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This is a question Sexual fetishes

Rubber wetsuits. Knee-high boots. Nuclear-powered clockwork cucumbers. Dressing up as Pingu whilst reading out loud from the works of Dan Brown. What floats your boat? Or what fetishes have you encountered? Suggestion via crackhouseceilidhband.

(, Thu 22 Oct 2009, 13:25)
Pages: Latest, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, ... 1

This question is now closed.

This is going to make you vom into your own outstretched hands…

Kink, quirk, fetish, perversion – call it what you will. I have a weakness…a deep routed craving so despicable and foul that it cannot be mentioned in public without turning stomachs and subjecting myself to such ostracism and ridicule that the mere mention of it would make me an outcast from society, and no doubt put on some sort of register.

Are you ready? Brace yourself…

I like sex. I do. It’s nice. I was going to say ‘normal’ sex but after reading this QotW it is painfully apparent that I haven’t got a clunge-wobbling clue what ‘normal' is.

I just feel that if I am lucky enough to find a woman who will spend time with me – someone whom I respect, and find physically, intellectually and emotionally attractive, then that really gets my jizz juices jumping like nothing else. If that person is also prepared to share such a trusting and intimate act with me, then I consider that a right result. However, I definitely believe that this person should be loved, cherished, and treated like a Princess (I was going to say ‘Queen’ but then thought better of it – and when I say ‘treated like a Princess’ I don’t mean 'put in a Mercedes and driven into a wall at 100mph by a rat-arsed Frenchman')

Getting strung up by the man-berries and clubbed with an over-ripe haddock on the third Tuesday of every month does not get my mutton musket firing I’m afraid…but the mutually shared satisfaction of giving and receiving sexual pleasure from someone you care about and feel comfortable with?…that’s what busts my rocks off. Maybe even…(oh my god I can’t believe I’m admitting this)…a bit of…romance? Christ-on-a-skateboard I bet nobody’s admitted that yet.

It’s pretty ‘out there’ I know, but yes - I’ve bought women flowers – and not just on Valentines day or birthdays etc but…(chew the bile back, folks)…I’ve sometimes bought them flowers for no.fucking.reason. I’ve taken women out for meals and bought them presents. I don’t go batshit looney and spaff my entire salary on diamond bracelets every day or anything like that - and I’ve been fortunate enough to never have my generosity taken advantage of by a woman. I’ve also been able to quickly dispel doubts that my intentions are anything but honourable. Honourable! – For fuck’s sake what’s the matter with me?

I will try and cheer her up if she’s had a bad day. If she decides ‘not tonight’ then that’s perfectly fine…I’m not a fucking animal – my nads will not explode if they are not habitually emptied into the hair or questionable cavity of a willing participant every 4-and-a-half hours. I understand that women sometimes need their own space and time, but I also let them know I will be there for them if they need me. I don’t stalk, don’t abuse and don’t spend my 'me-time' rubbing my crotch up against their facebook page. However, I also seem to know how to pick 'em, and so have managed to not be taken for granted. I listen to what they have to say. I value their opinion and treat them as an equal, but still feel it is right to hold the door for them or help them unscrew jars etc. Am I beyond help?

Don’t get me wrong – I’m not some prudish, cardigan-buttoned-up-to-neck, songs-of-praise-loving wheelbarrow of wussiness. I’ve tried some things (mostly down to the request of the partner) that would make your eyelids do that ‘inside out’ thing – but it is my deep regret to admit that the vast majority of these acts left me feeling a bit…well…‘awkward’ – and they’ve never once made me produce a hot stream of splooge from my hog’s eye so girthy that it could be seen from the moon. I know a bit about biology and I think I know where my cock is best suited, and therefore have little or no desire to shove it in nostrils, armpits or the eye-socket of their pet Chihuahua.

I know, I know – I disgust you…and I’m sorry. You’d all be quite justified in throwing JMG or some other /talker at me like a justice-powered Honda Accord of mass destruction to debunk my attention-seeking lies and burn me at the sort of metaphorical stake usually only reserved for mega-cunts. I await the wrath I no doubt deserve. But I tell you what…you think this is easy? Try living my life for a day. ‘Coming out’ as a ‘gayer’? – pah! – Piece of piss, you guys don’t know what pressure is. It’s easier to admit that you’re a member of the cunting BN-bastard-P than to admit to your mates in the pub that you are a romantic and that you respect women.

Even now, I’m tempted to throw in a punchline like ‘Of course, they have to be under 4 years old’ or: ‘but I have to admit that their dismembered body parts taste yummy’ or some such shite but I can’t do it…sometimes you just have to stand up and admit your principles.

My name is Mr Twisty Cheeky…and I am not normal.

Please don’t think any less of me. I’m just a weak, slightly pitiful human being
(, Fri 23 Oct 2009, 9:52, 26 replies)
Clean her up...
Quite often (usually as a result of watching pron) I'll decide that some random act would really turn me on, and it does when it's locked in the wank-bank. However, when that thought actually gets acted out, nine times out of ten it ends with me clumsily and apologetically saying "err, OK, that wasn't that hot actually". Pissing, dressing up, etc, none *actually* as good as the thought of them.

My last random turn on was the thought of squirting my baby batter inside a lovely lady and then licking it all out again, preferably with her sitting on my face. The problem was, when it came to acting it out, that once I'd blown my load I no longer wanted to carry on. Is there a name for the total and complete change in attitude after orgasm?

A few months ago though, I was in town at night and just about to grab a taxi when I bumped into someone I shall call Clare (for that was her name, yadayadayada). I knew her from some temp. work I used to do and I also knew that she had a filthy mind. We got chatting and eventually ended up back at hers and started discussing sexual fantasies, as you do after too much alcohol. I told her about the licking cum out thing and she started to smile. She mentioned that, just before she'd met me, she'd been in the toilets of the local club with a bloke and had let him fuck her. She also mentioned that he'd actually not used a condom and so she was pretty wet and sticky down there.

