Scum Fuck

I knew when I bought the house in West Virginia that I was throwing in the towel. I was thoroughly tired of the cosmopolitan millennium with it's Sex and the City flaxen haired expensively attired social climbers and the accompanying pretty boy voids that invaded every aspect of life in DC. I was bored with the swank upscale clubs and their tired jazz combos and bored with the dive bars and their androgynous bike messenger slackers all trying to out-tattoo and out pierce each other. I was sick of slick men in tailored suits and casual Friday play clothes wining and dining me and them attempting book-acquired moves on my clit that never failed to irritate rather then stimulate me. I hadn't orgasmed without the help of myself, my books and my fantasies in so long I was beginning to think there was no hope for a true smooth effortless orgasm ever again.

So I bought this house, on a whim, in a small mountain town, in search of the simple life. My town is tiny; one bar, one restaurant that closes at nine on the nights it bothers to open at all, the post office, town liquor store and police station all reside in the same tiny brick building as the town hall. We don't even have street addresses, that's how small it is.

Obviously, when I moved in, the prissy city chick with my Saab, my dog with papers, my snakeskin knee high boots and my low riding hip huggers, the town tuned in. There hadn't been fresh blood in these parts in some time and mine was running hot and thick. Cars slowed down as the moving men carted my belongings into my new home, neighbors gathered on their porches giving tentative waves and trying not to stare at my furniture. I had to wait all of three hours, when as I sat on the porch with an iced tea, my first visitor dropped by.

He drove up in his pumped up Chevy truck, Harley stickers and confederate flags adorning the spaces not occupied by Nascar decals on the windows. His mangy mutt of a dog rode in the back, no doubt cultivating his flea and tick collection. Bucky Waters threw open the door of his truck and slung his shit-kicker boot into the mud of my driveway, spitting a wad of thick tobacco juice from the left side of his mouth with the movement. His mullet was something to behold, second only to his dirt caked fatigue jacket with pockets that held his stash of tobacco, extra bullets, Bubbalicious gum and plastic comb. I could smell him before he reached me, a stench of sweat, dust, tobacco, old beer and dog. I tentatively shook his thick, rough right hand, wondering when he had last washed it.

I am no stranger to men. I've sampled from the buffet of those that life has to offer; golden surfer boys, dumb jocks, mysterious foreign men, bad boy bikers, stoic Waspy men, stammering preps. But Bucky Waters stopped me in my tracks. I didn't understand him. I didn't know how to play him. It became painfully obvious in the first few seconds of interaction that I wasn't going to win him over with my intelligence, my wit, my worldliness or my independence. Communicating with Bucky was a one-way street of Bucky-isms all done at fourth grade reading level. He looked at me like I was a bug. When he asked me if I wanted to go to the Mudfort Bar, he was in his truck before I answered, starting the engine. On the way there I noticed his rotten stubs of teeth and caught a good whiff of his fetid breath.

The Mudfort was a dive in the finest sense, mismatched chairs, broken pool cues, flat beer, dirty glasses. I had more teeth then anyone in the place, including Bucky. All the men there looked like derivations of Bucky; gap toothed, flannel clad, tobacco spitting, sun burnt hillbillies. The women came in two varieties, bone thin or fat. The thin ones weren't Kate Moss thin, rather the crystal meth thin that goes with too many cigarettes, too much bleach and not enough sun block. The fat ones were poured into their cheap poly/cotton bippy shirts and flaunting their beer bellies like they were the latest fashion trend. I wondered how long I would last until someone beat the shit out of me.

The beer was warm, the glass smelled like the rags they clean the bar with, Skynard filled the air. The shot of tequila tasted like turpentine. Bucky made sure the beer and tequila kept flowing as he possessively introduced me to everyone in the place. No one spoke directly to me, they asked Bucky about me; Did I live in town? Where did I live? No one inquired as to what I did or where I came from. The present was all that mattered in this hick town where people came and went every day but they were always the same people, never new blood. A couple of times I attempted to make conversation, but anyone I spoke to just turned red and mumbly and turned away. After about an hour I was getting tired and told Bucky I wanted to go. He looked at me curiously and said, "It's not time yet." I attempted to pursue this line of conversation but he turned away and started to talk about hunting. I sighed into my beer and decided to go with the flow.

When Bucky and I finally left, hours later, he held the door for me as I got into the car. What I didn't know then was that this was Bucky's foreplay. As soon as I got my ass on the truck seat he grabbed my legs and pulled me toward him as he stood at the open door. "I want to smell your city pussy," he said unceremoniously. I attempted to protest, but his dry, hot hands were roughly rubbing my crotch through my jeans, pressing the zipper into my slit. I tried to push back with my feet but he had my legs locked in his armpits, his beery stubbly face leering into mine, his foul hot breath polluting my air.

"You little classy bitch, I bet you fuck good" he mumbled before he mashed his lips down on mine, forcing his thick furrowed tongue into my mouth as far as it would go, completely covering my lips with his crusty beard, his mustache poking into my nose. "I'm gonna stick my cock up in your city cunt and come all over your prissy little shoot." I tried to wiggle out from under him, tried pushing his tree trunk of a torso away but he was 250 pounds of muscle and beer gut, filing the truck door and the front seat with his sweaty self.

