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This is a question Public Sex

Train carriages, car parks, behind the altar at midnight mass. Where have you done the dirty?

Thanks to SpankyHanky, Chart Cat and others for the suggestion

(, Thu 23 Apr 2009, 12:58)
Pages: Latest, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, ... 1

This question is now closed.

Sin at the cinema
Regular readers of my posts may remember my university XXX-ex, who was always up for a gunky fumble. It took me a few months to bring her round to this way of thinking, as when we first met she was a shy, naive 18-year old first year whereas I was 21, wise in the ways of mucky love and in my final year. I like to think I gave her the education she never expected to receive at Uni and in that respect she graduated with (dis)honours by the time I received my own degree at the end of that year.

I should point out now that this story fills me with shame. Fuck it though, I’ve told worse on this site (I think) so I’ll continue.

On this occasion, it was a typical Saturday in our unremarkable university town sometime in late autumn. She and I were bored and doing nothing in particular in the town centre so I suggested we go to see a movie. It had been a while since either of us had been to the cinema and we had nothing better to do so we trundled off to the local fleapit with a pocketful of coins between us.

After purchasing our tickets, a couple of brightly-coloured fizzy beverages and a box of stale popcorn, we climbed the stairs of the historic (i.e. knackered) building to the screens and ventured inside the dimly-lit auditorium. It was an older independent cinema which had a certain weathered charm despite being at least twenty years behind in technology. The showing was on one of the smaller screens which was three-quarters full already, so we picked a spot on the back row in the centre, the best view still available.

The venue had a fairly steep pitch to the seating rows more akin to a West End theatre. As we scaled the climb to the top, I declared that it was much better to sit at the back where we could chat and rustle our snacks without upsetting the other cinemagoers. You may have guessed that snacks were not the only thing I planned on rustling, but uncharacteristically I didn’t mention it at the time.

The trailer reel flickered and the popcorn was placed on the seat next to us (no fancy snappy seats in this place). We slunk down into the deceptively comfortable dents of the well-worn chairs and held hands, happily munching away on the tasteless, squidgy kernels. The rest of the seats in the theatre filled up while we kissed and cuddled, then the movie began.

We sat and watched the first hour or so, occasionally planting a peck on a cheek during the quiet moments. I was less than impressed with the onscreen antics, my girlfriend rather more so. She was a big fan of the best-selling book on which the film was based, but I hadn’t read it so she spent much of the time telling me all about the characters and how they’d done a great job of translating it to the screen. I didn’t really care. By the end of the first half, I was more pre-occupied with caressing her legs than with what was happening in the story. I slowly worked my way up her thighs, drawing little circles with my fingers until my hands had crept oh-so-softly under her skirt.

By the time she realised what I was doing, I’d already managed to get one finger inside the silky material of her panties. She leaned over and whispered “I bet you can’t make me come with just that one finger…” Always willing to accept a challenge, I gently, steadily began fiddling with her pussy, sliding the nominated digit alternately around her rapidly moistening underlips and her perfect, pointy nubbin. She’d shaved herself that morning (at my request, naturally) so it was like gliding a bar of wet soap across a polished glass table. I probably enjoyed it as much as she did, as I began feeling the resistance that only a pair of snug-fitting jeans versus a swelling cock can bring. I adjusted my trouser configuration accordingly in order to concentrate on the task at hand (so to speak).

Like all girls, she was a complicated piece of sexual machinery, but by now I knew exactly which buttons to press having had plenty of practice. I won the challenge without too much difficulty before the movie plot had had time to advance, whereupon I removed my hand and caught a glimpse of her flushing cheeks as an explosion on screen lit up her satisfied, grinning face.

Wordlessly, she moved her hand across my chest, down my stomach and very quietly undid my belt and buttons on my jeans. I’d used the time-honoured teenage boy’s trick of ‘hiding’ my engorged fuck cudgel by tucking it up into the waistband of my underwear, so it was already poking out of the top and winking at her, a salty tear of happiness forming in its dribbling eye. She wiped that expression of joy all around the now fully-exposed head, tickling and teasing me for several scenes as I tried to maintain self-control and obstruct the view for any potential observers. The people on our row were mercifully engrossed in the film, but had they turned round at any time we would have been well and truly busted.

It felt like it went on forever; she maintained a consistent, delightfully frustrating tempo which kept me on the edge of a wave of incredible sensations. As the final act of the movie began to draw to a close, I could feel the internal strain mounting as she finally starting pumping the full length of my rigid shaft in anger, applying her own freshly-made lubricant direct from the hairless factory between her legs.

Time for a quick segway here: like many students, I’d discovered internet porn at Uni, becoming a little too obsessed with generating huge loads like a porn star. After reading up on it, I tried an exercise programme for my pubic muscles and took various supplements amongst other things to improve the dirtcustard drench factor. Those studies bore fruit (well, seed anyway) and I was pleased with the visible improvement each time I emptied my nuts. At that moment, I was lost in ecstasy, my kegel muscles twitching involuntarily in sync with her motion. My newfound sexual discipline and ability also had the wonderful side-effect of making the gradual build-up astonishingly intense; indeed it ranks as one of the greatest handjobs I have ever received, the ingredients of risk, downright filth and expert handling all mixed in perfect quantities and baked at exactly 37 degrees.

With seconds to spare before I was going to release my sticky payload, it occurred to me that it was going to have to end up somewhere. I said “use your mouth, quick!” but she’d grown wary after I’d recently choked her with a surprise mouthful, so she just smiled at me and shook her head, by which time it was too late.

Bursting with the force of a firehose, my slippery seeds of sin arced up and outwards in a gruesome parabola towards the murky void of patrons seated below. It was a mind-blowing, body-paralysing orgasm and in the second or so that it took me to regain control of my motor functions, I’d sprayed two or three generous jets of jizz far and wide into the depths of the audience beneath. I grabbed my jerking cock from her hand and aimed it straight down, nearly snapping the bastard off in the process as the rest of my shameful outburst splattered the seatback in front of me. I clumsily stuffed it back in my pants, my withering meat puppet still coughing out the final dregs of sex relish all over my hands and underwear.

My girlfriend could hardly contain her amusement at what had happened, but I was shitting myself with panic. However, after a couple of minutes of absolutely no reaction whatsoever, it appeared that I had got away with it. As the credits rolled, the lights came on and it was suddenly obvious why I had escaped their wrath. The people who had filled the rows in front of us at the start of the movie must have taken the brunt of my disgusting cum-shrapnel. However, some of these people were worryingly short, small and childlike. On account that they actually *were* children.

Oh dear god, what had I done…?

We had been watching the first Harry Potter film, during the daytime, on the weekend, and so the audience directly below us had consisted –somewhat unsurprisingly-- of swathes of school-age children with a few parents in tow. I couldn’t bear to look as without a doubt, the majority of my gluey deposits had ended up tangled in their innocent, golden curls. It probably ranks as the worst accidental public paedo-bukkake incident in British cinema history.

Great handjob though, truly up there with the best of ‘em.
(, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 11:19, 33 replies)

Now, I quite like putting things up my arse in the name of getting off.

But there’s a limit. There really fucking is...

A few years back I was out in the salubrious confines of Coombe Abbey, Coventry, with my then girlfriend, Scouse Emma. It was a hot day, a very hot day. We had the customary 99 with added strawberry sauce (its great being an adult – you get to bat kids out the way in the queue and make out you’re the hardest fucker in the entire fucking world). Emma fed the ducks. I did a spot of duck bating (take a whole slice of bread and lob it at the feet of the smallest preplexed-looking semi-aquatic fucker, then watch with glee as the others waddle over like fat Travis Bickles’ and kick the shit out of it). After a few parents of the smaller kids shouted at me for being a cunt and having made a little girl cry when she witnessed firtshand some hardcore, 18 cert, duck-related gang violence, Emma and I decided to go for a leisurly stroll further into the lovely woods that line the duckpond. The smell of bark and leaves and the sweet kiss of the sun made us feel relaxed and at peace...

...and incredibly fucking horny.

Emma was wearing a whispy summer dress, quite short, and as she walked infront I became mezmerized by the hypnotic sway of her lovely come-hither buttocks as they danced under the slight fabric. I focused in on her arse crack, which had developed a little sweat what with the heat and the walking and then suddenly something occured to me:

“Emma,” I say, still staring at her glorious arse. “Are you wearing any knickers?”

She stops, turns round: “Too hot for knickers,” she says with an evil grin. “And look at this.” Emma glances round, making sure nobody else is about and hitches down the straps of her dress. The flimsy fabric falls away and her magnificent puppies bound out, bouncing and swaying and almost yelping for some sweet Spanky attention. She jiggles a bit and giggles at me.

I struggle to get my phone out so I can take a photo of this happy scene, to record it for posterity - something to show the grandchildren; but Emma quickly pulls her dress back up and flashes me a sly i-wanna-fuck smile. And I realise with rising excitement that she is completely, utterly, absolutley naked under those clothes...

“Do you fancy finding somewhere... a bit more... secluded?” Emma asks.

I stride up to her, grab her hand, and march her further into the wood like a man on a fucking mission.

Eventually we find a spot off the beaten track. Emma lays down in the soft, warm moss and lifts up her dress and starts tickling her growler. She spreads her legs and even as I’m wrestling to remove my jeans and pants I can hear the unmistakable, sexy sloppy sound of her fingers playing over her sopping wet lady bits.

I dive on top and we start doing some incredibly romantic, touching, memorable, poignant fucking.

“Oooh, you like that don’t you, you dirty bastard,” Emma breathes as she scrapes her fingernails over my arse. “Fuck, yeah! “ Then she looks deep into my eyes and says: “Do me doggy style, Spanky.”

I slide out of her, she gets on all fours and sticks her peach of an arse in the air, I thank the Lord for the bounty I am about to receive and then I guide my spam dagger up her gooey twat.

It’s great doing it this way – it means I can scan the woods for any approaching people, like a sexy merekat, as I’m grabbing Emma’s hips and very lovingly pummelling away. Soon I get a bit tired, my knees are on some twigs or fuck knows what, so I lay ontop of her, still pumping away, and splay my arms either side of her shoulders, my hands palm down on the earth for support.

And we remain like this for a couple of minutes, happily fucking away, blowing flies off my face, licking sweat off Emma’s back like a guddun, feeling my cock fill with baby batter with each and every stroke.

I could feel I was about to cum and it was fucking marvellous.

Now, the next part happened in The Matrix style super-slow-motion. It probably only lasted about five seconds, but in my mindseye it seemed to last a couple of fucking years.
As I’m busy enjoying the fresh air, the sun spotting through the trees and casting weird shadows in the foliage, with this incredibly hot and horny Scouse girl under me, sex-swearing like a docker, acting like some kind of fuck-table for my amusement, I suddenly feel an incredible dead weight slam onto my back from behind. With so much force that my cock rammed further inside Emma’s valley of a thousand pleasures and I thought I might be stuck up there forever – we’d end up on the circus freakshow circuit as a pair of weird sexy conjoined twins.

Then I heard the slobbering and I felt something hard and wet slam against my arse cheeks, rimming my chocolate starfish, hammering away like a Black & Decker. I felt something hot and rough go a little way inside me and I leapt backwards and away from my girlfriend with a wet plop.