I didn't get a chance to even think about it, seemingly in an instant she had me on the floor and was straddling my face, pulling her knickers to one side. I was hesitant at first, especially as my fantasy was licking *my* cum out again, but hey, beggars can't be choosers :-) I have to say that it was absolutely fantastic. Everything, the mild dominance on her part, the fact that she was wearing stockings under her dress, the whole experience - Wow. Probably the only fetishy thing that I've ever tried that I've actually looked back on afterwards and thought how good it was.
(, Tue 27 Oct 2009, 9:44, 26 replies)
My Dad used to make my Mum dress up as a nurse.
Then, he'd get her in the car. They'd go for a little bit of a drive, and end up at the local hospital.

He'd drop her off, and she'd go inside. And work a full shift.

Then, when she got paid at the end of the month, he'd spend the money on whores.
(, Mon 26 Oct 2009, 17:09, 2 replies)
This kindly little fella here...

OK, this might take a little explaining...

Back when I was a fresh-faced student in up in Manchester I got friendly with a girl named Kim. Nice girl. Great laugh, but - more importantly – she had the finest, hugest, roundest set of knockers I’ve ever had the good pleasure to rub up against. It was like she worked in a beach ball shop and was constantly walking round carrying some of the stock out in front of her. Anyway, we fell into a fuck-buddy-sort-of-in-a-relationship-situation. We were students, constantly skint, and quite frankly having the occasional fuck didn’t cost anything and saved money on the heating bills.

One time after a night on the town I ended up back at Kim’s place. It was freezing cold. So naturally we start getting it on. After some obligatory drunken missionary intercourse, Kim suggests we try a different position. Belching and trying to keep my Boddingtons sloshing about in my guts and not all over my partner and the duvet, I nod and she quickly assume the classic doggy-style position, arse sticking up in the air, her long hair tumbling down over her face. Fair enough. She might look a little like Captain Caveman in this position and I can’t see her tits anymore, but thems the breaks and she did have a mid-table arse*... As I approach from the rear, cock in hand, aiming for Kim’s gaping meat pie hole with the skill and dexterity of a drunken X-Wing pilot attempting to locate the ventilation shaft on the Death Star.

Then, as helmet touches curtains, Kim says with a sly little giggle: “Not that one!” And she raises her arse in the air and performs a little come-hither wiggle. Well, fuck me... Up to this point I’d never experienced any backdoor shenanigans, so I was instantly alert and my semi-floppy beer cock went stiffer than a homeless guy in Jeffrey Dhamers apartment. After a short break to lube up with some handy hand cream (I can remember it was FCUK branded, which I thought was pretty apt), we clambered back on the bed and I slid my cock inside Kim’s ever-so-tight chocolate box. And... in the next few moments... I discovered my purpose, I realised why I’d been put on this planet...

The weird thing was, though, that I spent all the time humping away at Kim’s brown star Galactica gazing up at a poster she had above her bed. Kim was a bit of a girly type girl, liked her soft toys and her flowers and there was so much pink in her bedroom it felt like we were fucking inside a giant fondant fancy... And the poster above her bed was none other than sleepy, yawny star of that eighties stop motion TV show, Bagpuss. I ended up getting lost in that kindly, wistful gaze, that open, soulful face... while I played hunt the sweet corn inside my friend’s bum hole. And as I came, squirting my load deep inside Kim, feeling my knees buckle – I was gazing up at Bagpuss, his big fuzzy eyebrows raised in a slightly concerned manor – as if he wanted to know I’d pull through without causing myself any major injury.

It was pretty damn disturbing.

And from that moment on every time I’ve had anal I’ve always, always, ALWAYS had a mental image of Bagpuss flash through my mind. It’s like I’ve been conditioned in some way... It’s gotten so bad that all I have to do is see a photo of the little white-and-pink git and I start getting the horn. Toy shops? Fuck no; can’t go anywhere near them in case I inadvertently stumble across a Bagpuss aisle and get an instant tent pole in the trouser department. Not a good idea when you’re surrounded by kids.

But probably the worst Bagpuss-related episode was a few years back when my ex, Emma and I were engaged in a little shit-stabbing after a night on the sauce. I was so pissed that I completely forgot to marshal my thoughts, to gather myself together, so as I came I shouted:

BBBB-AAAA-GGGG-PPPP-UUUU-SSSS !!!” Before collapsing on Emma’s sweaty back and shoulders. There was a brief pause and before my cock had even slipped out of my girlfriend’s dirtbox I heard a perplexed:

“What did you just say?”

*Using the tried and tested judging of arses compared to Premiership football teams calculator.
(, Thu 22 Oct 2009, 15:16, 18 replies)
After raiding a flatmate's DVD stash
We figured he had a fetish for women fucking each other in the arse.

Turns out "Anal Lesbians 6" was actually three hours of a couple of women going through their fridge and sorting the contents in alphabetical order.
(, Thu 22 Oct 2009, 19:46, 1 reply)
My wife
loves it when I talk dirty to her in German. Now I find this a bit odd, my native language is hardly the language of love.

Once though instead of talking dirty I explained how to do a database restore in SQL. It seems just the tone of voice and German will do it for her. Ah bless!
(, Fri 23 Oct 2009, 13:54, 8 replies)
Good clean family fun
A couple of months back my sister and I decided to give old dear old nan a visit, because we're nice like that, for a cup of tea and a natter. Usual nan stuff.

After going through the usual inanities of her filling us in with what every other member of the family is up to and so on, we somehow ended up on the subject of The War (WW2, that is), and the whole American "we came over and saved your asses" sort of view, to which I made a throwaway comment along the lines of, "well, all them American squaddies did was come here and 'see to' the wives of fellas who were off in Europe".

