Chuck Wendig is the Ultimate Filthy Weirdo and a hell of a good writer. More than that, though, he’s a guy who shares what he’s learned and offers non-stop encouragement punctuated by butt plug bookends and monkeys doing painful shit to alien anuses.
So, after spending a few days unpicking the panties some retarded Christian app designers used to jam his butt right up to (and including) his transverse colon, he decided on a joint project smack down – this Challenge.
In 2000 words, we’re encouraged and sort of mildly threatened/intimidated into compliance with his fight for shite. For my part, which is the first Wendig Challenge I’ve undertaken, I excerpted from Book 1 of a trilogy I wrote in 2013. To fit the word count I truncated some of the original, but only to keep the smut count as high as possible.
Here ’tis. Enjoy, and go visit Wendig.
Sipping my tea, Claire put me at ease and in doing so reminded me of why I liked her. She could do that sometimes; sense the thing that would dissolve awkward moments. Right before she came up with a moment that would send my heart rate skyrocketing. Leaning forward to put my mug down, I glanced up at her, right into her slightly parted legs. So, now I knew for sure where this was heading. My reaction had to be fast, and it was a defining moment. “You have really pretty underwear, ” I said. It could have been a joke meant to cover an embarrassing moment, or a statement of fact and desire. It was perfectly ambiguous. “Nice of you to notice.” With that, she got up and came to me. I thought she was going to kiss me, such was the suburban and pedestrian way my mind worked. Instead, she knelt by my side, took a mouthful of my tea, and then turned to me. In just a few seconds, which did not follow the textbook rules of going quickly or slowly, she opened my robe and deposited tea cooled in her mouth right onto my cock. Next, her mouth, warmed by the tea, followed it.
Looking back, I suppose I was a little rigid at first before I became rigid in the sexual sense. Her mouth around me filled up quickly, and while it wasn’t the first blowjob I’d ever had it was only the second one I’d ever enjoyed, and the better of those two. Her mouth around the head of my penis felt like … it’s difficult to explain … warm, fluid silk. She was in no hurry to get where she wanted to go, and she knew, as if from a man’s perspective, what not to do. There wasn’t any of that awful hand-screwing stuff, as if a woman is trying to unscrew the cap off a Coke bottle. In fact, she didn’t use her hand at all, leaving me free to enjoy the sensations of her mouth instead of getting a handjob badly disguised as a blowjob.
Sliding down my shaft, she gagged a little, and I instinctively pulled back a bit. In reply, she took me deeper and gagged a little more. I made as if to reach for her but without breaking tempo, she made it clear that this was from her to me. I gave in to it all, letting go of all expectations, of all the things I thought I was supposed to do, of all thoughts about performance and equality and mutual satisfaction. There, in a small part of my mind, I registered that for Claire this was mutually satisfying. She was doing exactly what she wanted to do, and taking enormous pleasure in it.
I can honestly say that I experienced the first real and unrestrained orgasm of my life, there on Claire’s sofa where I let go and go and go into her mouth. She swallowed it all, but that wasn’t the point. It was the single most fulfilling sexual experience I had ever had. I lifted her up and moved to touch her pussy. She was very wet and I was very ready to lick her to an orgasm I hoped would say everything words couldn’t, but instead she stepped back a little, smiled at me, and went into the bathroom. I heard her brushing her teeth and I immediately wondered if my cum tasted bad to her. It wasn’t that at all; she did it because she supposed my cum tasted bad to me.
Walking behind the sofa on her way to the kitchen, I reached for her. She let me, and we kissed deeply and passionately before she quietly pulled away and went into the kitchen. I made to follow her, but she came out with our dinner and walked straight to the dining table. I sat, my mind going through the list of all the things I should say and some of the things I wanted to say, when she once again caught me off guard by saying “You have a lot to learn.” Although Claire didn’t have any objection to me running my hands up and down her arse, she silently made it clear that she didn’t want more than that. I was perplexed; all I wanted was to give her some of the pleasure she had so intensely given me. My emotions were all over the map. I couldn’t read the signals because the ones she was emitting were in a language that was foreign to me. After all the magazine articles written about what women want, and after the rise of the Internet flooded the developed world with even more information, facts, opinions, and empirically sound studies, here was a sensitive new age man looking to freely and delightedly give a woman the best of what he knew, and she was breaking all the rules.
Having not been repelled, I grew in confidence. She disentangled herself and turned to face me. I will never, as long as I live, forget the look on her face as she looked at mine. I don’t think I’ve ever been as loved and as pitied at the same time as that look demonstrated. She had all of the power and none of the will or malice to use it.