And in doing so - what with the sudden excitement or shock, or the fact that something warm and hard had just knocked on the door of my backdoor love tunnel - not sure which – but I ejaculated a great slow-motion arch of glistening gonad goo all over Emma’s arse and back and layed a nice load of cock conditioner over her lovely new hairdo. – Under any other circumstances I would’ve thought: Hmmm, impressive cumshot there, matey – well done, have a gold star.

But instead I screamed like a girl.

And Emma screamed, well, like a girl too.

And I looked round sharply and saw Winston fucking Churchill hanging onto my shoulders, slobbering and panting with the kind of rancid breath that could kill a German at a hundred paces...

Only it wasn’t Winston Churchill.

It was a fucking HUGE bulldog that resembled the esteemed former wartime PM, its great big paws wrapped round my neck, its wet lolling tongue dripping drool between my shoulder blades. My God, it was an ugly fucker...

The force of the semi succssessful canine rape had left me reeling and senseless. I shrugged the fucker off my back and he – oh it was very definately a HE – padded happily over to Emma as she lay with her arse in the air trying to right herself. The bulldog then proceeded to greedily lick my hot sticky load from where it was pooling in a sticky cum lake between Emma’s delectible arse valley.

“Arggg! Gettitoff!!!” She screamed.

And I hate to admit it, but I was ever-so-slightly turned on by the sight.

I could see the fucker was thinking about having a go on my girlfriend, it was sort of positioning itself for a rear mounting. Instictively I legged over and booted it up the arse.

It yelped and went running off into the wood back the way it had come.

And there was no other fucker there... the owner had obviously allowed this mut to roam free, to rape, pillage and shit on the paths, no doubt.

Emma and I struggled quickly into our clothes and walked in silence back towards the car. I looked at every dog on the way back and shuddered inside. We got a few weird looks too in return. We were a little dishevelled, and one time when I saw a bloke paying far too much attention to Emma as we walked past, I turned to her, noticed something, and said helpfully:

“You’ve got cum in your hair.”

“Shuttup!” she spat back through clenched teeth.

Eventually, when we got back to the Cleo, the metal and glass protecting us from random acts of wanton unwarrented beastiality, Emma said: “Let’s never mention this again, ok?”

I nod, “Sounds good to me,” and as we drive off I try and lighten the mood a little. “Now, if it was a good looking dog like Lassie it might’ve been a very different situation...”

Emma was not amused. She simply gave me a curt and clipped: “Cunt,” under her breath and kept her eyes firmly on the road. There was something bothering her, something on her mind. When we were closer to my parents house she turns to me and says: “Why did you cum when that dog mounted you?”

And, in all honesty, I didn’t have an answer...
(, Thu 23 Apr 2009, 13:07, 30 replies)
You gotta know when to hold 'em...know when to fold 'em...know when to walk away...know when to RUN...

“Pooflake, for fuck’s sake put your cock away! We’ve gotta go…NOW!

Those precious few words saved my life.

There I was, just about to hurtle bell-end first into the weightiest orgasmic climax of my pitiful few years on this planet...

…An orgasm that was the perfect spaff-tastic finale to what was undoubtedly one of my greatest mystical dalliances into the art of 'bumping-uglies'...ever.

When I heard that fateful phrase being shouted ferociously at me, it was immediately followed by my being forcibly removed from ‘hanging out the back’ of a fine foxy filly on all fours.

And I’ve never been so grateful.