I expected to be told not to be so silly, but then my nan replied, "oh yes, a lot of women sold their bodies to get a bit of extra money". Oh yes nan?

"Yes, in fact my friend Helen's mum used to do it!"


"But no one held it against her, it was sort of a done thing back then."

Fair enough, I think, also presuming she'd leave it and start back on about my aunt's flu or something. But no.

"I remember me and me sister June went to Helen's one day but no-one answered the door, so we went round and looked in through the window, and there was Helen's mum, up on the table, dancing around completely naked, and these two Americans..."

She paused for a chuckle, my sister and I look at each other nervously...

"...they were running around the table, slapping her on the bum with dead fish!"

Bloody American squaddies, coming over here and hitting our housewives with fish.
(, Thu 22 Oct 2009, 18:47, Reply)
Went 'round to visit some friends on a quiet Sunday afternoon.
Social call, cup of tea, natter about things and stuff.

The friend's girlfriend turns up half an hour later with a cheery looking border collie in tow. She says it's followed her home. Looking at the thing, it's obviously a well-kept critter - nails clipped, shiny coat and all that - but it doesn't have a collar or anything to help find its owner. A search party trawls a couple of nearby streets for someone looking for an escaped dog, to no avail. So my friends pop a collar and lead on it, and take it to wherever the police say you're supposed to take lost dogs in the hope that their owner will be looking.

I'm half-way home when I realise that neither my friend nor his girlfriend have ever owned a dog.
(, Sun 25 Oct 2009, 13:17, 4 replies)
My Fetish
Definitely when the misssus dresses like this :

here (NSFW).
(, Thu 22 Oct 2009, 13:50, 22 replies)
My cock was never going to be enough…

Her name was Kelly and she was my first ‘real fling’. She was pretty and cute as a button, with her pony tail and a lithe young figure that made me the envy of all the boys in our fifth year. She and I would kiss and fondle somewhat on our break-times and had even gone through the ‘parental introduction’ stage...but inevitably, our body clocks were ticking like veritable time bombs inside both of us and we knew that things were going to progress.

We were young, ready for action, and keen to experiment.

One evening, I picked her up from cheerleading practice and we ventured tentatively back to her place to do some homework. However, as she led me through her front door, she informed me that her parents had gone away for the entire weekend and had entrusted us to ’behave’ in the house on our own! – The gullible fools!

Within seconds we had stripped down to the natties and were getting hot-n-heavy on her bed. “I want you…” she said with a throaty, assured tone that belied her young years. They were the single greatest words I had ever heard.

After a few meaningful prods up her moist moip my pent-up teenage spluff dam burst, and I yoinked what felt like half the River Ganges up her, before rolling off and congratulating myself for a job well done, and giving myself a metaphorical ‘high five’ (in my head).

Although I suddenly felt the overwhelming desire to have a bit of a sleep, I then thought I’d better do the decent thing. “Erm... how was it for you then?” I enquired meekly, not really caring about the reply.

“Well actually…” she then enquired purposefully: “…Aren’t you going to...'finish me off'?...”

Realising my selfishness, I sighed before dutifully nodding and sliding my fingers in a half-arsed fashion down towards her gunge-filled gash before delving down and delicately slipping my finger inside what felt uncannily like the slop tray underneath a Guiness tap in the pub.

She responded instantly, and moaned so appreciatively that my flaccid unit was soon starting to twitch yet again.

“More…..more” she whimpered enthusiastically. I took the hint and before I knew it I had gone from a two-fingered ‘Twix’ to the full 4-fingered ‘Kit Kat’. At this point I even considered putting my thumb up her chutney cupboard and using her as a bowling ball, but I was then distracted by her crying out once again….


My suspicions that she was not perhaps as ‘inexperienced’ as I was then started to surface when she continued begging for yet more girth to be hoofed up her quivering, cavernous chuff. In a flash of almost panicked desperation I inserted my entire fist inside her vag and started working frantically away - giving her the full ‘right jab’ treatment as if I was Mike Tyson going whoopass at a punchbag...with tits.

It became increasingly apparent that her fetish was to have something as large as humanly possible jammed into her monumental muffpouch, because she still didn’t seem satisfied. Sure, she inevitably came, and the resulting gushage looked like someone had tipped half a gallon of Baileys into a bucket of wallpaper paste before splooshing the resultant smoothie over the sheets, but the forlorn look in her eye told me that she had experienced better before.

The next night I decided to make more of an effort...and sure enough – after my brief yet satisfying thrunges up her cathedral-sized clammy clopper I realised that the time was nigh to send her to ‘pissflap paradise’ and I soon found myself in the familiar position of being knuckle-deep into her frothing meaty metro system.

I stuck one hand in…and then the other. She arched her back but still easily managed to accommodate the extra limb. I was running out of ideas. Since her eyes were closed I figured it wouldn’t ruin the mood too much what I did, so I briefly pulled out before doing a quick ‘switcheroo’ and inserting one foot, and then the other, up her gaping, dripping, welcoming vertical axe-wound.

She grunted with pleasure as I bent my knees and began laboriously bench-pressing away at her battered beefy quim....I then heard the words that I had now grown to fear like icy daggers through my skull…


I looked around for inspiration but the only thing within reach was one of those odd-shaped ‘Ali-baba’ washing baskets shaped like R2D2. I went for broke, reached over and inserted the whole thing inside her in one swift motion. Although her legs seemed stretched to capacity, she seemed to take it in her stride, and continued grinding on the woven bamboo droid impersonator like it was a lubed up rocking horse.

However, pumping away with that thing was knackering and I still sensed the nagging doubt that she was not fully satisfied. I have to admit my confidence was shattered and I seriously considered giving up there and then. I finally realised that I had to break up with her the next day when she started eyeing up my Grandad’s rusty old Ford Fiesta and suggesting we use it as a as sex-toy.