His hands slid up my shirt, shoving my bra up over my tits, mashing them down, kneading and pulling on them with his hands, his breath heavier now, sweat forming on his forehead. He yanked my shirt up to my neck, biting and pulling on my nipples, the pain causing me to forget that I was trying to get out of the car and worrying only that my nipples felt as though he was biting them off. His hands fumbled with my jeans, finally popping the button off and ripping the zipper as he continued to work on my tits with his mouth, lips and tongue.

He tore my jeans down around my ankles and shoved my panties aside with one thick hand, rubbing his flat palm over my pussy. "Bucky, let me go." He sat up, stared at me and open-palm slapped me across the mouth. "You shut up, cunt. I'm gonna fuck you and you're gonna squeal like a pig when I stick it in you. Shut up and suck my cock you bitch." He yanked the biggest, pinkest most crocked cock out of the front of his jeans. Even in the dark I could see that there was something caked in his pubic hair. He pulled my head back by my hair, opening my mouth, he spit on his hand and stuck his whole dick in my mouth, gagging me. "Suck me you, suck me good."

I fumbled with his cock, trying to breath, trying to get my hands free from under his knees so I could at least control the depth at which he kept thrusting his dick into my mouth. I tried not to breath in the fetid mushroomy smell of his cock and the faint smell of shit that emanated from his pants. He was fucking my face like I was a barnyard animal, harder and faster, banging against my teeth, making my lips crack. I could taste the acrid slimy precum on the head of his cock.

He pulled out and pulled my legs up over my head. "I'm gonna shove it into your dirty cunt you bitch. I know you want to feel me fuck you." He slapped his dick against my clit and shoved the head into my pussy. "You're dry, you stupid shit." He hit me across the mouth again and bit my nipple, which was now bleeding. From under the seat he pulled out a bottle of whiskey and poured it on his dick and then slapped some on my box. "I'm gonna make you wet."

He slammed his cock into my cunt, stretching me, tearing me, hitting my cervix and making my stomach cramp. With my legs on his shoulders now he jammed his cock into me over and over, my head hitting the steering wheel, a spring on the seat cutting into my back with every thrust. His hands groped my tits, pulling, squeezing, pinching my nipples until they were on fire. His tobacco stained spit slimed onto my face and lips as he drooled and fucked, the windows of the truck filmed with foul smelling condensation.

He stopped, looked at me and said, "Get up on your knees for me." I tried to move, but he was still inside me, his body smothering mine. "Bucky, I..." His palm slammed my mouth again, this time I could feel the blood from my cheek. "Stupid cunt," he pulled his cock out and flipped my over, splashed the whiskey on me again and as I felt the burn from the alcohol on the tears in my vagina, he pulled my ass up in the air and rammed his cock into my pussy again. This time he wrapped his hands around my hips and slammed my body into him with each thrust. I was crying by the time I felt his thick fingers spread my lips and begin to work my clit.

I felt my clit swell and my pussy begin to moisten as his fingers relentlessly rubbed harsh circles around my clit, his cock continuing to rip and tear as he shredded me from behind. "I'm not gonna come until you come for me, I know you want me, show me how much you want me, you city cunt." I felt the unfamiliar feel of weightlessness as my body began to dilate and soar with arousal. I felt my cunt relax and slicken, making the pounding from behind more enjoyable with each swirl around my clit.

Bucky dropped his body on mine, fingers still locked to my clit, hips still raised to let his cock have full range of my pussy. His breath was heavy and foul on my ear, spit showering my cheek as he panted, "I wanta come but you gotta show my how much you want it first." Every time he pounded his cock into me my hips thrust forward, forcing his fingers harder on my clit, beginning to drive me crazy, his tongue in my ear sending electricity down my bruised spine. The pain in my pussy my raw nipples only served to heighten my passion. I found my self pushing back against Bucky, begging for more, begging him not to stop rubbing my clit as I felt myself begin to float higher and higher, my cunt dripping now, barely able to breath. "Come for me, slut, come for me." He slapped my ass, making my pussy tightened around his cock with each smack.

And I did, a rocking, shuddering, spasming orgasm that shot through my pussy, through my clit, burning and roiling, letting loose a fountain of slime on Bucky's angry cock, squeezing his shaft with my swollen cunt, contracting around him and forcing him to shoot his load so deep into me that my toes curled and my stomach cramped in waves with his orgasm. He grabbed my shoulders as we came, pulling my torso up as he nailed my ass to the ground with his groin, my necked stretched backward, my hair sticking to his wet chest. He came in waves, pounding with each new wave, his balls pulling tight against my ass cheeks, his cock convulsing with each wad of cum. He collapsed on top of me.

When he pulled out, he wiped his cock and hands on my jeans and threw them at me, getting out of the truck to piss at the side of the road. I scrambled into my pants, not caring about my underwear, my crotch a marshy mess of our juices. We drove home in silence, him taking swigs from the bottle of whiskey and packing a new plug of tobacco into his cheek, spitting at intervals. He swung into my driveway, left the engine running and didn't look at me. As I gingerly climbed out of the truck I heard smell his fingers and mumble, "Just like I thought, city pussy stinks same as ours."