Disclaimer: For obvious reasons as you will soon realise, some of this story is told from the perspective of the mate who barked those life-changing words at me; as it was relayed to me after the event.

~~~~~~~~~~~Wavy lines~~~~~~~~~~~~

I was 21, verile, and drunkenly hip-twirling through life. Many of my weekends were spent going out on the piss in Leicester with a mate from work called ‘Maxi’. I would always crash round his shagpad on these booze-fuelled extravaganzas.

We were an odd pair...he was a nightclubbing, aftershock drinking, ‘dance choon’ fan, I was a pub, pint of cider and packet of pork scratchings type of guy. But we got on well, and our usual nights out would include a combination of things to accommodate both our tastes. (hopefully with some ‘flange action’ thrown in if one or both of us got lucky).

However, whether our nights prowling for slappers delightful young ladies of low moral fibre would end successfully or not, the evening would always end up the same way. In a casino.

Y'see, Maxi was a gambler. A shite one, but a gambler all the same.

So early evening on this one particular occasion, it was business as usual. We were out getting merrily cunted in some standard townie bar...when I saw her across the crowded room…

Her name was Emma. (What is it about girls called 'Emma'?)

We’d met in various pubs a few times before, caught each other’s eye, danced, talked and even enjoyed a little kiss and cuddle. I thought she was quite lovely and always hoped to see more of her...all of her in fact...because she had ownership of a body that you’d like to eat your dinner off without using cutlery, (and when I say ‘dinner’ I mean 'lashings of whipped cream and a drizzle of chocolate sauce').

We’re talking a 'Special K advert’ body here. I found myself making involuntary ‘Grrr’ noises just looking at her.

Our eyes met and I walked over to ‘test the water’…but this time she was different. Although pleased to see me, she seemed distracted, like she was ‘angry’ about something…

Now, I didn’t know what it was that had annoyed her so, and I didn’t want to know….because when a ‘so-hot-she-was-setting-off-the-smoke-alarms’ woman wants to vent some frustration in the ways that she was suggesting, a man would have to either be a raving spackercake or a ‘Vagina decliner’ to refuse such an offer.

I mean, if you’ve ever made ‘angry love’, you’ll know what I’m talking about.

So we chatted, sat and kissed politely. It was going well. Maxi went off to try (and fail) to pull as the night went on, then eventually, and with a crushing inevitability, he returned to us and said: "I wanna go to the Casino...”

I was about to tell him to ‘cock off’ but surprisingly, Emma thought this was a great idea (I suspected the VERY late bar might have had something to do with it). She agreed to accompany us and even suggested the casino we could go to. RESULT!

Our only problem was that it was members only. How could we get in?

At that point, Emma unveiled her fiendishly brilliant scheme. She told us: "I'm a member, I used to go there quite a bit. The cards don't have a name or photo on...just a membership number. Here Maxi, you borrow my card, sign Pooflake in as a guest…

…then Pooflake, you come back outside...

…and you and I can ‘slip round the back’ and sneak in the ‘tradesman's entrance’…"

(Oh alright, so she didn't say the last bit exactly like that, but you get the idea)

She passed the card to Maxi and glanced at me provocatively before whispering: "…and they’ll be nobody about in the alley!..."

Just the anticipation of what diabolically saucy shenanigans were going through her beautiful lust-filled head started my spunk trumpet standing to attention. I dutifully wandered in to the place with Maxi, got signed in and bollocked straight back out and round the corner into the adjoining passageway

As soon as she saw me she kissed me passionately…pushing her tongue deep into my mouth and swirling it around with so much force that I thought the enamel would peel off my teeth. Within a few short seconds she had rammed her hand down my pants and started schlong-slapping my Loch Ness love monster like a mongoose taunting a startled spaff-spitting King Cobra.

I then heard the most wonderful words ever whispered breathily into my ear. She said: “I want you…deep inside me.” She then proceeded to lay down on the damp back steps, hitch up her little skirt and manoeuvre her tiny black panties to one side.

Such a blatantly rampant horn-fest was a relatively new experience for me…but I wasn’t about to miss out.

Seizing the moment, I did what any red-bloodied male would do in the same situation...I dived in and made a lunge for her clunge like a drunken lump of sponge.

Forgetting technique, finesse or even the time-wasting element of completely removing my trousers, I was soon laying on top of her and pounding at her clout like a maniac with a meat tenderiser. Her legs stretched up behind my ears to gain maximum penetration to her sweet, moist and vice-tight snatch. I was in a blissful euphoria as she made it perfectly clear that she didn’t want to make love, she just wanted sex…she wanted to be fucked. Hard.

Normally in these situations of extreme eroticism I would be a 'two push Charlie' but even at this moment of heightened pleasure, for some ungodly reason (maybe alcohol) I had the awesome power of stud-muffin stamina – and I rode her like I was a stallion on steroids, enjoying every sticky, sweaty moment of shuddering pleasure as it ricocheted and jolted through our collective spasming nerve endings.

With our bodies gushing, panting, heaving and grasping at each other ever closer…we were oblivious to the odd townsperson walking by the alleyway nearby. Everything was going full blast into the perfect crescendo…

Switching scenes now, Maxi was on the roulette table during this period of frisky frivolity. Losing as fucking usual, he was quietly approached mid-game and tentatively tapped on the shoulder by a burly security guard with a smirk on his face.

“Excuse me, sir, would you mind accompanying me to the security office?” He asked

Perplexed but with nothing to hide, Maxi obliged, and as he entered the pokey broom cupboard of a room, he had to squeeze himself past half a dozen or so assorted members of staff and security, who were all leering over the CCTV screens with knowing expressions.

”Do you know this man? He was spotted earlier with you…” The man-mountain quizzed Maxi as he pointed to the screen featuring my pasty pale buttocks going up and down like a bride’s nightie.

Recognising me, but unsure as to exactly how much trouble we were in, Maxi replied: “Erm…

However, before he could continue he was cut off by another security guard who said with a big grin:

“…Because he’s doing quite well!”

Maxi breathed a huge sigh of relief.

“Don’t worry mate”, said the casino manager: “You’d be surprised how often we get this round here…let him finish then go and tell him he was on Candid Camera!”

As Maxi reflected on who was actually guarding the casino at this point…they all continued to watch.

Soon feeling reassured by the relaxed nature and good humour of the other guards, Maxi joined in, having a good ogle at my virtuoso strumping performance.

“Go on mate – give ‘er the rough stuff!…” One guard cheered…entranced by the hypnotic rhythmn of my shafting skills.

“Oooh yeah, she loves it, the dirty bitch!” another yelped enthusiastically, whilst they applauded and patted each other on the back, all the time Emma was bucking and writhing under my frenzied thrustage. Maxi chuckled and quietly watched on.

“Ooh look, she’s turning over, ‘es gonna give it to ‘er from behind! Go on mate...up the arse!” They chanted, drooling at this X-rated display that they were actually getting paid to watch.

So there I was, completely oblivious but possessed by some sort of spicy splooge-god...I helped turn Emma onto all fours and resumed thrunging, until just as I was approaching the Jester’s shoes…Emma arched her back, tossed her long locks behind her head dramatically, and as she frothily came, the open mouthed, gasping-in-ecstacy expression on her pretty face stared right into the camera for all to see.

At this point, With Emma's lovely features clearly on view, the Casino Manager said with a laugh to one of his fellow voyeuristic (& Brontosaurus-sized) colleagues:

“Hey, you know what, Pete?…That girl looks a lot like….”



He was then cut off by the massive Security Guard as his beady eyes widened to the size of satellite dishes and the penny finally dropped...making the huge man bellow with a piercing roar:



Maxi:Ooh fucking hell”.

Suddenly you could hear a pin drop in the tiny control booth, and all eyes are slowly turned back to the gurning pneumatic pump-action Pooflake, proudly pummelling away, and still finding it difficult to believe his luck (or longevity).

The stunned, hanging silence is then shattered by a deafening “I’M GONNA FUCKING KILL HIM!” shouted by the gargantuan gorilla of a guard as he turns on his heels and reaches for the door handle.

The manager then extends his arm, stopping him in his tracks and says: “Hold on mate – you can’t do that…It’s not like he's ‘raping’ her or anything…”


Manager: “In fact...it looks to me like she’s quite enjoying it”


With that, two of the other guards reached out and each grabbed one of the potential murderer's arms (obviously wanting to avoid the administrative ball-ache of filling out statements and wotnot on my unpleasant demise). In the ensuing struggle, the manager screeches to Maxi,” If you want your mate to see another day…get him the fuck out of here…NOW!”

Maxi duly sprinted off like a whippet on whizz to find me…and relay to me the immortal line at the beginning of this post, after which I was promptly dragged off into the night to have the situation explained to me in a taxi, whilst Emma stayed behind.

Weeks later I returned to Leaicester, saw Emma again and finally got to speak to her…It turned out that although she was also 21 at the time, her over-protective dad still treated her like a child and had actually ‘grounded’ her. She had decided, in her own inimitable fashion, to go out anyway and teach him a stark lesson once and for all, that she was now well and truly a grown woman…with fully operational lady bits and everything...

She explained that although it was a spunk-of-the-moment idea, she knew perfectly well what she was doing...just as she knew that her dad would be able to see her gratefully grunting on the arse end of a Pooflake-powered-pork-portion.

She didn’t give a shit about what her dad would have done to me though…Apparently my meagre life was a worthwhile sacrifice for the cause of 'taking a stand'.

On learning this revelation I felt like a sex toy...used…dirty…violated.

And it felt absolutely fan-fucking-tastic.
(, Mon 27 Apr 2009, 11:36, 12 replies)
A short while before I split up with my previous girlfriend, Emma, a wonderful thing happened. Something that cheered me up no fucking end.

I got a new phone. Fucked if I know what make or type it was, what with be being a bit of a technophobe; if somebody strikes a match near me I usually throw myself on the ground and start praying at their feet. But it was a little phone. It had FIFA footie on it. It was fucking perfect.

Emma and I are on the tube, hurtling down the Victoria Line, bouncing round the carriage wishing to fuck we had crash helmets and knee pads.

Its late, a week night, so its pretty damn quiet, we've got the end section of the carriage to ourselves. We'd been out drinking in a Turkish bar just round the back of Goodge Street and were feeling a little uninhibited.

Emma stokes my ear and starts rimming the lobe with her tonge.

"Gettoff!" I say. As I've found something interesting to do - I'm playing FIFA soccer on my new spangly phone.

Emma persists, she leans into me, watches what I'm doing for a bit, looks at the screen:

"Does that thing have a vibrate on it?" she says, giving my thigh a little squeeze, breathing hot beery breath down my lughole.

OOOOHHHHH!!!! I gettit!!!!

I glanced quickly round the carriage. There were a few other people about, but everyone was pissed and lost in their own thoughts. Fuck it.

I struggle with the phone, put it on silent, then set the alarm to vibrate and it purrs to life in my sweaty palm.

I look at Emma and with absolute fucking excitement and joy realise she's absolutely fucking wasted; completley shit faced. Yes!


I put an arm round Emma whilst sliding the hand containing the quietly buzzing phone between her thighs. Her legs part slightly, she lifts up her skirt just enough to allow my hand under then places it back down. And I edge up closer to her sweet, hot, sweaty vag.

When I make contact with her clit she goes bright red. Her hand shakes a little as she strokes my face.

God, she's wetter than a penguin!

Fuck it, I think. She's probably gonna sobre up soon.

I gently pull aside her panties, play the phone over her love canyon like a weird kind of sex harmonica, and then I - very gently - push it up inside her.

And she swallows the whole damn thing, Rancor Pit style.


Emma's whole lower body starts shaking. She appears to be really enjoying it. Having lost my phone deep inside her cunt-tunnel, I wonder how the hell I'm gonna get it back. I slide my fingers up her, glancing round, trying desperately to grab the vibrating improvised ladywank device. No use - its too far in.

Then Emma grabs my arm tight, she kisses me deeply, and she comes with a little whimper, like a puppy being strangled.

Breathlessly she says: "Turn it off now, Spanky..."

I sort of laugh nervously: "Ermm, I don't think I can..."

"Whaddya mean? Spanky, please - I feel all tingly and I need to calm down a bit."

"Errr, I lost it..."

Then she said something fucking odd. She said:


"I think you know where... It was only small..."

"Oh, fucking marvellous!" said Emma as she appeared to be about to come again.

An angry orgasmic woman is a fucking weird sight. It just seems so fucking WRONG.

Emma stood, using the vertical bars for support - making sure no one was looking - she reached under her skirt and fished round in her fanny.

I have to say, it was fucking sexy.

"Its stuck!" she cried.

And it was.

And it was our stop next.

Eventually, after a bit of walking round Victoria station the phone fell out, plopping free from Emma's wet, dark, sticky cock warmer.

But only after a shedload of late night commuters and party goers thought I was accompanying a young lady who was suffering from the worst case of Parkinsons Disease they'd ever born witness to.
(, Wed 29 Apr 2009, 10:55, 13 replies)
The coke bottle