Please bear this story in mind, people – these fetishes might start off as a bit of fun, but they can soon escalate into something out of control.

The last time I saw her she was being escorted away by the Parisian Police with her kex round her ankles after she was caught trying to straddle the Eiffel tower…
(, Fri 23 Oct 2009, 15:30, 13 replies)
pussy spread wide so you can see everything.

That's hardcawwwwwwwwwwwwwww.
(, Thu 22 Oct 2009, 22:45, Reply)
Anything with automation, and so a roasted pea.
Whilst home alone of an afternoon, I like to create increasingly more contrived methods of automating masturbation.

Mainly because I'm a lazy bastard tbh.

Anyways, after various experiments with powertools and anything I can find about the house, Mrs SLVA and I were doing some serious redecorating so we hired one of those paint-shaking machines. The sort where you clamp a paint-tin in it and switch it on and it oscillates vigourously, and saves you having to stir it manually. A bit like this,

Anyway, wife goes out and I go searching the house for parts to make a machine-penis interface. I fabricated something with a few layers of felt, rubber bands and gaffa-tape.

I started the machine, it was perfect. So I laid on the table next to it, got into position and set it going at about 60%.

Well that didn't take long, maybe 8 seconds. I'd struck gold in wanking efficiency.

Within maybe just over a minute, I'd cum 7 times and things were getting sticky. So I reached for controls, but in my ecstacy the machine had shuddered out of reach.

This was worrying as I scrabbled around looking for something to cut the power with, pull the plug out, anything. It didn't make it easy the fact that I cum two more times.

I was getting light-headed and was beginning to get distressed, though this was regularly punctuated with climaxes which were producing less and less fluid.

After maybe ten mins, I lost count at about 23 or 24. I lost track of time, but when Mrs SLVA finally came in and rescued me I calculated that I'd been hooked up to it for best part of an hour and had probably orgasmed maybe 40 times. I looked like someone had varnished my belly.

The muscles behind the penis-root ached like hell. I now have groin muscles like Geoff Capes' biceps and when I shoot my load now I can crack mugs on the other side of the room.
(, Thu 22 Oct 2009, 14:31, 11 replies)
doesn't allow me to have fetishes.
(, Wed 28 Oct 2009, 4:25, 3 replies)
Just a phase
I like to think I’m a perfectly normal, well balanced human beign in the sex department. Not very kinky, just pretty damn normal insert-and-spurt kind of guy. But I wasn’t always like this. I think I ironed out all the kinks during the mastabatory opus also known as my early teenage years. Back then life was one big adventure centred round my cock and what I could make it do, and what it could do for me. Here’s a few of the more memorable experiments:-

On one of the many Saturday mornings I was left alone in the house while my parents fucked off to Tescos to do the food shopping, I discovered something pretty damn amazing. When I should’ve been sat in front of Number 73 watching some butch lesbo in dungarees talke to Gaz Top about some inane load of old monkeyspunk, I was busy exploring. And this is when I discovered that the inside of the freezer was cold... (OK, not the brightest kid, I admit it). First off I tried t-bagging my balls in a bowl of icewater. Hmmmm. Nice. Sort of made them shoot back up into my body as if they’d been hit by a mallet, but in a pleasurable kind of way. Then I broke off a bit of ice and rubbed it over my bell end and trapped a bit under my foreskin. Hmmmm. Also quite nice... I finished off by straddling the bowl of ice water, pulling the pud, and stopping occasionally to jam a bit of crushed up ice down my japs eye. It was absolutely fucking INCREDIBLE! And when I shot my load it came out the consistency of frozen yogurt, which lets face it, is a fucking bonus.

For your average teenage wank king, the common or garden shed is a veritable cornucopia of delights. Holding your cock against the lawnmower handle and reving the fucker up was a particular favorite. Sprayed enough cum over that appliance I’m suprised it didn’t get pregnant. But this favoured hobby of mine stopped suddenly when l I realised my dad’s sweaty palms had been where my pulsing spam dagger was oozing... put me off bigtime, that little did. So I moved onto the toolbox. Thats where I discovered the glue. Not the really hardcore stuff, but the wood glue. It looks like spunk, I reasoned, so it might look pretty good slopping round my cock. And it was. An amazing way to danger-wank. The trick is to toss off before the glue solidifies so much that you can’t actually move your hand anymore. Then, when you’ve kissed the sky and released a few batallions of your white-helmeted warriors, you have to rush back into the house and wash the gloop off before your cock’s encased forever Han Solo in carbonite style. Its exciting. Its exhilirating. Its the dogs bollocks. However, if your dad ever changes to a more expensive brand of all purpose glue when he discovers his supplies have mysteriously disappeared you’ve got to be very cautious. This is how you can end up loosing your pubes and a fair bit of cock, finger, and palm skin.

OK, this is a bit of a no go area, but ahhh, fuck it. I spent a few confusing wankathons examining the contents of my sisters knicker drawer. It was wrong, it was disgusting, but that just made it feel so much better. And when I found a packet of tampons I hate to admit, I did actually have a primo uber-wank over the rather sexy instrucional diagrams. (Took me a good few years after that to find out what the fuck these little cottony things were for – I thought it was some kind of internal padding to help keep the average vag nice and roomy for your average cock)...

My favorite wank accessory area. After a brief sojurn to the kitchen drawers (don’t whatever the fuck you do put a cocktail stick down your japs eye – hurts like fuck and only the most painful piss of your entire fucking life will get the fucker back out again), I ended up at the fridge. Fucking food was my passion. Earned me my childhood knickname of Mr Kipling, this did. And I can testify – he does indeed make exceedingly good cakes... But after I’d fucked my way through the fresh produce and crisper drawer, I realised I was getting bored. I had to try something new. Something daring. Something a little different....

