Nina
Working as a data entry gnome in a stuffy and labyrinthine office just off Chancery Lane one summer (for non-Londoners, Chancery Lane is the abode of lawyers and oiks in suits, which occasionally are overlapping subsets), we had been given a mammoth of an engineering tender to prepare for publication. It qualified for mammoth status by being both enormous and extremely woolly, and for me involved reproducing shedloads of tables stuffed with thousands of numbers. Not forgetting the decimal points. I took pleasure in smiting the decimal points in percussively, knowing there were two decimal point keys on the keyboard in case one broke. After six long weeks of this, the tender was complete and it was left to the crew manning the electronic presses to go out on the piss to commemorate the fact.

Someone mentioned on the way down the stairs that they knew a pub nearby with that prized rarity in London summer weather: a beer garden. Given the choice between sitting inside in an atmosphere virtually every bit as stifling as the office in which we'd spent the past eight hours or actually feeling the sun's rays on our face while there were any left, we virtually raced each other to the garden. It was a nice enough pub, formulaic as you'd expect from any place anywhere near the City, but we could actually sit outside and let the oxygen whip the froth on our beers into something approximating health food, so we were happy campers. Four pints later, we were extremely happy campers, and decided an impromptu sing-song was in order. Four pissed-up idiots and a pissed-up idiotess singing at the tops of their voices in the middle of a beer garden populated with QCs and investment bankers did attract a bit of attention. Mostly it was the "Good grief, look at the state of the youth of today" pitying kind of attention, but for one of the other residents at leat it wasn't. For a twentysomething girl with short brown spiky hair in a figure-hugging t-shirt and jeans, it was pitying but amused attention. This was Nina.

Nina wandered over and started singing along in a way that was clearly intended to poke fun, except we were too hammered to realise she was poking fun and immediately decided she loved the song we were singing and had come along to join us. She must have had an exceptionally boring week because she allowed herself to be pulled in by my enthusiastic arms and dumped on my lap, then continued to smile while I belted out the next verse particularly tunelessly. I seem to remember that after that point we forgot how the song finished, so discussions returned to getting more beer in.

To summarise the next three hours: Nina turned out to like beer; she told us all about the record company for which she worked; including by dropping lots of names of people we pretended to have heard of; two of the other guys had an incredibly stupid bet involving guitars and the Underground; and Nina and I looked each other in the eye and dared each other to finish our last orders at the same time. Down in one, and our respective last mouthfulls went down together. Then she kissed me.

We left, in search of kebabs.

By the time we got to my flat it was after midnight; the house was hot, and dark, and silent. I didn't know whether my flatmates had gone out clubbing (it was a Friday) or whether they were just asleep in bed, so I wrapped my arms around Nina and walked her Madness-style up the stairs and into my bedroom. Thinking I knew my own flat far too well in the dark, I walked her right up to the end of my bed and kept going, pushing her flat on her face into the duvet and falling right on top of her. The buzz of drunkenness had worn off by this point, absorbed by pitta bread and chips, but I was enjoying being squeezed up behind her so much that I ploughed ahead like a Labrador puppy. Then I realised that I had just taken a girl home only to fall on top of her and likely crush the stuffing out of her: I am a strapping six-footer and she was a strapless five footer. She started to tremble and I had one hand on her shoulder asking if she was OK when she let loose an enormous muffled laugh into the duvet. Seconds later she surrendered herself to the hugest burst of hysterics I have ever witnessed. I kept thinking my flatmates were in the adjoining bedrooms and were about to kick the door down so I made a series of theatrical "SSSHHHH"s until I realised that it was actually kind of cute. She kept shaking with silent laughter as I reached under her and unbuttoned her jeans before shucking them off. Her skin was warm and incredibly smooth, and I could see the outline of her bum in the petrochemical streaks of light from the streetlamp outside. Her shaking was starting to subside and she was making a string of secretly amused hums as I lifted her arms over her head and peeled off her t-shirt. She had decided to be a cooperative dead weight at this point: she wouldn't stop me from doing anything, but she wouldn't help me either. The elastic of the t-shirt pinging over her head set her off on another minor laughing fit but I was leaning over far enough to feel the heat from her crotch and wanted to see what she would do. So I leant over her and kissed the back of her neck while running my fingertips the length of her bum-cheeks and down to her wetness, gently tracing the curve of her pussy lips as she danced against me. That's it, spread your legs a bit. I slipped one finger all the way inside her and lay down on top of her when I felt a bulge in my pocket.