Back when I was much much younger and still in School, trying desperately to get my funk on with just about any female willing to try it (little did I know that it wouldn't happen for several years to come), I somehow befriended someone who would later become one of my better male friends in School.

His name was Ryan. Before you get excited, no I did not bum him, nor did he bum me and, sadly, this part of the story more revolves around him than me.

Anyhoo, being at an all-boys school certainly wasn't helping my heterosexual case at all, but little did I know that Ryan was, in fact, gay. I had no problem with this, he had always been a good friend to me in a strictly friends-only sense and in fact I was a little bit intrigued. I'd never met a gay person before, despite Ulster apparently being the gay capital of the world (if that statistic includes lesbians, it sure as hell explains a lot on my end, but I digress...).

The day Ryan came out to me was an interesting one. He didn't confess his love to me or anything, I just had a damn good intuitive sense about things. For instance, being young boys we would naturally imply that the other loved the cock. One day, as per normal, I said something like "Ahh Ryan you big Gay, you love the cock". Naturally, he responded "No I don't!", for fear of being assaulted by any of the Chavvy types that might be listening nearby. I then replied with "sure you do, I bet you had a lovely big cock right up your arse last night and everything", to which he replied "...n...no!".

What was that?
A pause?!?

"Wait a second!"
"y..you....you did! You really did!".
My voice quickly died down, yet there was clear exclamation.

I had always suspected Ryan was a bit gay, that was half the reason I teased him about it, but he always denied it. Until now.

"You're gay, aren't you? Just admit it!"
"...ok....yeah...but don't tell anyone"

Ryan was gay. Suddenly the world made a lot of sense, for the brief few seconds before he made his next comment:

"I lost my virginity last night"

At this point, I'm still in a little bit of shock at Ryan finally coming out, then he lands that bombshell. I'm all for equality, but I didn't really need to know that. I think my brain was still processing it.

"We did it in the hedge just outside 'spoons"

Ahh the local drinking establishment. Low-brow enough to serve those who are barely 16, let alone 18. Suddenly things start to make sense.

Ryan then proceeded to go into quite graphic detail about how he got bummed in this hedge for the first time. My fragile brain was beginning to crumble under the pressure.

Amidst Ryan's descriptions, he added "...I had so much fun, I dropped my bottle of coke!".

That was the end of his story and now I had some of the best graphic imagery of one of my best mates getting bummed for the first time. Fan. Tastic.

Skip forward about a week and suddenly, my ship had come in. One of the local, not-quite-so-posh girls got drunk enough to kiss me. With Tongue. Woo-hoo!
Next came actual gropage. I could have came right there and then and still been brimming with joy, but I didn't expect her to do that thing where they wink at you with her tongue sticking out. I knew what this COULD mean, but while I was busy processing it, she was already tugging at my arm.
She drags me off away from the other people who were out having a drink and a spliff that night, around the corner.
Soon enough, we reach a hedge that she pulls me into. She pushes me onto my back and that's when it REALLY starts to get heated. This was it. This was my big moment. Mr Wrigly and I were about to set sail, I was about to become a man. And she was pretty hot, as well. I didn't care that she was a bit skanky, I didn't care that she was quite drunk and I was completely sober, I wanted this, I wanted this so bad. I did care, however, that something was sticking into my back.

"Hold on a second, love" (Because in Belfast City, everyone is either "mate" or "love").

I reach under and pull something out. It was a half empty Coke-bottle.
I immediately realised where I was. I was in the bushes outside wetherspoon's. I was holding the bottle of Coke Ryan lost. I was in the exact same spot he lost his Anal virginity.

And that's when the images came. They were graphic enough without knowing the scenery, now I knew the layout, how hidden it was, what you could see. I was probably looking at the exact same telegraph poll he was when he was on his back (Yes, apparently gay people can do it like that as well, you just have to raise their legs a...nevermind). I could even see what looked like hand prints in the dirt. Hand prints. Pretty dug in, too. He must have been ridden pretty hard.

Hard. I remember that feeling. That feeling that disappeared the second I realised what the object poking into my back was. I wasn't the only person to be "Poked in the back" in those hedges.


Mr Wrigly had gone home for the night, cowering away in fear at the nasty thoughts going through my head. It didn't take long for "the one" to get bored and hop off to go look for a "real man" who could "get it up".
My chance. Gone.
All because of a Gay boy called Ryan. Who incidentally became a complete whore and figured since I was the only one who knew about him, that he could tell me everything. EVERYTHING.

I wouldn't lose my virginity for 2 more years later.


P.S. Sorry about the length, but Ryan thought the girth was fantastic.
(, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 22:48, 6 replies)
A story that starts in a club, but isn't soley about it
I have before mentioned my love of dingy Reading indie spots and this story is no different. I was 17 and we were at the After Dark. For those of you that don’t know, allow me to set the scene. The night is called Seasame Street, run by Tom & Johnny two of the oldest swingers in town, and as far as I know it is still going, 15 years later. The door policy was and probably still is relaxed and the crowd made up of the select scenesters from Reading and Henley College.

Getting there is an almost mystical experience. Your train pulls into the station, you pick up some cheap cider and walk across the town centre, exiting the other side you climb a hill and stare aware for the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it alleyway. Down there, under the torn and faded awning are the hallowed doors. The doors open at 9 and by 8.30 there is a massive queue, you see entry before 9.30 is free and money must be saved for warm Red Stripe and chasing the worm down the bottle of tequila. By 10 it is carnage and it continues in a glorious morass of sweaty, heaving, teenage bodies and a palpable fug of pheromones and fag smoke until 2am.

The problem is though, that for many the last train home is 1.40. And this poses the problem: Do you leave early, lurching through the town, sweat sodden and coming down hard, or do you stay to the end and wring every moment out of the night? Your nerves endings tingling with lust, the freedom of alcohol and music and the raw sexuality of the night. Well, durr. You stay. You stay and try to scam your way back with a girl whose worried Daddy had given her taxi money so she would get home safely. Normally this wasn’t a problem, I knew a couple of these girls and prostituting myself with a snog on the back seat was a happy price to pay to get home.

And this is where it went all so wrong and yet very right. You see this night was different, I was with my new girlfriend. I had in fact stolen her off a mate, along with his leather jacket. She was stunning, long blonde hair, an angry pout, slender curves and lovely, lovely legs. She was in the standard 90’s indie girl outfit of short little summer dress, thick black tights, floppy, semi laced DM’s and cloud of white musk. Everything about was needling the arousal centres of my brains (big and little), in fact to this day I cannot smell White Musk without achieving a near instant semi and a desire to spaff all over a pair of dirty Doc Martins, but I digress.

Strangely that night my usual taxi lady chums weren’t too keen on offering me and my girlfriend a lift back. In hindsight I should have though of that, but it was tool late I had spent all of our money on booze and fags. No taxi, no train, no bus, no money. Arses.

“It’s a gorgeous summer night, why don’t we take a lovely romantic moonlight walk back to mine. We can smoke a little weed and stop every now and again for a little snog. It’ll be great”
“Sounds lovely, lets go. Um, how far is it?”
“’bout seven miles”

Anyway, with a little charm and persuasion we began to make our way back. It was indeed a fine evening, we did indeed smoke a little weed, and the snogs just became more and more furious. It was getting hard to contain ourselves. We walked on, her hand in my jeans and mine in her dress, we had to stop soon. As luck would not have it we were walking down the A4, heading for Twyford (for those of you that know it), it was a long, open, exposed road with no-where to dart off. I was priapic to the point of pain at this point and she was complaining of damp knickers, we were so hot we were steaming into the early morning air. And then inspiration struck. The male mind hell bent on a shag is truly the mother of all invention.

“That roundabout! It’s ringed with bushes, no one can see in, besides the road is pretty much deserted”

This was true, apart from the occasional supermarket truck on its late night run there was nobody on the road.

“Go on then”

Those floppy DM’s flew across the tarmac, and by the time I caught up the tights were off and her beautiful ivory bum was thrust in the air, glowing like fine china under the moonlight. I have to say that entering her at that moment may possibly be the most sense screamingly intense moment of my life, we were both utterly wrapped in what we were doing, all our attention directed at the fire where we met, a perfect sexual union.

Which is why, my face contorted in ecstasy, I looked up from her wondrous behind, with its delicate winking hole and saw the trucks circling, cabs perfect height above the bushes.

I thought for a second, redoubled my efforts and give them the pull-chain horn action.

I came like a rocket to an airhorn chorus
(, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 12:13, 13 replies)
All fingers and bums…

Before I go and embarrass myself…(for a change), with my personal tales of Al fresco frolics, please allow me to regale the sorrowful tale of a time when I was merely a gobsmacked and innocent bystander…

Along with about 200 other people.

Let me set the scene.

I wasted spent many years working in a godforsaken shit-can of a car parts warehouse. It was a humongous place, very corporate but due to the Japanese 'culture' of the owning company, there was a constantly-preached-but-never-adhered-to policy of: ‘We’re all one big team’-iness.

However, in reality, the ‘let’s pull together’ attitude of the company was a munting mound of melted mong manure. Howard, the Head of Operations, the ‘gaffer’, the big (knob) cheese, was a tyrannical globule of cuntspit, and his reign of terror was governed by fear in such a way that he made Saddam Hussein look like Bungle from Rainbow on happy pills.

Features-wise…with his thick ginger hair, sneery face and inability to stop himself from talking complete buckets of wank, Howard reminded me of a Mancunian Gordon Strachan (Non-Brits…sorry, you’ll have to Google him).

He complimented his brutish, conceited attitude, bullying demeanour and downright total cuntishness with the unfounded belief that he was above the law, and most worryingly of all, he was convinced that he was a proper 'Cassa-fucking-nova' with the ladies. Believe me…this wasn’t the case

(In fact, in my experience, every woman I spoke to who ever knew him was united in the belief that they would not be prepared to flop out a flap and wring out a kidney over him if he was on fire).

But of course, there was always one exception.

Her name was Andrea. A trampy, middle aged divorcee from the slapper end of the warehouse, she was someone to whom life had not been generous, except when dishing out wrinkles to the face department. Her grizzled, scabby mug perfectly set off her lank greasy hair, wirey frame, slightly hunched back and to top it off, her ‘Zorro’ moustache.

However, In her deluded, mentalist mind, she thought was a ‘sprightly minx’, and she saw Howard’s pervy, lecherous ‘Sid James-esque' advances as a compliment…and a way to progress through the company. Gossip was already rife about previous women who had sucked and fucked their way to cushy jobs through Howard. She wanted a part of that action, and so their light flirting began…which over time got increasingly heavier…

Until finally, Cupid’s romantic arrow was launched skyward like a horny hormone hunting H-bomb, and it fell with a ‘wallop’ on the venue of the company’s Christmas do.

Picture a posh hotel, packed to the chuff with tarted-up warehouse employees guzzling the copious lashings of free beer on offer; and grasping the opportunity to drunkenly jab their fingers menacingly whilst telling their respective bosses what a cunt they thought he/she was. All good fun.

Howard had turned up without his wife (hmm) but instead, with his seventeen year old daughter (!). She was to be another astonished witness to the events that unfolded later.

The evening rolled on steadily without incident*…right up until it was time for that most potent of office-romance makers…

The slow dance.

The present Mrs PF and I were discreetly keeping ourselves to ourselves in the corner of the dancefloor when Andrea pushes past us, reeking of cheap perfume and having quaffed enough Gin to be declared legally fucktarded.

She tottered along unsteadily on ridiculously oversized high heels, making a beeline for Howard (who had been previously busying himself by rubbing his crotch forcefully up against the rumps of unsuspecting office girls to the tune of ‘Dancing Queen’.)

As she finally reached him, their blurry eyes met and she threw her arms around his shoulders…just as the strains of ‘Careless Whisper’ began to dribble out of the sound system.

Slowly, and like an unstoppable force of grim gratuitous gravity…their craggy old faces seemed to move closer and closer together…

Ahhhh. Almost sweet really. Wrong….oh, so very, very wrong, but almost sweet.

The other dancing couples and I were of course immediately alerted to this potential gem of office gossip and we all slowly backed away, naturally forming a circle within the dance floor where the new ‘couple’ continued to bump, grind and gyrate in a stomach churning geriatric rendition of a P. Diddy video.

Next thing we know, Howard and Andrea are inevitably sucking at each other’s faces like a cut-scene from ‘Silence of the Lambs’. There was tongues, slobber, hands, knees, and whoops-a-daisy all over the shop…groping and clawing in a fashion I haven’t seen since ‘When Animals Attack IV’, and they didn’t seem to give a hovering fuck about who was watching – indeed Howard seemed to have completely forgotten not only about his ‘corporate image’…but his marriage…and the fact that his poor distraught daughter was watching every filthy fondle.