All I can say is, if you’re going to stick a vegetable up your arse try something durable and strong. Carrots snap off and tend to get stuck. Five fucking days... FIVE FUCKING DAYS of terrible, stomach churning constipation and excessive laxative-taking later and I managed to uncork myself and gave birth to a sloppy shit the size of the Titanic... Not a good idea.... Not good at all...

But, like I say, I’m pretty normal now...
(, Mon 26 Oct 2009, 14:37, 6 replies)
I like big butts
although I'm perfectly capable of lying, and other brothers seem to have no difficulty in denying it.
(, Thu 22 Oct 2009, 22:40, 1 reply)
I'm currently dating a girl who can't get wet unless I lie about my sexual exploits on internet forums.

(, Thu 22 Oct 2009, 13:59, 4 replies)
OK, last one from me this week. Deliberating whether to share this, but fuck it – why the hell not?

Back in my younger days, early twenties, I developed a strange attraction for a person I worked with. This individual was witty, funny, great company, and all in all a throughly decent bloke. I’ll say that again: A – THROUGHLY – DECENT - .... BLOKE... Yes, for one brief summer I really did think I’d crossed over to the gay side – my secret love of the cock was pretty damn alarming, and I started drinking heavily. Got nothing against gayers, but the thought of having to take on a big hard cock scared the absolute shit out of me. I didn’t follow through with this bloke at work. He had a storming row with the boss one morning and left, never to be seen again. And that left a great big bicurious hole in my life (and possibly in my arse area), that needed to be filled.

So on my next trip to the smoke I went out with with a load of my gay mates (now comrades in cock) to the gay bars in Soho. And for the first time in fucking ages I was excited and exhillirated at the thought of getting my willy out in front of a total stranger for a frantic, drunken, fuck session. Only this time my partner wouldn’t have tits. This time it was going to be very different. It was going to be meat light sabre duels at dawn. I was going in for the cornhole and I was fucking loving it.

Anyway, being a bit of a weak-minded twat, I set about getting up a bit of Dutch courage. I sat and drank myself into a semi-stupor, scanning the pub for a fella who could take my gayboy cherry. But it just didn’t seem to work. I didn’t actually fancy any of them. In hindsight I realised this was because I’m a raging heterosexual, but at the time I couldn’t see the wood for the trees. I was in the captial of gayness and I wanted some hot manmeant. I went and got a load more drinks and necked them.

After an hour or so more of this an incredibly butch looking man approached me and we got chatting. Shit! Here we go. Hmmmm... Not exactly my type but... Ahh, a cocks a cock, I suppose. A few more double rums later and I find myself in a toilet cubicle with this man. I’m disgusted and excited, he’s a big man, tall, broad shouldered, a slight fuzz of facial hair and a fucking greased back quiff. I’m also pissed off my fucking tits.

He locks the door, turns, and starts rubbing his hand over my crotch. Disgusted but strangely excited I close my eyes and before you know it I’m playing tonsil tennis with a man. A big strong butch man. His hand expertly unzips my fly and pulls out my cock, I’m hard, very hard. He starts stroking his firm fingers up and down my shaft and in his deep masculine voice he says: “You like that, darlin? Hmmm? You like that?” And I fucking do. It’s absolutely fucking amazing.

And then – even though I’m not too sure what I’m doing – I reach over and undo the button on his Levis, I reach inside his pants, searching for his probably massive, tree trunk sized cock. And I find...


Confused I dig a little deeper, my fingers probing through his wiery bush. Nothing! NOTHING? FUCKING NOTHING!!! And I reach down further, he’s still wanking me off, I can taste his beer on my lips and in my mouth as he probes and laps at my tonsils. And then I find it...

...a moist gash.

I pull back, disgusted: “You’re a fucking woman?” I slur. S/he lets go of my cock, starts to protest, points out her MASSIVE tits that I was too drunk to register. Starts swearing at me. I get the hell out of there and run off into the Soho night. Confused... Yep... Turned on.... Yep... Eventually I stopped, pulled myself together, puked, and realised I’m really not very gay at all. And then I vomitted some more. She was, without doubt, the ugliest fucking minger in the entire fucking world. And she’d just been wanking me off (which I suppose is a result of sorts)....
(, Tue 27 Oct 2009, 17:30, 13 replies)
I’m starting to see a bit of a pattern here...

Quite a sizable portion of the ladygirl population on this site seem to go effervescent at the moip at the mere mention of the following things:

Tall, strong men
The ‘scent of a man’ (for want of a better phrase).
Body hair (either lots or none)

Now then, I’m quite tall (over 6’), I wear suits, and I’m definitely no weakling. I don’t overdo it on the aftershave...I’ve had a beard from time to time...in fact I could switch to being relatively hairy to being totally hair free at the click of a razor. And I suppose I could even dabble in gingerness with the help of one of the kit-things with a picture of Eva Longoria on the front of the box.

Funny thing though...Why aren’t I forced to spend my free time fighting off foxy fillies with the veritable ‘shitty stick’? Why aren’t I nostril deep in moist, quality clout every time I open my front door?

Perhaps it’s because I’m an ugly cunt. Mystery solved.

Let’s get something straight here people – yeah yeah, you can say that you like this, that and the other...that you have a penchant for chips, dips, chains & whips...suits, boots, flutes and poo-chutes – but there still has to be an initial physical attraction there...doesn’t there?

Listing the incredibly saucy things that you’re prepared to get up to with somebody you fancy simply makes things even worse for us mingers who don’t even get any of the regular stuff.

I’ve had a quick shufty through this QotW and nobody has yet said that they go weak at the knees for a fat wankpile who has a face like a bag of smashed crabs.

Please try to show some consideration, people.
(, Tue 27 Oct 2009, 9:29, 16 replies)
I was quite sporty at school
Those of you who read these pages regularly may recall my earlier tales of the inter-tutor football and my subsequent dalliance with one of the players.

