Do you think you know what a marketing manager like me does after work? Cocktails with clients? Dinners with colleagues? Maybe a bit of sightseeing in whatever lovely post-communist shithole the company’s flown her into?
Fuck that.
When I’m abroad, Warsaw, Brno, Sofia, or Vilnius, I don’t spend my evenings sipping Aperol spritzes with chatty account managers. I don’t do rooftop bars or overpriced tapas joints full of expats pretending to network. I don’t care about medieval architecture or “team-building karaoke.” I’ve got my own ritual.
”I’m still tasting cum in the back of my throat. My jaw aches. My thighs are bruised. My cunt is swollen and humming like a live wire.”
When the laptop closes, the heels stay on, and the work badge gets stuffed in my handbag, I head straight for the filth.
Not the sterile BDSM clubs that charge entry like they’re running a fucking museum. No. I go where the real dirt lives. Seedy, grim-lit porn cinemas tucked between pawn shops and kebab stalls, with names that sound like viruses and signage that hasn’t changed since 1996.
And I don’t just go to watch.
When the Laptop Closes
It usually starts the same way. I’ll be sitting through some endless strategy meeting, my meaty cunt already pulsing under the table, thinking about where I’m gonna go that night. My coworker Mark, the one with the sad eyes and the wife he doesn’t fuck anymore, will lean over and whisper something about a team dinner.
I’ll smile politely, maybe fake a yawn, and say something like, “Sorry, I’m gonna have a quiet night, just order in and crash early.”
Lies. I’ve already scoped out the closest porn kino in town. I’ve read the reviews. I’ve stalked the online forums in broken Czech, Polish, or Hungarian. I know what time it gets busy. I know what door to knock on. I know the layout. The lighting. The crowd.
”The moment I’m on my knees, knees bruised against the hard floor, spitting saliva and dick juice onto the base of some panting old bastard’s shaft, I know exactly who I am.”
I stop at a corner shop first and grab something to eat. A greasy kebab (not the one between my thighs). A box of cold dumplings. A sausage roll and a can of beer. I take it with me because I don’t eat dinner in the Airbnb like a good little professional; I eat cock in the dark.
These places all smell the same; stale cum, mould and mildew, and thick sleaze. The man behind the counter doesn’t speak English, but he knows why I’m here. Nobody shows up alone, in business attire, at 8:15 p.m., clutching a takeaway bag, unless they’re starving for something more than dinner.
I pay in cash. Always cash. He hands me a token, a receipt, a look; I don’t care. I’m already dripping and rattling like an addict about to get her sexual fix.
They Already Know
I walk in, and the air hits me like a wave of filth. It’s humid. Warm. Flickering screens line the walls, pounding out scene after scene of spit-slick holes getting stretched to hell.
I find a corner. I sit down. I unwrap my food. I eat like I’ve earned it. My legs are spread under the coat, no panties, just thighs and a starving cunt waiting to serve.
Men hover. They linger. They look. They fucking know. And when the first brave one approaches, hard already, zipper down, eyes scanning for resistance but finding none, I open my mouth and show him exactly where he belongs.
I’m not there to flirt. I’m not there to be adored. I’m here to serve anonymous cock, to swallow stranger’s cum, to be used like the trash bin; efficient, invisible and emptied without a second thought.
I suck one guy while eating with my free hand. I jerk off another under my coat while staring at the screen, chewing a bite of greasy chicken. One night, I took seven loads before I finished my first beer.
I don’t fake moans. I don’t perform for them. I just take. I take cock, spit, cum, whatever they offer. Some are gentle. Some are rough. Some don’t speak a word but grip the back of my head like they’ve needed this for years. Because this isn’t a fantasy, this isn’t Pornhub bullshit. This is the raw fucking core of what I am.
‘’Sleep Well?’’
Back at the office the next morning, it’s all polite smiles and polite lies.
“Sleep well, Catherine?”
“Oh yes, early night. Just watched some Netflix and had a takeaway.”
Meanwhile, I’m still tasting cum in the back of my throat. My jaw aches. My thighs are bruised. My cunt is swollen and humming like a live wire. I scroll through emails about campaign launches while replaying the sound of a stranger moaning in some godforsaken wank den, face-fucking me while I fingered myself through the slit in my tights.
No one suspects a thing. They think I’m reserved. Private. Hardworking.
They don’t know I’ve knelt in piss-slick cinema aisles, gagged on dicks older than my boss, and crawled across the sticky floor to beg for another cock while a brutal gangbang blared on the screen behind me.
I’ve had cum in my hair and rice in my mouth at the same time. I’ve swallowed loads while texting my team on Slack. I’ve finished a blowjob and gone straight into a conference call like it was nothing.
Because it is nothing, it’s just me. Just Catherine Duffy. Marketing manager by day. Cock-hungry cum-rat by night.
I don’t do it for attention. I don’t even do it for pleasure, not in the way most people understand it. I do it because nothing else makes me feel real. The meetings, the reports, the networking horseshit, it all means fuck all.
But the moment I’m on my knees, knees bruised against the hard floor, spitting saliva and dick juice onto the base of some panting old bastard’s shaft, I know exactly who I am.
And I wouldn’t trade that for all the rooftop spritzes and team dinners in the world.
It’s Interesting to know a bit more about the Sexual History/Purpose of Catherine Duffy. I suppose it reveals more about why you do what you do.