But still…they haven’t gone ‘too far’…not yet…

As he kneeded Andrea's quivering oversized buttocks with his hands, Howard then proceeds to ‘take it up a notch’ by starting to hitch up Andrea’s dress, and despite the very public nature of this display, the foul scrubber reviews the scenario and instead of deciding that this might perhaps be the signal to ‘put the brakes on a bit’, she starts encouraging him! – and helps him lift her dress up around her waist as if she was about to start doing the rat-arsed ‘can can’.

Of course, to Howard, this was a full-on ‘green light’, and within a few seconds, her tights have been pulled down and Howard is reaching around and going at her clout with his fingers like he’s slapping a kebab-meat bass guitar in a frantic style reminiscent of ‘Lessons in Love’ by Level 42.

At this point, there are audible ‘gasps’ from the watching throngs of people. But Howard was into the swing of things now, and he had a few more tricks up his sleeve. He then decides to treat Andrea to the ‘popping of the old shocker’ and in full view of everybody, skilfully takes his thumb and inserts it almost up to the armpit with a hefty shove right up her rusty sheriff’s badge, and Andrea moans appreciatively (well, her ‘moans’ are mixed with the healthy hacking cough akin to a coalminer with a 60-a-day habit).

So this was our boss…everybody's boss...with one finger firmly lodged up some filthy old slag's fun factory, and a thumb jammed up her bonus balloon knot, he’s holding her like a bowling ball as her pants slide slowly to the floor…and whilst she groans and grumbles, she licks at his face like a starving Labrador going at a bowl of butcher's tripe.

As Howard continued sqeezing and tweaking her like a wheezy antique accordion, everybody had by now stopped dancing completely, and were simply standing around, wide-eyed and open mouthed with the collective morbid curiosity of watching a car crash or snuff movie that you can’t turn away from. There was a crowd gathering around the edge of the dance floor with people jostling for position as if we had all scored tickets to an underground bare-knuckle brawl.

Unfortunately…from my angle, all I could really see was tongues aplenty and the occasional flash of thumb as it was briefly pulled out and then wedged back into her puckered clackervalve like he was trying to plug a particularly gushing leak.

But then, as if Andrea herself had generously decided that everbody wasn't getting a good enough view, she slowly took one step away from Howard, turned her back to face him, then bent over completely, touching her toes so he could continue ram-raiding her red-raw ringpiece with the kind of gusto you’d expect from Michael Barrymore after a gallon of 'Lucozade Sport'. Andrea then began to grunt like a clapped-out caveman, backing slowly backwards and forwards onto him as he dabbled with her brown-trout dispenser indeterminably…only pausing occasionally to swap digits.

It was with either blind arrogance or rat-arsed obliviousness to his audience, but Howard just continued vigorously prodding away, with his knees slightly bent, the tip of his tongue poking out, and a strange concentrating gurn across his face…like you get when you’re steaming drunk and are trying to wedge the key into your front door at home.

Nobody knew where to look, or at what. I was only distracted when the DJ stopped the music, and with a touch of awesome irony decided to put ‘Who let the dogs out?’ on the decks instead, in a vain attempt to detract attention from the frolicking floor show of forty-something fornication.

But despite all their efforts, this decrepit, wrinkled, rampant, rodgering, romp-a-thon was NOT the most disgusting or shocking thing I saw that night.

Yes, it might have been dark, and I might have been about fifteen feet away, but when you don’t know where to look, you can only gaze at the floor…and that’s when I noticed her panties, discarded down by her ankles…

In the glimmer of the multicoloured disco lights I noticed plainly…clear as day...for all to see…

She had skidmarks! A great big monumental smudgy turd streak in her undercrackers!.

I didn’t know women got those things! - It was only then that I decided I’d seen enough. So, unfortunately for the purposes of this post, I had to be informed second hand about Howard flopping his cock out later and backscuttling her for about a minute and a half before splooging a sub-atomic Lewinsky over her party frock.

I missed that part of the 'action' because…being a gentleman, I had taken the missus back to our hotel room, put her to bed, and then tried to gouge out the image burned into my mind of the filthy stain left in Andrea’s scuddies by her pre-boink nudging rat’s nose….

So as you can no doubt imagine…it took a herculean effort to creep into the bathroom later…and crank myself into a full-throttle fwappage frenzy until my eyes glazed over. Totally worth it, though.

And going into work the following Monday was 'interesting' to say the least…

*Actually, another old couple had fucked like rabbits on one of the dining tables earlier, but I didn’t want to go into that...It just wouldn’t be appropriate.
(, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 10:23, 16 replies)
A few days after I got back from the Roskilde Festival, Denmark, I went to visit my parents. They met me at the train station and my mum instantly noticed something:

“What happened to your tooth, Spanky?”

Now I’d already come up with a cast iron response to this one, something that would put her mind at east. Smiling back at her, a great gap in my smile where a tooth used to sit snugly, I replied as matter-of-factly as possible:

“I got jumped by about four lads when I was over there and they beat me up.”

Yep – that really put her mind at ease... but it was better than telling her what really happened. I mean, she is a devout Catholic, and if she’d known how my wining smile had turned into something you’d expect to see on the roughest of rough council estates, she would’ve smited me on the fucking spot.

And, thinking back, I was just pleased that my mum hadn't noticed the faint but very distinct smell of shit and piss that I just didn't seem able to scrub off...

So, lets go back to earlier in the week – Roskilde Festival, Denmark. Glorious sunshine. Loads of incredibly fit Danes looking like Armarni models (the boys and the girls – I’m not gay but I have to say I’d have been honoured if one of those blue eyed, blonde haired, hard bodied young men would’ve offered to rape me up the shitpipe).

One of the big acts on is David Bowie – woo!

I’m sat round, hallucinating slightly on account of all the lovely Tuborg I’ve quaffed, when word goes round. Bowie isn’t playing!

He’s had a fucking heart attack, the selfish cunt! So, instead, at very short notice, they’ve replaced Major Tom with a similar act –
fucking Slipknot.

Fuck me!

Loads of people were pissed off but I was as happy as a pig in shit. Fucking love Slipknot, me. Eventually they come out and I start throwing myself about like a mental patient on anthetamines. My mates disowned me on the spot for being an uber-twat. Lovely. Meant I was doing the mosh thing properly.

And then, after a damnright scary rendition of Wait and Bleed, I realised I’d gotten the attention of a gorgeous young lady. So young, in fact, I thought it would be impolite to ask her age. We danced together for a bit, she told me her name was Inger and offered me a swig of her vodka. Fuck me, she’s pretty, I thought, so pretty she could be in Playboy, not the usual Razzle Readers Wives hags I usually exchange bodily fluids with.

And the gig goes on. And Inger and I dance a bit more, make small talk, and finish off the quite franky fucking HUGE bottle of vodka.

And then Inger says: “I like you – do you want to go somewhere private?” In her stilted Danish accented English.

I felt like asking her: Have you had a head injury? I mean, you could do a lot better than me, love.

But I didn’t, instead I linked her arm and we went wondering off into the night. I considered taking her back to my tent, but I knew my mates would be there, getting stoned and shouting at the natives. Inger advised me she was sharing a tent with her mum and dad (don’t ask her age, Spanky, just don’t fucking ask).

After a little more aimless wondering, trying to find a secluded spot at a music festival with 100,000 guests, we realised it just wasn’t gonna happen.

“How about in there?” I suggested, out of the vein hope of getting aquainted with Inger’s cervix - I really thought my chance had passed.

But, to my suprise, she nodded enthusastically.

And we slinked into the smelliest, dirtiest four-days-into-a-festival portaloo you could imagine. It was the last one at the end of a row of evenly spaced loos. We chose it because it was one of the few that still had a door on it, the others having had them ripped off – (on that trip I discovered the Danes just love pissing and shitting in full public view).

When we’re inside I supress the gag reflex as the smell is overpowering. My eyes start to water. But Inger takes my mind off it my unzipping my fly and juggling with my testicles. The portaloo is a bit wobbly, obviously sinking into the puddle of shit and piss beneath it, and the floors slippery with piss.

“Hmmm, you like that?” she asks.

I nod, reaching up and having a quick go on her boobies, steadying myself by grabbing the walls of the loo.

“I want you inside me,” she says, and struggles out of her pants. In the confined space she turns round and starts stroking her arse on my rising cock. Well, being an English gent, I could hardly refuse.

I slid inside her and started stroking her love tunnel from the inside with my purple-headed love truncheon. Inger braced herself against the wall with her hands and bucked onto me with repetative and violent force. Fuck me, this is gonna be a quickie, I thought. If only so I can get back outside and breath some non-shit-and-piss-flavoured air.

But it wasn’t a quickie.

We didn’t actually, techinically finish.

As Inger bucked in one direction, grinding onto me with her lovely wet fanny, I thrust in the other...

...and we didn’t notice that the loo was rocking and swaying more and more with each carnal, dirty, filthy grind and thrust.

“Oooh, that’s good,” moaned Inger, as she bucked more viiolently than before.

And the loo toppled over in a weird kind of slow motion, it hit the next loo along in the row and knocked that over too, and the next, and the next.


It was like a game of giant dominoes, only involving flying shit and piss, and moaning people who’d just been thrown off the crapper, and a couple at the far end who were – up until that point – enjoying a bit of harmless random stranger related nookie.

Inger landed ontop of me, I thought she’d snapped my cock off, it hurt so much. And her head slammed into my face, knocking out my tooth in a bloody mess. And then the sudden violent motion caused the floaty and disgusting contents of the loo to splash up and douse us. It was like being christened in a really hardcore Satanic church with a shit and piss fetish.

After a few moments panting, Inger clambered off me, pulled up her pants and jeans, and gingerly stepped out of the loo. In a daze I followed –

It was like a scene out of Apocalypse Now, only all the moaning, injured people laying prostrate on the ground were covered in shit and piss.

Inger and I took one look and legged it into the night... We parted with a curt “goodbye,” and I never saw her again.

And my mates made me sleep outside when I got back to the tent, on account of the stink which just wouldn’t wash off.

And that’s when I came up with the story to tell my mum – I really think it worked better than if I told her what really happened...
(, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 9:48, 13 replies)
It all started last autumn
I told you lot how I met Jason at work and how we got acquainted. He moved in with me and the kids just after Christmas and things are looking really good. In fact I hardly ever look on b3ta these days as there's so much else to distract me. This question did tickle me a bit though and here's why...

It was last November, the kids were at school and Jason and I decided to take a day off together to just spend at my place and chill. He stayed over quite a bit, but was still a bit uncomfortable with the kids about and couldn't fully relax, if you know what I mean. The only problem was that there was an important meeting in his department that morning that he would have to dial in to. It was from 9.00 to 10.00 so I told him to not worry about it. I'd make a nice, late breakfast for the two of us and bring it in for him while he was on the phone.

So, there I was, the kids had gone off and I went to have a nice shower. I was feeling nice and relaxed but a little bit mischievous, which is why I decided to have a little shave while I was in the shower. Then I thought I'd have a bit more of a shave. Oh sod it, let's shave the lot off! I giggled as I put on my soft white towelling dressing-gown and went down to the kitchen to make some coffee. It was just nine o'clock and in the living-room at the back of the house, I could hear Jason on the phone, then the idea came to me. While the coffee was brewing I nipped back upstairs and put on what you might call a naughty maid outfit. I put on stockings, some sexy lingerie, a black woollen mini-skirt, a thin white blouse with the top three buttons undone and some fairly high heels. Then I put the coffee on a tray and carried it in to Jason who had some papers spread out on the coffee table in front of the sofa he was sitting on.

He did a bit of a double-take as I shimmied in and nearly lost the thread of his conversation as I did a Benny Hill - bending over with legs slightly apart to put the coffee tray down in front of him, virtually sticking my arse in his face. He could certainly see that I had stockings on and ran his hand up my inner thigh. Then I turned and gave him a view of my cleavage as I poured the coffee for him and I could see the bulge in his trousers growing by the second. I decided it was time to really put him off his stride so I stood up and slowly unbuttoned my blouse and let it fall to the ground, then I put one foot up on the sofa next to him, pulled my skirt up to my hips and started rubbing myself gently. He was clearly distracted as he had to look away and join in with the discussion again but I was not to be put off. This time I turned away from him and slowly lowered my panties, bending lower and lower. When they were off, I turned slowly so that he could see the full effect of my morning shave.