Following on from mine and Nicola's break up, I made a rather startling discovery. It wasn't her barely pubescent downy minge that got me going, it was the pain and humiliation I had felt every time I made my way down to the bike sheds to watch the pale buttocks of yet another of my school mates slamming against her while she moaned and gurned like a porn star having an epileptic fit.

I only discovered this the following week when I handed in my physics homework and was called up to the front by Mrs Turner. I remember her wearing a plain black shift dress that did nothing to flatter her flabby arse as it spilled over the sides of the wooden stool she was perched upon. I managed to tear my eyes away to look at the page of writing she was pointing at.

"Mr thegeordie, this is apalling!" Her voice boomed out across the suddenly quite room. I could feel the eyes of all my classmates boring into me and my cheeks started to redden. "Look! Geordieboys gonna cry!" piped up Jonny Deacon. I could tell he was just jealous as he'd never got a blowie off Nicola, but that didn't really make me feel much better at the time.

"Did you even read the questions?" Mrs Turners eyes flashed with anger "You clearly have no grasp of this subject at all. You'll stay behind today and redo this homework!"

The rest of the class started to giggle, I glanced up to see Jody Mulfinge whispering to Ellen Shrimpton while waving her little finger in the air. Behind them Richard Hawkes was making a vigorous "wanker" gesture with his right hand. A roaring sound was building up in my ears, and, in a surprise to me, a rush of blood appeared to be heading to my crotch. I tried to grab my exercise book, hoping to get back to my seat before anyone noticed what was happening in my groin, but Mrs Turner misinterpreted my clumsy lunge and flinched away, holding my book, causing me to overbalance.

With a horrific feeling of slow motion I toppled forward, my outstretched hands connecting perfectly with those monstrous fleshy orbs which, while they would have orginally sat just below her armpits, now rested closer to her navel. In a moment my attempt to hide my swelling groin had descended into a sub "Some Mothers Do 'Ave 'em" farce. My now throbbing genitals decided to release themselves through the open fly of my boxers and strained against the thin fabric of my regulation issue black school trousers.

Mrs Turner yelped like a kicked puppy and sprawled backwards off her stool, as she crashed onto the floor, legs akimbo, her dress rode up to reveal a faded grey thong. Thick clumps of black hair were clearly visible around the front of the decaying lingerie before it was swallowed up by the stretch mark and cellulite ridden skin of her posterior.

I didn't know what was happening in my kecks but a sudden violent spasm of my crotch followed by a hot damp sensation on the front of my thighs soon told me I had just spontaneously shot my load in front of the whole class. I stood there, my face burning, eyes fixed on Mrs Turners face, who in turn was staring in horror at the spreading wet patch from the front of my trousers.

A guffaw of near hysterical laughter came from the back of the class "Geordie boys just blown his load in his pants!" Shouted Jonny Deacon with near ecstatic glee. "Look at 'im, what a fucking twat!". With that he launched a bunsen burner at me. It hit me right on the cock.
(, Mon 26 Oct 2009, 8:31, 5 replies)
My First Wet Dream, by Tourette's, aged 40 and two thirds
Those of you who know me are aware of how inept/shy/cack-handed I am in the bedroom department (other than sleeping - I excel at that). Our very own Wookiee kindly explained felching to me last Easter - the same weekend that Ethelred showed me meat-spin (on his trendy clever phone, not in the flesh, thank Cheezes). So I really didn't think I'd have anything to contribute to this week's question - until this afternoon.....

Having watched Twilight for the umpteenth time, I dozed off on the couch. Before I knew it, I was dreaming of Edward Cullen.
*Insert swoon*
He had entirely replaced my husband (set in the future, as the kitchen cupboards were looking really tatty and chipped). Much to my chagrin, my dream was only certified 12A. Hence there was no shagging or gropage, but plenty of snogging :o)

I awoke with a veritably fizzing clopper, my feelings a mixture of guilt and elation. Had I contravened my wedding vows? Heart still in erotic tachycardia, butterflies and moths in my stomach, I had the quickest ham shank (result in under a minute) then slunk off to the shower. As I shaved, I hoped that the guilt of my ellicit encounter would wash away down the plughole along with the love juice I'd generated with Edward.

DG knew something was up when he came home from work. My demeanor was more sheepish than my Graany's knitting bag. He knew I hadn't been anywhere, yet there I was, showered, shaved (even waxed me 'tache) hair & face done, perfume on, breathing in; the works.
"What have you done?", asks he, in the resigned yet patient tone he uses when it's obvious I've done something clungetastic. So, I poured him a glass of wine, waited 'til he was sat comfortably and confessed my sin. To which his response was, "Pfft! I thought you'd done something really serious, like broken one of my daleks!" He then proceeded to call me a "silly arse" and "gonk". Cracking husband, he is, I'm lucky to have him.
(, Fri 23 Oct 2009, 19:15, 7 replies)
This tends to be the process for me:

1. Emvee develops taste for a particular kink
2. Emvee meets a girl with self-professed taste for particular kink
3. Girl promises Emvee that they can try out particular kink together
4. Girl continues to promise Emvee that they can try out particular kink together
5. Years pass of vanilla relationship without kinks
6. Emvee asks whatever happened to trying out kink
7. Girl confesses she was never into that particular kink anyway
8. Girl blames Emvee for trying to force kink on her
9. Girl makes Emvee feel like shit for even suggesting it in the first place
10. Girl uses all her womanly powers to layer guilt on Emvee every time she sees him
11. Emvee's life becomes long cycle of recrimination for being such a disgusting pervert
12. Emvee can't take it any more and breaks up with girl
13. Alone and lonely, Emvee visibly flinches whenever particular kink is so much as mentioned and despite never getting to try it out, has lost all taste for it

That pretty much sums up my last five relationships...by the time I'm 40 I'll be lucky if I can think about tits and still be able to smile. Why is it that women always advertise themselves as fun and willing to try stuff but as soon as you get close to them they turn into commitmentaholic prudes?
(, Thu 22 Oct 2009, 16:02, 23 replies)
Just had a working lunch with a client in a poncy gastro pub in Somers Town
Was pretty damn hard to concentrate on account of this client being fit as fuck and wearing the sort of low cut, push out clevage business suit that plunged down to just above her nipple line. It was like catching a brief, naughty, sexy glimpse at a couple of copulating pink watermelons spilling out of a bag.

