Trouble in the Hanging Gardens of Baby-lon
There used to be a time when getting hot and sweaty in an enclosed space with a bunch of strangers, with the possibility of a pointless, demeaning one night stand (pointless and demeaning but with the added bonus that a girl who’s name you don’t even know and who you know you’ll never see again is very, I mean VERY fucking likely to let you take her up the shitpipe), was what I lived for. But I’m getting old now, I’m thirty-four, and quite frankly now the only thing I want that’s nice and hot and wet of an evening is a steaming hot cup of tea to go with my pipe and slippers.

But this morning on the way to work I found myself stood cock to arse with a load of sweaty strangers, jostling round, just about licking the sweat from some random girls armpit. No, not a club – this was the 134 from Tufnell Park down to Euston.

I got on, did the bleep-bleepy-bleep thing with my oystercard, and found my salvation, my home sweet home for the next twenty or so minutes - a narrow strip of vacant bus floor near the back where I wedged myself in and prepared for the bone juddering, bollock jangling drive down Kentish Town Road and through Camden Town.

After a minute or so I felt... something... brushing against my hanging gardens of baby-lon. Don’t get excited, Spanky – might’ve been and accident... Then I felt it again, only with a little bit more pressure and a degree of unmistakable cuppage... Now, being a perfect gentleman and not really wanting to make a scene I immediately scanned the area round me for any fit super model-type women who might’ve taken an instant liking to my meat and two veg. And – fuck me – there right in front of me was a girl who was so beautiful, so perfect, so absolutely jaw-droppingly hot she could’ve easily been the type of girl I regularly see on the internet covered head to toe in sticky, ropey manfat (my internet viewing habits go like this: news – check, footie – check, local gigs – check, extreame all-over body cumshots – check).

I instantly felt a little hard at the thought of this incredible temptress sexually assaulting me on the 134 – as they say, its not sexual assault if you enjoy it. I felt her hand stroke over my rapidly hardening trouser bulge. She sought out the tip of my cock and started... whooooooaaaa, sweeeet Jey-sus!!!... She started... tickling it... with one of her long, delectible nails. I didn’t really know where to look – if I acknowledged her she might stop, I thought. So, instead, I gazed out the window watching the pedestrians overtake us as we queued in the abismal but usual North London traffic. Her hand worked down to my balls, stroked them tenderly like a pair of sleeping hamsters curled up in their nest. And then in one fluid motion she moved her hand up, grasped my now erect pork sword which was pushing against my light grey trousers like a sudden and violent stone-hard pulsing, throbbing hernia.

I couldn’t take this anymore. She was gorgeous. She was absolutely fucking stunning. And the cheeky minx appeared completely uninterested, she too was gazing out the window, checking out the Pete Doherty wannabe clone cunts you see mincing through Camden Town 24/7. I said a quiet: “Hello...” This vision of beauty’s head snapped round, regarded me like I was a fucking cockroach smeared in diarrhea, and returned her lovely, perfect gaze to the view out the window.

Fuck??? What??? Still, she continued to jiggle my plums. I could feel some definate leakage going on now...

Then, without a word, she got off at Camden Town (which was a shame because I was about to ‘get off’ myself if she’d have stayed on). Deflated, I suddenly realised I didn’t fancy walking through Euston with a swaying lob-on, making me look like some kind of erotic Darlik: (instead of saying EXTERMINATE, EXTERMINATE!!! I could’ve gone round saying IMPREGNATE, IMPREGNATE!!! In my best Stephen Hawkin voice). Then something odd happened... I felt the touch again... More insistent this time. The fingers working over the quite obvious dark wet patch of sticky pre cum that was spreading over my groin.

I looked down.

Then I looked across.

Sat in the aisle seat just next to me was a toothless, hideous, amazingly effeminate old queen wearing a rather fetching flowry summer frock (didn’t go too well with the grey chest hair and anchor tattoos). The bloke looked like he played rugby for the transvestite national fifteen. He smiled toothlessly up at me.

I smiled down at him. Then I shuffled away quickly.

And the terrible thing, the awful part of this was...

... it was quite possibly one of the greatest handjobs I’d ever received in my life...
( SpankyHanky, Mon 29 Jun 2009, 10:06, 5 replies)

Hahahaha
This. Is. Genius. Have a click Sir.
(bacchanal_epicurean bacchanal_epicurean, Mon 29 Jun 2009, 11:08, closed)

Hahahahahahaha!
thats a classic!
(Grrrrr Tigers, Mon 29 Jun 2009, 12:04, closed)

being wanked off on a bus
by an old queen... lovely! just lovely!
(Lizard King, Mon 29 Jun 2009, 12:05, closed)

This is fekkin lol
thanks for the read, mr.
(The Keeper of Maps, Mon 29 Jun 2009, 12:59, closed)

creepy old men and handjobs:
www.b3ta.com/questions/voyeurism/post93354

its scary
( willenium Fist bump for verification, Mon 29 Jun 2009, 19:51, closed)