Now he seemed to be having difficulty breathing, let alone taking part in a conversation. I sat down on the sofa, leaned agaisnt the side cushions, one foot on the floor, the other on his shoulder as I slowly brought myself off. By this point he'd loosened his trousers and pulled them off though he was studiously not touching his raging hard-on as he tried to carry on the conversation on the phone. I was amazed at his self-control, and couldn't match it, I shifted round and lay my head in his lap so that I could lick his nut-sack slowly, I really wanted to suck him off then and there but wanted to prolong the agony as long as possible. With a slow lick right up the shaft I got up, nealt either side of his legs and lowered myself onto him. I was as wet as scuba-diver's armpit and he slid in as if he was greased.

From the conversation I could tell the meeting was winding up which was just as well as my slow bouncing on his cock was making him breathe faster and harder. "Er, I've got to go now folks. See you tomorrow." he said desperately as he hit the disconnect button on his phone.

"Oh God, yeah,"

"Fuck me hard."

Or rather we thought he'd hit the disconnect button. He'd actually hit the speaker-phone button by mistake, which we realised when we could hear: "Jase, are you still there?" coming from the sofa next to us as he buried his head in my cleavage and shot his load and I groaned with pleasure.

The next day at work was a little embarrassing, but not too much.
(, Tue 28 Apr 2009, 12:24, 17 replies)
Have another oldie...

Is there anything more miserable than an 18 year old that has never been kissed? All around you, less witty, less intelligent and, if we're being honest, less attractive people, are snogging and, no doubt, in private doing even more intimate things. But not you, oh no. And then what happens? Yes you do miserably in your A Levels and fail to get that place at Liverpool Uni you had your heart set on - well, perhaps not you, but that was the situation the young Che found himself in. Not just miserable and with no idea what to do with his life, but also with a fully functioning, nay, eager and constantly throbbing member and a pair of bollocks on permanent double shifts, producing enough spermatozoa to re-populate China every 48 hours.

Miserable? The only thing keeping me going was the support of friends and the regular gaseous intake of combustible resin of the cannabis sativa plant. So, in this unstable condition of sexual readiness partially suppressed by dope, I spent a year working while my kindly but clueless parents convinced me to sign up for a degree in catering administration in Bournemouth (don't ask).

I saved up and gave myself a decent summer holiday though. I got an inter-rail card: South of France, Rome, Florence, Italian Riviera, Austria, Germany, Luxembourg and finally, Amsterdam - where I was able to renew my acquaintance with the above-mentioned herbal remedy and reconcile myself to three more weeks at home before going to college to do some mickey mouse course. It also softened the blow that, despite travelling alone, staying in Youth Hostels and meeting dozens of people of both sexes from all over, I had spectacularly failed to get any girlie action whatsoever.

Did I ask earlier whether there was anything more miserable than an 18 year old that has never been kissed? Well, by now, I'd had my 19th birthday.

Heigh ho and back to Blightly. After a feed a sleep and a bath I felt 'normal' again...so I hastily called some mates and went to the pub or maybe went to someone's place for a smoke. Funnily enough, I hate telling traveller's tales normally; you've been off having adventures, if only minor ones, while the folks back home have been doing diddly squat. I don't like bragging and anyway...you had to have been there. So I'd catch up on who was shagging who and who wasn't any more etc. and I sat in the background getting bored.

Then, at the weekend, there was a party at my best mate's ex's house. We were sitting around chatting, I knew everyone more or less, when a girl called Mandy suddenly said: "I really want to go to Greece, but I can't find anyone to go with."

"I'll go with you." I said. I had planned to go to Greece on my inter-rail card but missed the train by ten minutes so ended up going to Vienna instead. I knew Mandy, she'd been in my history A Level class, but if you drew a set of Venn diagrams of those of us at 6th Form College, she would only have been in one of the same ones as me, if you know what I mean. In my close circle of friends she was tolerated though not specially close to anyone. I could feel several pairs of eyes turning my way as the eyebrows rose, but what the fuck? she wanted to go to Greece, so did I; I couldn't bear the thought of sitting around for the next three weeks doing nothing, let's go.

Mandy wasn't really my 'type', being a bit too curly headed and rosy-cheeked, rather than the scaled-down Liz Taylor or Sophia Loren which was more my ideal, but she was certainly nice enough to make the thought of spending a couple of weeks in her company, although a little unexpected, certainly not repellent.

The very next day, I met up with Mandy (after breaking the news to my pretty dis-chuffed parents) and we went up to Town to buy some train tickets. Back in the old days, you couldn't ring up or order online, you had to queue up at Victoria and pay in pound notes. Another couple of days and we were off.

I'd never travelled with anyone before - always the solo wanderer me, so I found it a bit strange at first. I felt a bit protective, but Mandy was an independent girl - an only child and parents separated. Although I had three brothers, I had no sisters, so didn’t really know what to expect, but I got used to things fairly quickly. It's a long train journey from London to Brindisi and includes a couple of nights; we'd not shelled out for couchettes so slept in seats. Occasionally, Mandy's head would rest on my shoulder and, although I didn't fancy her, it made a pleasant change. We got on fine together, any misgivings I may have had proved to be unfounded, and sometimes I'd chuckle quietly to myself as I remembered the faces of our friends...

Brindisi. This was early September and southern Italy was HOT, which was fine. I liked it hot in those days. We found the boat to Greece and bought the cheapest tickets: deck class. On board, we settled down on a bench and got chatting to a group of Swedish lads, I'm sure they weren't all called Sven, but odds are, at least one of them was. We did the old traveller thing of sharing what we had, bread, sausage, huge ripe peaches, bottles of warm red wine, cigarettes etc. I can still feel the fur of the peach on my lips as I bit into the ripe flesh and the juice spilled down my chin and neck, then the over-heated red wine, straight from the bottle, passed around the circle - rough, warm, warming. As the sun went down we were treated to a magnificent sunset and then the breathtaking stars of the Mediterranean night sky. I'd always thought that shooting stars were either a kind of myth or else a rarity, a bit like a comet or a total eclipse. Out on the dark sea, lying on a sleeping mat watching shooting star after shooting star streak across the sky as we fell asleep...

We stuck with the Swedes after we landed as we were all headed for Athens. No-one had any idea where to stay in Athens, but then again, we weren't much bothered either. Just as well we didn't worry, as it wasn't a problem; at Athens station we were met by a Kiwi who convinced us to stay at the Hotel Byron - he was given free board and lodging to do so, but he was refreshingly honest about it’s lack of luxury, while convincing us by it’s low price. It wasn’t long before we were trailing along behind him like a bunch of over-grown school kids following a teacher on a school trip.

We all chose to sleep on the roof. It was the cheapest option and the previous night’s experience on the deck of the boat had been so lovely we didn't really want to be confined to a room. Up we went, laying down our sleeping mats, un-rolling our sleeping bags, standing our rucksacks nearby - silent sentinels. Then a quick shower and back downstairs to the bar/lounge to sample the first of many cold, Greek beers. Big pint-sized bottles - rare in those days - and so cheap. Mandy and I had been travelling together now for about three days and must have looked like an old married couple. We were sitting back to back with our feet up on a low bench, chatting to Swedes and others staying at the Byron.

"Do you love her?" Sven asked me, gesturing towards Mandy with his beer bottle.

"Eh? Oh, no. We're just friends. She wanted to go to Greece, so did I, so we went together."

"She's a very nice girl," said Sven. I guessed he fancied her and kind of wished him luck. A couple of more beers and it was time to go to bed. Up the four flights of stairs onto the roof, with the lights of Athens all around, and the myriad stars above. I climbed into my sleeping bag and shrugged off my clothes as Mandy did the same in her bag, next to me. I turned to face her, "Well, here we are!" I said, she smiled, reached out an arm, put it around my neck and pulled me towards her for the first snog of my life.

I'm pleased to report that although totally unexpected, I wasn't shocked by this development and, in fact, I very rapidly threw myself into the proceedings with the appropriate gusto. Soon, I had transferred to her sleeping bag and was on top of her, kissing for England, and then...I can still feel it today, in my mind's groin, so to speak. She reached down and firmly but gently, and yet urgently and fervently took hold of little Che and guided him towards that place, that secret, sacred place.

Could there be anything more surprising for the 19 year old virgin than to discover that a girl - any girl - is willing and anxious to have sex with him, in fact just as keen as he is to have sex with her? And if you have had to endure those long, hard years of girl-lessness, what better place to finally discover their joys than under the stars on a warm summer night in the eternal city of Athens?

Well worth waiting for. I lay back and Mandy rested her head on my young man's chest and I placed a protective arm around her.
(, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 14:31, 10 replies)
In my dad's car on the way to Great Uncle Salvatore's do I was idling whistling the theme tune to The Godfather.

"Stop that!" My dad demanded.

"What?" I asked, coiling my arm round my girlfriend, Jo's shoulders in the backseat, my other hand resting on her thigh, trying to figure out the best way I could get my fingers on her clit without her noticing (fucking impossible, that is, by the way). "Not now," Jo whispered in my ear. "But definately later," and she gave my hand a curt squeeze.

"Your Great Uncle Salvatore is NOT in the Mafia!" said my mum, sitting up front in the passenger seat next to my old man.

"If you say so..." I said, edging my fingers a little closer to Jo's furbox - until she slapped my fingers away.

Curses! Foiled again!

Jo and I were visiting my parents in Lesina, southern Italy. It was FUCKING HOT, hotter than Angelina Jolie wanking off in a sauna with a jalapeno pepper hot. And the four of us had packed into the shitty little Fiat to go and visit Great Uncle Salvatore in Foggia, the next town along. Big Uncle Salv runs a textile firm and is fucking loaded, apparently. He was having a bit of a do for the relatives to celebrate some textile industry award he'd been given. Though the only thing I can think Big Salv might win is 1st place in a 'looking like Fat Tony out of The Simpsons' pagent. He was just, in my humble opinion, well fucking dodgy.

A free meals always nice, but Jo and I were only a couple of months into our relationship and were still going through the joyous, wonderful, amazing fuck-like-horny-drunk-rabbits-on-viagra phase. We'd spent most of our time at the beach, perfecting the fine art of sea fucking. It was ace. But having to go and visit a load of crusty old Italians was not so good. The only reason I'd agreed to go was because, well, I had no choice - but also because it was taking place at the swankiest place in the whole of Foggia, a hotel with a swimmingpool, no less, and a free bar.

Fucking bring it on, I thought.

We got there, parked up, went into the lobby and met up with the bastard ospring of the cast of Goodfellas and Night of the Living Dead aka my elderly Italian relatives. After a bit of chatting Jo and I slinked off.

"We're gonna go find the pool and have a swim," I said to my mum, holding up my satchel containing the swimming gear. My mum waved me off and we were free, well, at least until mealtime.

"We're gonna go through to the dining room now, Spanky," said my mum. "Great Uncle Salvatore's going to give a speech first before dinner..."

Fuck me! Fuck that for a game of soldiers.

Jo and I found the pool - inside jobbie with air conditioning, fucking great! We went and got changed and met back up at the poolside. We had the place to ourselves.

Jo eased herself into the still, blue water: "Come on, Spanky! Its lovely..." she purred. Jo was a fine looking girl, her short platinum blonde hair and big blue eyes made her look Manga; and I'd been wanking off over the motorcycle chase scene in Akira since I was a teenager, so it was a dream come true when she agreed to let me fuck her on a regular basis. And I loved Jo with all my heart because she had the tightest cunt I had ever had the pleasure of receiving full entry privilages for. When I was inside her it was like having a big strong man grab my cock and shake it 'hello' for a few minutes before I coughed up my syrupy cock-mixture. Fucking lovely...

I splashed into the pool. We pissed about in the water for a bit, then Jo pinned me to the side of the pool and started rubbing her tits on my nips. "Shall we have a go at the underwater lurve?" she asked, reaching down and stroking my sea snake. Evidently she meant what she'd said in the car earlier. "Doesn't look like we'll be disturbed and no one can see what we're doing in here anyway even if someone does come in..."

I liked her reasoning and I didn't need to be asked twice, I felt my cock hardening at the thought of fucking my very own super sexy mermaid woman (only without the weird fish lower body thing going on). I felt Mr Stiffy rise to the occasion and tug against the fabric of my trunks.

Time to Free Willy, I thought.

I reached down and pulled down my trunks, Jo ground onto me, banging my arse hard and repetatively against the side of the pool. Again and again and again. With such force I could hear the banging resonate round us for ages afterwards.


