, the natural use of a female by a male, always to be penetrated, always to be used for the pleasures of men.

Oh, I know I must be treading on some bloody, forbidden ground here, but it's the truth isn't it. Deep down we all suspect it. In some cultures they tell you that when a female accepts it she can finally stop feeling conflicted inside. I haven't got an issue with it. I always liked it anyway. I know what men like and I like that too. That's what makes me so shameless, I guess.

There's something about the season that makes me think like this, and to act out on all my little cravings. Something about the season, the cold wet damp waning days of autumn that makes me like a filthy kettle, boiling over. Something about the weather or just the rhythm of nature, but in these wind chilled darkening days of November I seem to need it all the more, want it bad.

The shorter days becomes a sort of maddened hunt, sometimes in the back of my mind, sometimes front and center; a frenzied search for that certain type of man who seems to be the kind who can appreciate me as I am.

Oh yes, just about any man out there can appreciate the no holds barred pleasures of the slick-wet walls of a willing pussy hole, but I like a man who really loves to let a slut be a slut; to let me indulge my craving to the fullest and let it all go in all my writhing glory. When I get like this I want a man to break me down raw and use me.

Saturdays are for boning.

Today's search didn't take too long, and I didn't need to go too far, just as far as Woodward Avenue, one once grand thoroughfare that bisects our City. Despite the patchy attempts at gentrification on recent years the avenue still pierces plenty of forlorn stretches of Detroit. On a wet, cold, overcast day like today you don't find a lot of people out strolling along the Avenue, even early in the day. So I feel fortunate to have found what I'd been thinking about all morning without having to go too far. "Got a man?" he asked in a voice with just enough sugar on it to catch my interest. "No," I responded. "Want one?" he asked. I smiled.

You know the rest.

We spent the late hours of the morning in just the perfect sort of relationship. The kind that lasts about an hour and a quarter or so, just long enough to satisfy both our cravings for the day, most of it in a clinch of power penetration, with he mounted on top, of course. With thinly veiled contempt he mocked, "Do you love me? Do you love me, bitch?" his jack-knife thrusts going deeper with each impalement.

"Fuck me!" I responded, "FUCK ME!"

A good raw fuck is a thing of beauty.