Rugby world cup: I only care about the fucking

A quick disclaimer: until I sat down to write this post, I had no idea which World Cup was currently in progress, only that my Twitter timeline is currently filled with folks talking about a sporting event. A quick internet search suggested that it’s rugby, but if it’s not clear, I have no interest in the Rugby World Cup: I only care about the opportunities for fucking it can provoke.

I’m not going to feign an interest in sport to get laid, but I’m not going to complain if you care. Excitement – be it for tennis or eating out my cunt – is sexy, and seeing you talk animately about something that matters to you is incredibly hot. So as long as you don’t expect me to remember who is playing in the Rugby World Cup match, I’ll happily focus on the bit that does interest me: the fucking.

Besides, surely that way we both win, regardless of which team is victorious?

Think of it this way: what could be more convenient than having an obedient little fuck-toy wandering around in a t-shirt and ruffled knickers to entertain you in the quiet points in matches? I’m sure they must exist, the minutes where nothing much is happening on the pitch and you can order me to sit on your dick. Don’t let me finish getting undressed, just move my knickers to the side and push my shirt up so you can play with my tits while I ride you. And don’t let me clean up afterwards – just pull me into you and continue groping my tits as you watch. Make me feel used and dirty, and my mind will be so focussed on my wet cunt that I won’t notice what’s happening on the screen.

Maybe your team has lost, and you’re frustrated to a level I can’t understand but am intrigued by. Why not just take all of that anger out on me, ruthlessly fucking my face until it matters that France beat England slightly less? I want you to use me, so channel your aggression into fucking my throat until tears run down my cheeks. Make a bet with your mates, and use me to settle it: whoever puts their money on the winning team gets to use my mouth, while you hold my hair so I’m forced to stay still. Stroke my hair while I suck their dicks, and join in with the too-casual-for-a-mini-gang-bang small talk about what a good cock slut I am.

You could use my utter disinterest as a reason to punish me. Ask me obscure – or not-so-obscure – questions related to your beloved Rugby World Cup, and when I fail to provide satisfactory answers take off your belt and fucking beat me. Annoyed that I don’t care enough about this thing that means a lot to you to remember anything you’ve told me about it? Fed up with my pervy chatter about the players’ arses that stops you from focussing on the game? Excellent, take it out on my ass. Leave me with bruises that are still sore three days later, when I turn up at your flat to find that my bad behaviour has forfeited me my place on the sofa beside you. Direct me to a hard wooden chair instead, and watch me squirm uncomfortably until you’re ready to fuck me.

Speaking of which: use my lack of interest against me, and make me wait. I can’t imagine anything crueller than you texting delicious descriptions of the dirty ways we’re going to fuck, only for me to arrive at your flat and find that you’re engrossed in a game. Maybe you tell me to work a butt plug into my ass, but then I’m to sit down next to you and behave. When I don’t, tell me to get down on the floor – face buried in the carpet and hands reaching back to spread myself open for you. Tell me to hold that position, occasionally teasing me with your fingers, until the game is over. I will be so absorbed in the effort of exposing myself for you that I’ll be completely unprepared for the first hard thrust of your dick.

No, I don’t care about the Rugby World Cup… unless it ends in the kind of depraved fucking that makes me wet and squirmy and inclined to beg for more.