We'd had a bit of a snog, I'd twisted Jo's incredibly long and pointy nipples like the dials on a 1950's radio for a bit, we'd had a bit of rubbing-her-twat-on-my-cock-through-her-bikini-bottoms action.

Now it was time to get down to some serious hardcore underwater Stingray-style fucking.

I eased Jo's bikini bottoms down and played my fingers over her fleshy beef curtains; I hammered away at her clit with my fingers like I was playing chopsticks on the piano. Jo reciprocated in kind, she grabbed my hard torpedoe, jacked me off for a bit, and prepared for a hot n salty underwater breech.

And then I realised something a bit odd.

The banging was still going on...


But Jo was no longer grinding onto me, slamming my arsecheeks against the poolside.


Anyway, back to the vagina in question - after a few failed attempts I slid into Jo (getting your cock in someone underwater is harder and requires more training than performing your average spot of keyhole surgery, complete with endoscope, a kinky little mask, and a fashionable pair of rubber gloves), and Jo bobbed about ontop of me for a bit, harpooned like a prize tuna (only with tits).

And then my dad burst into the pool room. Followed by my mum and several random relatives looking like extras geriatric extras from The Sopranos.

"SPANKY!!!" Screamed my dad, his nostrils flaying. "STOPPIT!!!"

Jo jumped, so did I. We hurried back into our swimming. After a few moments trying to figure out how everyone knew what we were up to, we clambered out the pool and, sheepishly, went and got dressed and slinked into the dining room, ready to here the great man, Fat Tony - I mean, Great Uncle Salvatore's speech.

And I looked up.

And I gulped.

The entire righthand wall of the dining room had a picturesque view. It was blue, it was watery, it was see-thru; some kind of toughened glass. It was the side of the pool where Jo had had me pinned moments earlier.

The crowd of relatives smirked at us. My dad came up and said wearily:

"Didn't you hear me banging on the glass?"

I shook my head, Jo went bright scarlet. We took our seats quickly. Great Uncle Salvatore did not look too fucking pleased, to say the least.

Later in the evening, Jo and I were still sat ridgid, trying to be invisible and waiting for the time when we could leave, when one of the elderly relatives, a little old lady - had no fucking idea who she was, some great aunt or other - came up to me and grabbed my hand.

In very broken, heavily Italian accented English she said knowingly:

"You should be ashamed!" Shit - I thought - here we go. But she squeezed my hand and continued: "You should be ashamed of your arse! Its too hairy! You should shave it..." She glanced at Jo with a look of pitty. "I'm sorry about his hairy arse," she said to Jo.

And then she fucked off, leaving me wondering how the fuck your supposed to shave your own arse, and shuddering at the thought that this old crone had seen my arse in the first place.

"Do you like my arse, Jo?" I asked.

"Shuttup," she replied...
(, Sun 26 Apr 2009, 23:29, 14 replies)
It started when PJM stuffed us in the back of his Golf. Fuck me, that boy can party like its nineteen-fucking-ninety-nine, and us three pussies just couldn't keep up.

I remember my head resting on Pooflakes lap. I was drunk and my mouth lolled open, Pooflake stoked my head and said:

"It's going to be ok, Spanky..."

I said: "Err... are you getting a stiffy, Mr Flake?"

He shook his head, "No - my cock is naturally always a little bit hard. Its a curse and a gift, mate. My baby batter is constantly on full spurt alert, just in case, you never know when I might find a young lady drunk or mentally retarded enough to let me have a go at her innards."

At this juncture, with PJM hurtling down the road, Chart Cat woke up a little and said:

"Fellas, I think I've just shat myself."

PJM slammed on the brakes.


"Right, get out! I can put up with the filth that comes out your mouths but the stuff that comes out your arses is another thing altogether!"

And he leaves us, stranded, by the side of the road.

"Fuck me, looks like we're gonna have to walk," said Chart Cat. "Do you fellas wanna here about my threesome?"

"Erm, no thanks - I don't think I fancy doing a technicolour yawn just now," said Pooflake.

Moments later a VW camper van pulls up, beeps the horn. As a group we look inside.

"Fuck me!" says I. "Are you the Canadian Womens Water Polo Team on tour in the UK?"

And they say: "Yes!" Bobbing and bursting in all the right places. "You boys need a lift?"

"Yes, please - I love it when a lady gives me a hand," said Chart Cat, as we clambered into the van.

But no sooner had we pulled away than one of the water polo team pulls out a gun.


"Right, boys. We wanna see some fucking or we'll have to shoot you! Go on, get down to it," and she edges forward.

Not being too shy about these things I immediately pull down Pooflakes kegs and get to work on the hearty meal of his meat and two veg.

The water polo team look on, captivated, as Chart Cat, feeling a little squelchy down below in the bumhole area, stands and slides down his pants.

The smell is overpowering.

"Well, at least you won't need to lube me up, Spanks - go on then, get on with it. I know you won't last too long, anyway..." says the Cat, positioning himself on the seat with all the poise and grace of a drunken cunt whos just shat himself.

I kiss Pooflake's lovely bell end a bit longer, developed quite a taste for it, really. Then I move over, slide off my jeans, and enter Chart Cat roughly from behind - and, indeed, the shit smearing his cheeks makes for super-easy access (though I reckon he was pretty damn turned on too).

"Might as well get this over with quickly," says Pooflake, moving behind me, sliding his rod of iron up my chocolate starfish, tickling my prostate from the inside with all the skill and grace of a gorilla wearing lipstick.

And we daisy chain fuck, grunting and whimpering, crying with a strange mix of pain and ecstacy, Pooflake and I taking it in turns for the classic reachround, jiggling Chart Cat's hairy plums and milking his todger like a pair of sweaty, fucked-up Armenian milkmaids.

Then, as one, we cum. And the smell of salty hot manjuice floods the small confines of the van.

Then we dress and sit looking at the girl with the gun and the rest of the Canadian water polo team.

"There you go," says Chart Cat. "You happy now?"

And the girl puts down her gun:

"Ermm.... I meant you had to fuck US, not EACH OTHER..."

They dropped us off at the next service station, and we swore never to mention this night again.

DISCLAIMER: See Pooflakes post below for the reasoning behind this shite. Grrrr Tigers; you are a very strange lady indeed...
(, Tue 28 Apr 2009, 11:55, 23 replies)
Three (Million)’s a crowd…

“So…here we are then. How do we get this started?” asked Spanky in nervous anticipation.

“Well”, I muttered, “… in order to qualify for the QotW, whatever we do, it has to be ‘in public’…”

Chart cat then pointed out to me that we were in fact lying on the floor together, having sneaked onto the centre spot at Wembley Stadium before an England game, in front of a capacity 90,000 people, that our antics were being beamed live to 250 countries worldwide, and that we had about 30 seconds to sort something out before the psycho security would have us arrested and torn fresh new arseholes.

“Is this ‘public’ enough for you, dick brain?” He asked.

"Oh…yeah…silly me” I said, trying desperately to make a good impression…

“Right then, let’s kick off!” cheered Spanky enthusiastically.

My chortle at his punnage was cut dramatically short by utter speechlessness, when Spanky grabbed his trollies by the belt buckle and heaved them down to the ground in one swift motion, setting free his wrinkly orchestra, and as his conductor’s baton wafted in the early summer breeze, the big screen lit up the image, and a few of the St Johns Ambulance people fainted by one of the corner flags.

”Ah, I see you’ve ‘gone commando’ “I whisper with admiration and raised eyebrows before continuing “So have I…”

“No you haven’t!”, shouted Spanky, “…you’ve spent all day without any clothes on at all from the waist down! – That’s not what ‘commando’ is all about!”

Oh…” I mutter sheepishly.

Chart cat then interrupted: “Erm…ok guys, although I kind of get what’s going on here” he said with a trembling voice, “what I don’t understand is why we can’t have any actual girls with us…”

“Silly chart cat!” exclaimed Spanky. “My fulsome fish tanks just don’t pack enough baby gravy for any more than two people, and I’ve even been on special, 'spunk growing' tablets too…just for this!”

“Fair enough!” said CC, as he swiftly de-bagged and then gracefully swung his designer label Y-fronts around his head, to chants of delight from the VIP section of the crowd.

“How’s this for a ‘Royal Box’?” declared chart cat, thrusting his ample package at Prince Phillip, and watching gleefully as his highness tries to gouge his own eyes out with a ‘Pot Noodle’ fork.

As they stood before me, side by side in various states of arousal, I exclaimed: "Crikey, I’ve never seen a duo of dangling dongs like that before…and I’ve been to Holland!”

“You’ve been to Holland & Barrett”, said chart cat derisively. “It’s not quite the same…”

‘Still’, I thought to myself, ‘a deal’s a deal’, and I grimaced with pride as I donned my weapons grade marigold rubber gloves and attempted to display my best technique to the watching millions, by galloping frothily up and down their respective shafts like a pole dancer…only with two poles.

After a few seconds they were both to ‘take-an-eye-out’ standards of rigidity, and Spanky selflessly decided that it was time for me to be the ‘receiver’ in this game of ‘Hide the half-Italian Sausage”

Displaying excellent teamwork, chart cat cleverly dropped a 10p piece on the floor, knowing that I would bend over rapidly and instinctively to pick it up...Of course, the very instant my clammy barking spider was projected in the air, Spanky was on it like Gary Glitter at the ‘Pre-teen Thai Queen 2009’ awards.

”Buggeration, Pooflake,” cried Spanky, barely able to contain his delight as he pumped away vigourously. “I always knew you were a tight-arse, but I wasn’t expecting this! Don’t ‘cough’ or anything, because you could snap my tadger off!”

I was finding it difficult to reply however, because my mouth was filled to the tonsils with cat-cock. As I gobbled like the veritable clappers, I closed my eyes and hoped that I didn’t get a ‘hair ball’…

As Spanky continued grinding away, he then motioned to chart cat that there was ‘Room round the back’. CC duly took the hint, slipped in delicately behind, and before long we were all thrusting back and forth in perfect harmony, the whole shameful scenario was reminiscent of a kinky, ‘cocks-akimbo’ conga line.

Ever the showman, Spanky even lifted his legs out from side to side occasionally, to demonstrate how he was being held in the air simply by the linkage power of our sex-snorkels, like a sort of ‘knob entwined daisy chain’.

Due to their slim, lithe, well toned bodies, the two behemoths of B3ta were both able to genourously dish out the wrist-action reach-around for my personal titilation, and placed one hand each on my twitching, semi redundant but ever eager phallus.

Gripping hard, they slipped up and down my proud pink pork-pudding, and the romance of the situation was only mildly disturbed by a moment when chart cat entangled his pubes with Spanky’s ample arse cress.

“You really should shave that” advised chart cat helpfully. Spanky ignored him.

Obviously, all three of us are hardly famous for our stamina, and inevitably, in a sweaty and mongish mish-mash of man-meat, hairy crevices and unused plastic weapons of ‘ass destruction’, we soon began to look like a combined representation of ‘Epileptics Anonymous’ as we collectively spasmed and shot our beef-bazooka bolts high into the air in unison like a filthy fireworks display.

Suddenly, what seemed like the whole centre circle was awash with a tsunami of tadpole-tastic taramosalata as we all tried to wring out each others last droplets of splooge whilst trying to ‘out grunt’ each other like a gaggle of female tennis players competing in ‘Hog-idol’

Then finally, mutually satisfied and gasping for breath, we collapsed into a festering fleshy heap, and as we lay there, spent, shaking and spaffed out with enough wanton willy wallpaper paste to fill a family-sized salad cream jar, we gazed over to the hoards of security men sprinting towards us with their bulbous trouncheons callously set to ‘clobberin’ time’…

“Well, that was nice...” whimpered chart cat, ”…but I can hear PJM honking the horn of his Golf GIT*...it might be time to go…”

“What, AGAIN?” wheezed Spanky in disbelief before continuing: “For fuck’s sake!...You’re gonna have to give me 5 minutes…and a jazz mag…”

Then as the cheers of the crowd, players, and various heads of state rang out in appreciation, we all spotted something in the distance…

Sprinting in front of the rampaging security stampede, we could just about make out the petite shape of CHCB, about 50 feet away from us, waving frantically in our direction, fumbling at her blouse and shouting:

“Don’t start without me, boys!”

Disclaimer: On an earlier post, Grrrrr Tigers had dared to wonder what it would be like if chart cat, Spanky & I were to have a threesome. This was my answer.

*Edited for continuity purposes...now please read about 'what happened next' with Spanky's post above...
(, Tue 28 Apr 2009, 11:16, 32 replies)
I only have sex in public.
And only after setting fire to a homeless person.

I'm a flaming hobosexual.
(, Sat 25 Apr 2009, 18:06, 3 replies)
Quick wits
I was 19. I'd gone to University and started seeing this girl who was very much from the other side of the tracks to me. So posh she thought her family lived 'relatively modestly' because they'd had to cut down to just the one house and dad had sold the yacht when he retired. Lovely girl though, and she had the sort of body only produced by phenomenal genetics and a youth spent on gymnastics and netball.

Now this was my first proper girlfriend and I was making the best of having a regular source of nookie on tap. In short, reader, it nearly fell off. However, come the end of our first blissful term together, the time came to go home for the summer. I went back to the Midlands, and she to the Home Counties.