This called for gymnastics.

My abs would hate me, but that was not important. I could support myself on my right elbow while my left hand reached into my right pocket, to find...a miniature bottle of whisky. Ah yes, I remember. Well, this was an excellent moment. Staying propped up on my right elbow, I started an in-and-out massage with my finger and found her clit with another one, while clamping the bottle in my teeth to unscrew it. She jumped at the contact of the prickly liquid on her back, but that only helped: it ran down between her shoulder blades, along her backbone and down between her buttocks. She had started to writhe in mock indignation so I hunkered down and ran my tongue between her cheeks until I found her pucker, smoky and salty with the malt as it soaked into the muscle under my tongue. She bucked into my face and I pushed inside her; I remember how smooth she felt, trying instinctively to push me out yet smooshing herself against my face at the same time. I kept up the massage on her clit and sought out that last drop of whisky inside her until my own trousers had to come off and I crawled up to press against her.

As she felt my hardness push against her she slid her hips up and down under me until I was slick with her excitement, then kept pushing into the mattress. I held her hips and pushed slowly, all the way inside her one time, then out, up and down her slit to see if she'd push again. She pushed and let slip a sudden sort of sigh; when she came to rest the head of my cock was resting perfectly against her pucker. I could see the vague outline of her face in the dark bedroom; her eyes were closed, her mouth slightly open, her cheeks a sort of dusty copper in the halogen glare from the street. There was a very slight pulse from under her and I realised she was fingering herself as I was pressed against her. Slowly I teased her open; her soft, tight arsehole grabbed me and finally accepted to pull me in, drawing a groan halfway between confusion and ecstasy. Nina started breathing in a series of short, sharp gasps as I opened her up. When I was all the way in and her buttocks pressed against my hips I stayed still for a moment, watching her. She curled her lip so I bent forward and grabbed in between my teeth, compelling her into a kiss. Then I began to thrust.

She made a breathless grunting sound as she came, and she timed it perfectly. As we lay in the fresh steam of sweat from the post-coital sheets, she half-started to laugh again, and sang that stupid song we'd been singing so loudly in the pub.

I should clearly have been arrested, though. That miniature bottle of whisky? I nicked it from my boss's filing cabinet with not a care in the world.
( .Yeti., Fri 27 Jan 2012, 0:23, 9 replies)

I once fucked a dutch lass up her dirt box and that same year claimed car travel on my expenses
but I always cycled to work!
so I can empathise
( cumquat may will not be commenting further on the allegations, Fri 27 Jan 2012, 2:52, closed)

Epic
What sort of whisky was it? Sounds like an Islay... Do they even do those in miniature?
(Chickenwire social lubricator extraordinaire, Fri 27 Jan 2012, 6:01, closed)

Lagavulin, and yes they do.
Never seen them in the shops but my boss obviously knew where to get them. If it had been a less inspiring malt I might not have nicked it.
( .Yeti., Fri 27 Jan 2012, 6:32, closed)

oh. I thought you were going to say she was 14.
(wino.NZ The Ayatollah of rock n' rolla..., Fri 27 Jan 2012, 7:34, closed)

*Applauds*...

*puts hands in pockets and rummages around, pretending to look for spare change*

You, sir...are a quite phenomenal writer. It's as if one click isn't enough.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 27 Jan 2012, 8:38, closed)

That gave me an erection.
Which means that you gave me an erection.
Homo.
( Michael Ellis contributes nothing, Fri 27 Jan 2012, 12:33, closed)

Classic QOTW!
Ace and a well deserved *click*
( splorp ®, Fri 27 Jan 2012, 13:33, closed)

What pub?
The Hoop and grapes had a nice beer garden.
( Ungersven would support SpankyHanky's patreon, Sat 28 Jan 2012, 15:15, closed)

Horrah!
Now that's the kind of writing that gets a chap up in the morning.

More of this sort of thing!
( DukeEuphoria Comes highly reccomended, Tue 31 Jan 2012, 10:42, closed)