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This is a question Faking it

Rakky writes, "We've all done it. From qualifications to orgasms, everyone likes to play 'let's pretend' once in a while."

So when have you faked it? Did you get away with it? Or were your mendacious ways exposed?

(, Thu 10 Jul 2008, 15:16)
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Swedish Cults
I scratched my arm lazily and my short nails were filled with black dust and sweat from the Agra sun. I could smell the heat of my unwashed body above the heady scents of spices, petrol fumes and camel shit. I’d run out of insect repellent and money.

I’d stood in the same cool spot near ‘Diana’s ‘ bench and watched the grinning tourists pay out a week’s pay in rupees just to have their photo taken where the dead princess had sat. The sun was beginning to set and the cream marble was beginning to change colour yet again – becoming slowly blue tinged until it would turn bruised violet as it did each evening like an exotic Blackpool illuminations.

And I would have to find somewhere to stay for the night.

A group of Swedish tourists turned up – all speaking a mixture of their own language and flawless hypoallergenic English. They stood out in their clean clothes and clean expressions, each holding a clean bag and sporting a clean innocent smile while gazing at the dusty and aromatic splendour that stood before them – the testament to a lost love.

One girl stood alone, faultless in her stereotype - blonde and blue eyed. The local men held back and looked at her warily, she was a Barbie doll made flesh but without the crack habit.

I wandered over and leaned against the fretwork panel.

“Amazing to have someone love you that much they build this for you, isn’t it?”

“Are you English?”

“No. I’m local, but educated in the UK” She, like thousands before her, believed my tired old line about being Indian/Turkish/Italian – in fact any nationality I damn well wanted.

She didn’t ask about why I was so dirty or even seem to notice the rather meaty whiff I gave off.

“I’ve come to India to see my Swami”

I nodded – the group she was with were all dressed similarly and some sort of religious cult did seem common, normal almost, amongst many western travellers.

I looked up at the sweeping sunset, took a deep calming breath and fixed my eyes upon hers as I said, “There are many paths to the divine. It is our journey in life which defines us. Love is all.”

It was as if I’d switched a small AA battery powered light on behind her pale plastic blue eyes.

She grasped my hand and asked me the killer question, “Are you Enlightened? Do you know the path to Enlightenment?”

Oh yes.

I did and out of my love for humanity I was prepared to share it with her for a small fee.

As is so often the nature of these things, true love for humanity has to be shared in private as too much tends to scare the horses. I didn’t mention the horses or the small fee – I didn’t want to scare her either.

After I had filled her head with tales of Mumtaz and her beauty we retired to her lodgings for the evening.

I explained that I had taken a vow of poverty and therefore had to trust upon the love of the universe and all humanity to provide me with a four star room with en suite and early morning call.

“Tell me your teachings, o great one.”

She was sat at my now washed feet. This was a good thing as firstly I now smelled of Ylang Ylang and sandalwood and I had an unrestricted view down her strappy top to her pale cream breasts which both glistened with fresh sweat and blushed with mild sun burn. The sight of these luscious globes made me stiffen and then remember my position – I had become her Swami.

“My teachings in this life are simple.
Give pleasure.
Enjoy life.
Be free with your possessions.
Be free and giving with your body.
Be sky-clad whenever possible and when that is not possible wear a tiny thong.
Eschew underwear – apart from the thong.”

She looked at me earnestly and asked if she should remove her clothing now. I solemnly nodded and watched detachedly as she slowly peeled off her strappy top and released the strawberries and cream puppies.

“I have a confession my Swami. I have not followed your teachings – today I am wearing large but practical knickers. How will you punish me?”

And she dropped her white linen trousers to reveal a skimpy pair of bikini bottoms which clung to her damp cleft and mound.

“You must accept the sword of truth into your body until it gushes forth with the love of humanity. Kneel before me.”

She knelt and I freed my throbbing sword of truth.

“Take this and suck upon it, for it is your path, your divine destiny.”

Her small pink rosebud lips opened and her wet tongue flicked over the tip of my purple bishop’s hat. Then her clean Swedish hands began their well-practised massage upon the holy organ. Her grip and speed demonstrated the years of IKEA assembly that her people are known for – it was efficient, purposeful, a little bland and somewhat lacking in finesse. However within a few minutes her buccal cavity began to draw against my hot hard man weapon. She licked, sucked and teased with her moist yielding smörgåsbord consuming orifice until I could hold on no more and with thoughts of universal love involving saunas and birch twigs I erupted forth with gushing spurts of divine ectoplasm filled with salty goodness. She was a good supplicant, willing, pliant, lacking in gag-reflex and all importantly, she swallowed.

And as she sat back on her heels and wiped her hand across her mouth she uttered one word,


“Now you need to remove the rest of your garments and pleasure yourself for the divine love to grow once more.”

I was calm and flaccid but I knew that her environmentally sound and undoubtedly shaven haven would soon engorge me in a manner that only Agnetha Fältskog before her had been able to achieve.

Sadly it was not to be.

“You are not who you say you are. According to the tracts your divine essence will taste of messmör but you taste of old fermented fish.”

Her eyes were full of hermetically sealed fury and while her glorious large dark nipples taunted me with each move of her sinuous pale body she landed her final crushing blow.

“You are no Swami. You are a cheap rotten Fakir!”
(, Wed 16 Jul 2008, 11:09, 8 replies)
(, Wed 16 Jul 2008, 11:14, closed)
Sir Stiffy
You are a genius. You get a lady-click from me.
(, Wed 16 Jul 2008, 11:18, closed)



(, Wed 16 Jul 2008, 11:20, closed)
I started reading this post
because I was in Agra myself in January, never thought I'd laugh so hard by the end (of the post, not Agra). Nice work :D
(, Wed 16 Jul 2008, 11:57, closed)
Oh God
Porn and puns...
(, Wed 16 Jul 2008, 12:07, closed)
That's a sensation I haven't experienced for some years
Being asked to move from my desk to an impromptu meeting sporting a massive stonk-on.

I delayed rising from my chair just long enough to read the last line, which extinguished my loins just in time.

(rearranges undercrackers)

(, Wed 16 Jul 2008, 15:29, closed)
"Congratulations" Stiff
...would this be your version of "Living Doll" perchance?

If so, I'm looking forward to "Batchelor Boy"!

(, Wed 16 Jul 2008, 15:39, closed)
And I was sure
that it would say "Frankspencer" at the end.
(, Wed 16 Jul 2008, 16:13, closed)

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