Anyway, towards the end of the meeting I let out a sudden and incredibly violent sneeze. And - to my utter horror - I managed to project a fair bit of phlegm in the direction my nose was pointing: right onto these magnificent orbs of fleshy wonder.

While she's busy patting herself down telling me not to worry about it my mouth engages before my brain gets a chance to intervene. Now, I blame this QOTW... A whole week of reading about complete and utter filth...

Jokingly, I say: "I'm sure you've had worse than that on those in your time."

Didn't go down too well. Hope my boss doesn't hear about it. God, this QOTW's gotta end soon before I'm handed my P45 or get arrested for gross indecency, or worse still, accidentally fuck a fat bird.
(, Wed 28 Oct 2009, 13:26, 6 replies)
I took my wife
to a wife swapping party.

I did quite well, I got a power-drill for her.


(Just about every 1970s working-mans-club-comic)
(, Thu 22 Oct 2009, 16:58, 3 replies)
I'm really into
getting off as quickly as possible with someone who then shuts the fuck up and lets me sleep. Washing and ironing is a nice to have.
(, Thu 22 Oct 2009, 14:13, Reply)
A good few years back, I was acquainted with a girl called Patricia. We were good friends, nothing more, but enjoyed each other's company and often used to go off on long weekends together and explore the countryside.

Now, poor old Tish was pretty innocent in the way of the world. The closest she had come to viewing pornography was accidently dropping a copy of the Sun at the newsagents. Due to the importance of that day's news (Take That were splitting up, I believe), the tits were shunted from page three and onto page seven, and the pages fluttered open on the floor to reveal Melinda Messenger in all her horse-toothed, fake-titted glory wearing a pair of glasses, perched on the end of an office desk taking dictation and sucking the end of a Bic. Probably wondering about sentence structure and punctuation, I would imagine.

So one weekend we headed off to some remote spot, where, we discovered, the local village was having a fair day. What the hell; might be a laugh, we decided, and headed off to sample the delights. It soon transpired that this was no ordinary village fair, though. There was a bit of a sporty theme to it, but with a twist.

The "tossing the caber" event was not what I expected, for example. Well, the last thing I expected was being faced with a bunch of hairy arsed, kilt wearing blokes kneeling in a circle and masturbating furiously over a biscuit shaped like Ben Nevis.

The ladies "downhill skiing event" didn't involve any snow whatsover, and certainly no hills or skis, but did result in lots of blokes blowing their horns in appreciation of the stirling work of the ladies. Which was deserved, frankly, they worked their arms off bless them.

We wandered around the site taking in other events. I was quite taken by the clam jousting; less so by the meat spinning. I think it was the music playing in the background; Pete Burns kind of puts me of my stroke - it's the lips. Patricia, though, was feeling a bit tired, and demanded to go home.

On the way back, she confessed that she didn't really "get" the whole set up. "What was that all about, DG?" she asked me, genuinely.

"What, that?" I replied. "Oh, that was just a sexual fete, Tish".

Can I go now?
(, Fri 23 Oct 2009, 20:10, 10 replies)
When I'm taking time off from picking up drug dealers cars and throwing them in the river.
Or at the Playboy Mansion over near my registered Asthmatics Unite Center, I enjoy shagging hot girls.

For absolutely no reason I'm going to tell a story. As everybody else is.
I've probably told it before. Anywhere up to 20 times on here.

I was speed dating at this local youth centre with a pocket full of dimes and a mouthful of rhymes when I looked out the window and observed this well built chap clip the Honda Accord with his big black van.
Naturally I decked three wrestlers and ran outside to confront the confused gentleman, who'd just taken in a hefty glass of what he claimed was "Milk".
That couldn't have been milk, as he was clearly half asleep and looking all set to topple over. So I did what any humanitarian would. I dressed up in Latex underwear and punched him in the larynx.
Some of you girls might like to know that I can also stay out on school nights now, and I have my own clotted cream factory if you know what I mean?

Later that evening I was spoon feeding some war heroes with the gold spoon award I got in Iraq for fighting off bears in Kuwait when this chap returned now full of beans and wanting a proper fight. That was his first mistake.

So I stopped giving this Army Commander a Blumpkin and got totally in to it.
I said "WHAT'S YOUR NAME LIKE?" and he was like "Mr. T Foo'!" and I was like "WHAT?" and he was like "YEAH!" and I ran over to him and kicked him in the face which was quite a feat considering I was wearing high heels and a scuba mask with the air pipe rammed up my arse.
This chap was quite the mover, and after ten minutes of drop kicks, grappling and double entry we decided it was an amicable draw. Which was his second mistake as the second he dropped his guard I totally roundhoused him to the ground and I was like "YEAH" and he was like Yeah..." and I was like "FUCK YEAH!" and he was like "Yeah.." on the ground bleeding from his eyes and his legs.

Then I fellated a German Shepherd.
(, Thu 22 Oct 2009, 16:36, 18 replies)
I like it when I visit the local Special Needs school and spread jam all over my crotch, then a gaggle of Down's Syndromes come and blow raspberries on my nutbags.

They each get a pat on the hunchback and a Ryan Giggs panini football sticker. Not a shiny one though mind, I don't like spastics that much...
(, Thu 22 Oct 2009, 14:54, 5 replies)
Ahhhh how all out shall I make this post? Let's go crazy...
Okay I've been heavily into the fetish game since I was 17, and I mean heavily.. I've done essentially everything you could think of at one time or another, and ended up on the net and DVD for varying fetishistic reasons.