“Sweet, I don’t know what you want from me. You’re not repelling me, you’re just not helping me understand,” I said. “Sweet. You called me Sweet. I love that. Say it again,” she replied. I said it again, and again, and I moved to kiss her lips. Instead, she bit one of mine. It was cute, and it was also distracting; deliberately, I thought. “I still don’t understand, Sweet.” “It’s an enigma,” she said. “You think too many thoughts that don’t belong to you. They belong to fuck-ups you don’t know and who don’t know you. They aren’t concerned with your happiness and wholeness; they don’t care about those things. What they want is your compliance, and they want it to operate at such a level that they don’t even need to peek through your bedroom window to make sure they’ve got you.” “Claire, how did we get from me tweaking your nipple to you lecturing me on philosophy?” I laughed. “You think too much and that causes you to deny your own feelings, to comply somehow with a group that doesn’t know you, doesn’t give a shit about what you want, and mostly wouldn’t approve of you if they knew. You think too much. You need to lose your mind to come to your senses.”
With that pronouncement made, she stood on the sofa, straddled me, and very slowly rubbed her pussy against my mouth. One class had ended and another had begun. My tongue started ‘learning’ everything it needed to know about pleasing Claire. Or so I thought, but as events would show, I was way off the mark. She let me lick her, and I wanted to, I really wanted to. My hands came up to cup the cheeks of her arse and I pulled her closer to me. Softly, I licked and sucked her clit, and that was when she pulled back from me. Sliding down my chest, she licked around my mouth, tasting herself. “I like the way I taste with you.” And that said, she plunged herself onto my cock and every semblance of gentleness went out of her. Bucking, pushing, pulling at me, a sort of low growl developed in her throat. “Hurt me!” she murmured, in what sounded like a threatening tone. “Hurt me!” she said, more emphatically. I had just enough presence left to get one word out through my shock. I said ‘No!” and with that, she head-butted me and climbed off.
My head hurt right above my left eye, and I felt a heat there that I knew would develop into a lump, and maybe into a bruise. I sat there, stunned, looking at her, and wondering if she was totally nuts and if she was planning another attack. […]
Twenty years earlier, something made me angry and it stayed with me. Sexual politics. Must we bring the parliamentary process into every aspect of our lives? Do we really need to listen to the shrill voices of the narrow-minded and the vicious? Even though I’d always been quietly conservative, unimaginative, repressed, and embarrassed, a part of me rebelled at much of the bullshit I heard or read. To some, apparently, all men are rapists. All men are ‘just after one thing’, as if every woman on the planet has the most amazing vagina and all we men just can’t wait to get inside that particular one. H’yeah, right.
I recall finally having put up with enough nonsense from one nasty, dried-up fuckwit who seemed to think it was reasonable to take her anger out on me, even though I’d barely met her and had absolutely no desire whatsoever for her. Initiating and maintaining the one-sided conversation, the vile and completely unfounded accusations she aimed at me finally led me to snap back at her “Your personality is the best contraception you’ll ever find, and what minute chance remains will be more than taken care of by your face. I don’t know if that look is anger or prolonged constipation, but believe me when I say I really can’t imagine any man wanting to explore you in all your glory.” Having just lived through her fifteen-minute diatribe on my generalised guilt-by-gender, she proceeded to call me a misogynist because I fought back. With some people, you’re guilty no matter how innocent you are.
That very unpleasant encounter was the first time I was consciously aware of some of the odd, offensive, cruel, or selfish views there are out there. […]
I think what gave me the most severe case of sexual-politically derived diarrhoea came from yet another woman I had absolutely no interest in. Some people just like to push their favourite hate-filled barrow, whether you’re interested in its contents or not. Having only known her for a short time and in a very casual group setting, she decided to earbash me about male semen. She just refused to swallow it, or even store it in her mouth for a few seconds. Okay, well don’t. Not a good enough answer, so it seemed. Tiring of her, I moved to another group but she followed me, carrying on her monologue long after I’d stopped listening. Just to get rid of her I said there was no way I’d even consider going down on a woman, which seemed to shock her. On a roll, I said that if we’re discussing the swallowing of body fluids, a man has a woman’s in his mouth from the second his lips or tongue touches her vagina, and in the normal course of swallowing, he’s going to ingest her fluids. “Eww! How unsanitary!” I proclaimed. Fortunately, she found my comment offensive and she moved off in a huff, for which I was enormously glad.
These and several other things were what gave me pause for thought on the way home that night, and for several days and nights after. I was trying to unravel whether Claire was engaged in game-playing, sexual politics, or if she was just weird. She had said I think too many thoughts that don’t belong to me, and that I had to lose my mind to come to my senses. Parenthesising that, I came in her mouth, she came in mine, she bit me, and she nearly opened up my skull.. I’ve had, in my life so far, some stellar opportunities to take part in or witness some incredibly weird shit, and that first night with her was right up there. She was right, though. Whatever conclusions I was to draw from this, I had a lot to learn.