Like The Dirty Mercenary Slut He Was

Nathan was feeling pretty bloody pleased with himself as he drove out of the carpark at Arden Street, his less than substantial erection already straining his acid wash flared jeans.

He admired himself in the rearview mirror. Shit blonde sub-Warney mullets never go out of fashion he thought to himself, and who was he to argue with himself? He was never wrong. Not wrong to turn down North now to go to be a bitch slave instead.

Certainly not wrong about the decision to leave Brisbane and shamefully spurn North – after a signing a deal with them previously – in order to chase money at the world’s most reviled sporting institution.

No, that move had worked out well. Hey, how many blokes got to win a Norm Smith in a losing Grand Final side? There was Gary Ablett Snr, and everybody knew what a good bloke he was.

His walnut sized penis was now begging for attention, and Nathan realised he wouldn’t be able to make it home before satisfying himself. He pulled over quickly into the carpark of an anonymous light industrial unit in West Melbourne.

He freed his pathetic tiny so-called hard on from its bonds and arranged himself to begin the act. All the training had been worth it. This was the time that ‘process’ paid off.

As he lowered his mouth onto his own dick and began gently fellating himself, Nathan recalled some of his favourite Australian Rules football related moments. There was that great barbeque he’d been to in late September 1996. The pork and herb snags were great. Then a few years later … must have been 1999 … he’d had the chance to go and cycle around the scenic former logging towns of north western Tasmania, again in late September. That was one off the list of Things To Do Before You Die.

Warming to the task of sucking his own cock, the shitman Buckley recalled those halcyon days of the early part of this decade. Sure, there’d been 2001, when the Brisbane side he’d shafted after one year won a flag. That didn’t matter. History wouldn’t repeat itself. And even when it did, twice, the very next two years, he wasn’t that concerned, despite having the proof that he was a complete and utter fuckwit with the judgement of a particularly retarded retard rubbed in his face in consecutive years on the games grandest stage.

Now thought Nathan, going at himself like the clappers, I’ve definitely made the right decision in heading back to Collingwood and embroiling myself in a protracted and almost certainly unwieldy succession arrangement with a man who is known as one of the greates coaches ever. This is sure to work out.

He worked his tongue down the excuse for a shaft on his shrunken manhood and felt the excitement rise. He’d almost held on for minute this time, a new record.

It rose and then he just had a moment to pull his head away before he shot big wad of foul smelling jizz all over his face like the dirty mercenary slut he was.