Sooo.. up until a few months ago I was in a committed relationship with a pup (that is, a submissive who is also into Master/Dog roleplay, he had a very developed pup mindset) for 18 months, he was the most successful of a string of M/S relationships I had while a rather accomplished dominant. For a young 'un, I'm bloody good at it.

Since then i've come to realise my true calling is actually in submission (massive epiphany ahoy!), and I'm proud to say I'm actually an owned slave myself. I wear the tag of my Master 24/7 and I couldn't be happier. Brillo.

At the same time however I do pro-domming as well, because currently I've moved to pretty much the most expensive place in the universe, and I've only just got a job. Huzzah! So I spend evenings curled up at my Master's feet, only to go and dom the fuck out of some old guy for cash. Also, brillo.

So let's whizz through some of my fetishes...

SENSORY DEPRIVATION/BREATH CONTROL= Massively into powerplay and exchange, in both roles. The less I can do, or the less a sub can do under my control the better. Hoods, gags and blindfolds ftw. Breath control is the logical extension of the powerplay, requiring fuckloads of trust and confidence you know what you're doing. I know very much what I'm doing, and have taken BC to its extremes, and downright love havig it done to me. Nothing like being on the verge of unconsciousness under the control of someone else and being completely helpless to do anything about it.

BONDAGE= Yay bondage, in all its forms.. being tied up and tying up is always gonna be frikkin awesome. I'm quite good at escaping stuff, so give me chains and padlocks anyday, far more secure! Ropework I can usually wangle my way out... haha. Started out my kinky life modelling on a well known gay amateur bondage site, and went from there really.

RUBBER= Well anything skintight really, rubber, neoprene (got a tonne of wetsuits, bout to sell a load on ebay if anyone is into it!?) and lycra... love the feel, love the smells, love the look. Spent far too much on gear in the past years, and it takes up far too much space. Leather also a winner.

S&M= My Master has turned me into a right masochistic little bitch it has to be said, love my pain... drops me into subspace far too easily. Sadistic as fuck too, I love doling it out in equal measures.

TT= Tit torture, nipple play... massively sensitive round there, and a brilliant play, as you can really ramp up how hard you're playing.. can be light and sensual right up to stupidly hard and agonising. Either way gets me grinning like a loon.

other things would be watersports, hypnotism, anal play, pup play, footy kit, cages, tickle torture (as top) and heh pretty much everything else.. ever. Yeah I've even tried scat, its... alright. Nothing to write home about. It's SLIGHTLY less minging than you'd expect, but only slightly.

Oh yeah, and I really wanna try vac-racking, its pretty much the only thing I've not done yet. Two rubber sheets in a frame, get in the middle, vacuum sucks the air out, leaving you trapped in between in complete rubber bondage. Oh go on then.

I'm a filthy git. It's all good.
(, Wed 28 Oct 2009, 0:15, 59 replies)
What a great opportunity to air my preferences on a forum like this.
I think I'm pretty normal although I do enjoy a spot of 'squelching'. (not to be confused with 'snurging') What really turns me on is to sneakily shit in women's handbags.

The first time was when I was about 16. My aunt was staying with us and one morning I got up early and spotted her handbag in the kitchen. I was actually on my way to the bog for a morning dump so I was 'loaded'. Nobody was around so I emptied my arse inside the bag. From that moment, I was hooked. Now I crap in handbags whenever the opportunity arises. I find the A&E department at the hospital a real turn on. It is quite easy to sneak into an accident victim's cubicle and curl on out in their handbag which is usually quite visible.

My most ambitious squelch was at home last week when the woman from Social Services was visiting me on another matter, one which I would not want to enter into on here as it could offend the child, her mother and their neighbour's dog, not to mention the shop that supplied the hose. The woman was taking a statement and asked if she could use the bathroom. I knew she didn't need a bath but she just needed to split the whiskers and as she left the room, I opened my blurter, coiled out a brownie into her briefcase and opened the window to expel the aroma. She re-entered the room and her nose twitched as there was still a slight smell of shyte in the air. I iws thinking on my feet and quickly told her that I had just farted and if she took deep breaths it would go quicker. By now the smell eminating from her briefcase was getting stronger. So strong you could sew a button on it so I bid her good day and showed her the door. To date I have recorded, in pictures, over 276 squelches which you can see on my website http://www.ilikeshittinginwomenshandbags.co.uk/gallery/ There is a lovely picture of my arse on there too.

So how many of you share my fetish then? Oh, and snurging is sniffing bicycle saddles. I'm not a fucking pervert!
(, Thu 22 Oct 2009, 15:30, 16 replies)
I've been in a submissive relationship for a while now.
It all started when he suddenly moved in (long story), as soon as we first met and I looked into his eyes I've been unable to stop myself doing whatever he desires. I cook, clean and shop for him and keep him entertained on demand. The only trouble is he's a bit of a dirty bugger, into pissing and shitting everywhere and having me clean it up.

Many times I've had him lying on the bed when I see that mischevious glint in his eye and experience a mounting sense of dread. You see, I know this means I'll soon see the nose of his brown trout sniffing the air before making its majestic leap onto the bedcovers and I'm the one who has to clean it up.

If that wasn't enough, sometimes he'll decide to unleash his golden fountain all over me while laughing like he's just seen Kerry Katona being bummed to death using a selection of Iceland finest frozen produce, again leaving me to deal with the mess.

The relationship has only been going on 6 months but already its changed my life. Sometimes its exhilarating, sometimes it drives me to the pits of despair. There is one thing that gets me through the dark times though, the thought that the little bugger will have to do the same for me when I'm eighty.
(, Wed 28 Oct 2009, 9:49, 5 replies)

This question is now closed.

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