Once in a blue moon, you meet a wrongun. But what is a wrong-un?
“I bet you wish your girlfriend was wrong like me. Don’t cha? Don’t cha?”
She does sexual things that a normal lady wouldn’t. She goes past norms to the places only pom stars or perverted men’s imaginations goes.
She licks assholes. She deep throats. She lies back for gangbangs. She whispers fantasies into your ears that make you hate yourself and am harder than you’ve ever known.
Some people love a wrong-un, and some people hate a wrong-un. Often, they are the same people doing both.
Here’s an example of a wrong-un. See how she makes you feel:
Friday evening. She is on her way home from her office job. It is only 4:30, and the town is already filling with drunk people.
A rowdy group of guys, about her age, mid to late twenties, are obviously out on a stag do, one last blast before marriage tier you down.
he would be husband is obvious. In amongst the superhero costumes androman soldiers of a ridiculous visit to the fancy dress shop is a caveman with barely anything on in the cool evening of late summer. But like the rest, he is too blasted to notice the chill.
He also has a dumb sign hung around his neck. ‘Blow jobs 4 pats on the head!
They notice her staring. They notice how damn sexy she is in her light skirt and tighter blouse. Her curves are the stuff of dreams. Wet dreams.
“Hey!” Napoleon shouts to her,” He’s getting married tomorrow.”
A strangely obvious statement and lame chat-up line if that’s what it was she thinks. But she doesn’t run away.
“Lucky lady!” she says.” He’s the best of the lot of you.” They all laugh, all stop, and gather round her now on the pavement. “Let’s see a picture of her.”
This takes them all back. The groom doesn’t have his phone in his furry hot pants, so others race through their scrolls to see what they can find. “Here’s one,” says Genghis Khan,” Now that one I’ve had a work over!” Sneers of laughter and take that sounds. “I mean, come on, guys, look at her fit in that dress. Sorry mate, I had to when it came up on Insta.” He is being joyfully pushed around now, but still hands her his phone.
“Oh, she’s beautiful,” she says, “lucky guy. Your’ friends probably all jerk themselves silly to ‘your misses, but you get the real thing.” His friends clapped that and “ohhed” at her cheek
Napoleon butted in,” Ah, as lovely as she is this. Natasha, the bride, woman he’s marrying, she doesn’t give head.”
Iron Man explained, “That’s why he’s wearing the sign. His last chance.”
“Oh, no, poor dear,” our wrong-un said. “Thor, hand me your hammer.”
She took it and knelt on it. “Gather around. Make sure no one can see.”
And they did, forming a wall from prying eyes. Even then, though their show Liquid Minds didn’t quite take in what she was doing.
She made it obvious by dragging the caveman towards her by his butt and pulling down his furrier.
He wasn’t at all hard, but that didn’t stop her. Once she had sucked on a boyfriend's cock as he slept, just to feel its small softness on her tongue, to suckle on it between her lips.
She gripped his ass, not touching his cock with her hands at all, and went to work licking at it and pulling at his dick with tight lips.
The men cheered and laughed, comments rolled over.
“What a slag!”
“This one I’d marry!”
“Fucking filthy ditch!”
“Think I’m in love...”
A hand ruffled one of her tits, but she knocked it away. “I’m here for the groom guys. I’m blowing him away. come back when you’re getting hitched.’”
“My girlfriend don’t give me head,” a lame Martyn Monroe said, putting up his hand like he was at school.
Napoleon said, “You don’t have a girlfriend, and no one would give you head.” Laughter for a few seconds and then concentration.
The groom, the husband to be, was hard. And the strange, perverse office girl was tucking her head down like she was possessed. Looking at her doing impossible deep throat and face fucking herself, combined with the simple delight of having a pretty lady suck his cock, meant it didn’t last long.
He came and she held him nose in pubic hair deep. Then let him out a little to receive the last of his pleasure on her tongue.
She stood up, looking up at him. She was still much shorter, even when not on her knees.
She held out her tongue, showed everyone his cam, and then made a big show of swallowing it.
“When you say I do tomorrow,” she said,” think about me. Think about the woman who sucked you off in broad daylight in the middle of the street, and you don’t even know her name.
“And when you kiss the bride, remember some girl still has your semen in her belly.”
And she pushed her way through the stags and into their lifelong memories.
And that is a wrong-un. But who could ever regret an encounter with one? There’s so much right when they’re wrong.
I love wronguns.