Of course, the passions of young love can never be denied for too long, and after a few weeks she prevailed upon her parents to invite me to visit for a long weekend. I was put in the bedroom furthest from hers in their palatial home, and her Dad suggested to her that I might wish to stay there. Me venturing to her room, or vice-versa, was strictly off-limits. The controlling old git even checked that we weren't sneaking about in the night through the rather un-subtle ruse of throwing the dog into my bedroom in the middle of the night then apologetically coming in to remove it. I instantly cottoned on to his subterfuge, as even at my then tender age, I had enough experience to know that King Charles spaniels rarely pass through doors at waist height without some form of extra-canine propulsion.

Anyway, a few days into my stay the tension was mounting enormously, and we'd started looking for quiet moments where we could steal a little intimacy. However, her father's hawk-like gaze ensured we never had a chance to properly fulfil our youthful desires. I was also too scared due to her father's attentions to even attempt self-abuse. In short, I was primed to blow, and liable to fill a skip.

Our opportunity came when her Mum, who'd never learned to drive, needed a lift into town. Jane drove her in, and as her mum went off to pick up some photos she'd left to be developed, we were left in the car together. It being a multi-storey where we could see people approaching from a good way off in all directions, and knowing we had a while before her mum returned, we hatched a cunning plan by which we would both remain seated in the front of the car, but she would lean over and offer oral relief whilst I kept watch.

It was probably the occasion and my desperate need as much as her admittedly amateur technique, but I will probably go to my grave remembering this as the best blow job I have ever had. I had promised, being a gentleman, that I would warn her before I came, but I realised as she bobbed away in my lap that I had absolutely no intention of doing so, and indeed that due to the expected volume of liquid involved and the force with which it would likely be expelled, there was no practical solution under the circumstances other than to ensure it all went in her mouth.

Then, I was faced with a curveball which would have thrown even the steeliest of men into a panic - as I built to a volcanic climax, I clocked her mum coming out of the doors at the other end of the otherwise deserted garage...

It was dark in there, and I knew I had at least a few moments before her mum's eyes adjusted enough to take in the situation. With impeccable timing and the execution of a porn star, I shot my load in a mighty spasm. In order to maintain control of the situation and ensure no spillage, I was obliged to hold Jane's head down.

Once I released her, she sat bolt upright in the driver's seat and glared at me with obvious outrage. I had discovered months before that she did not swallow, and she was in an obvious fit of pique at my betrayal of our prior agreement. She would probably have shouted at me if I hadn't pointed out the front window and mouthed 'Your mum!'.

Now, most people would have abandoned their prior stance and swallowed at this point, but Jane was a principled girl. Hence her driving her mum and me the two miles back to the house with a mouthful of my cum, making small talk all the way, before slipping off the the bathroom to spit it out when we got back. Her mum commented afterwards that she looked rather pale and shaken. Unable, due to her parents scrutiny, to find a quiet moment to harangue me for my ungentlemanly behaviour, she used it as an excuse to say she was ill and stayed in the house in her room whilst I ventured to the pub with her parents and got, in the common parlance, royally cunted.

Surprisingly, this relationship endured for several more months and she even reversed her previous position on ingesting man milk. Result.

Obviously, no apologies for length, volume, or element of surprise. I only did what was called for under the circumstances...

I have absolutely no idea why I've written this in a slightly fruity faux-Edwardian style, by the way, it just seemed to flow.
(, Thu 23 Apr 2009, 17:08, 7 replies)
It's always the quiet ones...
... and Jane - my first serious girlfriend - was a prime example of this rule. When we initially got together I had believed she was a shy, retiring type, ideal for taking home to meet your mother. So I was pleasantly surprised when, as the relationship progressed, Jane revealed a side to her more deviant than my 17-year-old mind had ever dreamed.

She was insatiable, and for a while we would grab every possible opportunity to go at it, working our way through the rooms of our respective parents' houses, including a disappointingly tricky time attempting to stay atop her washing machine on a spin cycle.

That particular time almost ended up with us getting interrupted by her parents, as their greetings from arriving home were drowned out by both the whine of the machine and my whines from trying to cling onto both Jane and the washing machine.

Nearly shattering her parents' illusions about the delightful young girl they had raised worried Jane enough that she decided that the rest of her parents house was now out of bounds to us.

Fearing that confining our relationship solely to the bedroom would lead to our sex life becoming as predictable as a game of Hide and Seek with the Fritzls, I suggested to Jane that we experiment a little with the outdoors lifestyle.

The next few weeks (being summer) were spent happily exploring the darker corners of the local parks, playgrounds and - memorably - bus shelter.

The novelty was beginning to wear off, until a whole new world of opportunity was opened to me - the boss of my summer job needed a delivery making to London, and so - deeming me to be more trustworthy than was probably wise - lent me the company Escort van for the afternoon, on the understanding that I made the delivery and brought it back the next morning.

The journey in and out of London proved quicker than expected, and so I turned up at Jane's house mid-afternoon with a glint in my eye, keen to show off my new "company car" and explore the local area.

We set off into the countryside, my adolescent mind racing as I tried to decide where - and indeed how - it would be best to take Jane. We hadn't driven far before Jane started caressing the inside of my thigh, and then with a mischievous grin, she bent to my lap and proceeded to give me an expert blow job.

Having only recently passed my test, I was still relatively conversant with the finer points of the Highway Code and was pretty confident that I was no longer driving with due care and attention. I therefore parked up quickly in the first layby I could find, and we climbed into the back of the van, eager to pick up where we had left off in the front.

Finding the back of an Escort van to be surprisingly dark and cramped, we awkwardly attempted to find a suitable position, without much initial success. I thought I had finally hit the jackpot when we shifted around and Jane instantly started screaming.

Unfortunately, Jane's screams were less to do with my lovemaking prowess, and more to do with the fact that I had accidentally released the handbrake whilst shifting positions, and we were now rolling at increasing pace down the road, and veering towards the stream running alongside.

It is with some regret that I have to say the first thing I instinctively grabbed for was the steering wheel rather than the handbrake.

It is with even more regret that I am able to confirm that the time it takes to release the steering lock on a 1997 Escort van is slightly longer than the time it takes for the same vehicle to swing across the road, mount the embankment, plunge through a hedge and down the other side into a stream.

First time post - be gentle!
(, Thu 23 Apr 2009, 16:12, 11 replies)
The world's worst threesome, part 3
part 1

part 2

De-RIS/What the fuck?

Through the window, the famous Wembley arch glowed in the distance. The coroner sighed, it would be another long night.

Legless had seen everything in his forty years of grim work, including decapitation-by-spoon, gunshot wound to the rectum and even one unfortunate musician who had drowned in vomit (it wasn't his own). Despite all that, nothing could have prepared him for the gruesome scene laid out in the morgue that evening.

"Three males, two in their twenties or early thirties, the other a bit older and probably their abusive step-father or something"

The Dictaphone clicked off, the tape reaching the end of the reel. He moved into his office to get a new one, the radio was crackling. It was the evening news.

"Disbelief and horror at Wembley, as three unknown men invade the pitch and perform what Guinness has now officially confirmed as the most disgusting and indecent public act in recorded history" said the newsreader. Legless turned up the volume and sat down, intrigued by this development. The bulletin continued "In other news, a double tragedy for sport today as the Canadian women's water polo team goes on a gun rampage at a local children's hospice before committing suicide themselves. Police believe they suffered recent mental trauma and are appealing for witnesses"

He picked up the phone and dialed. A quiet voice on the other end answered. "I need your help" said Legless nervously.

He stepped outside for a breath of fresh air as the stench in the autopsy room was overwhelmingly bad. The night was cool and the wind calm, a shooting star fizzed across the ink-black sky as something else large and bright caught his attention. It was interrupted by the screech of tyres announcing the arrival of his contact.

The Golf GIT skidded to a halt in the car park, the driver less-than focused on the task of parking. As Legless approached the car, he noticed a second person who appeared to be sleeping on the driver's lap.

The driver patiently allowed his passenger to rise from her apparent slumber in her own time and she eventually sat up, retched a little then wiped her mouth before opening the window to spit a mouthful of gloopy, translucent fluid onto the tarmac. "That's a nasty cold you've got there, chickenlady", Legless observed. She winced and licked her lips, before spitting a second time at his feet.

Clambering awkwardly out of the vehicle, the driver adjusted his trousers for a while before pacing towards the entrance. Chickenlady scowled, stuck two fingers up at them both then sped off in the opposite direction. "Actually, it's three bodies, not two" he said to his friend as the red tail lights faded into the darkness.

PJM had worked with Legless many times, especially on crimes of a brutal sexual nature. When he entered the chilling mortuary, his skin crawled at the vile mess of bodies and bodily fluids before his eyes. The smell of shit hit him first, then he spotted that one of the trio wasn't wearing anything below the waist. He already knew the identity of these poor, broken individuals, for they had been traveling with him only a few hours earlier.

"That one's Pooflake" said PJM, pointing to the bloody, spunk-filled arse cavity on the first table. "The other two are chart cat and SpankyHanky, at least I assume that's who they are, what with the complete lack of a face on either of them." Legless was confused. "How the fuck do you know that?" he enquired, "as the injuries on these men are consistent with hours of sexual misconduct and violent buggery".

PJM knew the game was up. He explained about the careful planning they'd undertaken together to carry out 'The Wembley Incident', the journey away from the stadium and chart cat's anal 'accident' in his car earlier in the day. Legless listened, stunned into silence.

"What I don't understand though..." mused Legless, pausing for thought "...is how did they end up like this?"

"Time to find out" replied PJM.

to be continued....? You tell me
(, Wed 29 Apr 2009, 14:13, 23 replies)
Ooh going back to November 2007...
... was seeing my then ex, who lived in East London. We'd only been seeing each other for about a month, so as you can imagine we were using any god-given opportunity to do filthy things to each other. One week I had my youngest sister visit me from back home, which meant that I could not see my bloke as I had to be 'responsible' older sis.

He didn't like this.

So one evening when I was at my place with her, he drives over and tells me to come out to the car so we can chat at least. I tell my housemate to keep an eye on my sibling urchin and run to my bloke's Mini cabriolet. Oh yes.

We went for a little spin and parked up on some random residential street off Green Lanes in Harringey and started to have a bit of a fumble. Minis are... mini, and the windows quickly began to fog up. we also could not do much in the passenger seats so he suggested that I get in the back and he would follow.

Fucking hell, the cramp! I honestly felt like my right leg was being sawn in half as I squeezed my ample arse between the passenger seats. I was trying hard to not squeal out in pain, wanting to look elegant as I scratched the upholstery to pieces in his beloved little mobile fuck-box.

Anyway, I managed in the end and sat there waiting for his majesty to grace me with his penisly presence, and he certainly did a slightly more graceful entrance (fner) than I. We got down to it, him sort of on top of me, me trying to lift my right leg and put it in any conceivable position that would not cause the cramp to kick in again. All going well, we're going for about ten mins and my thighs started to ache. I made one TINY move of the right leg and the cramp hit me like Pole driving a VW the wrong way up the M1. My leg shot out and I kicked the roof near the front of the car. I'm shouting all manner of obscenities, my bloke wondering what the hell is going on, his old chap suddenly starting to look very feeble.

What we had not noticed in the commotion is that I had managed to hit the button to make the roof go back... and it was about halfway through it's descent, too late to bring it back. Bloke's hairy white arse had the moonlight being reflected off it, and I was legs akimbo in the back of a fucking Mini.

That's not the worst bit. Walking up to the car along the lovely, quaint residential street was a middle-aged couple walking their dog. I don't know what they looked like, I had my eyes clamped fucking shut. My bloke responded in the only way he could.

He farted.

I started crying.
(, Thu 23 Apr 2009, 15:39, 8 replies)
Chav Sex
After a particularly heavy night on the town my drunken staggering home took me through a small park. Having trouble putting one foot in front of the other I decided to stop on a park bench and have a smoke.

After lighting up I become aware of some rustling in the bushes behind me followed by some giggling and snorting. After a short pause there was a loud
"Fook I don't have any rubbers wif me"
"No bother" came the giggly reply "I'm already pregnant. But don't worry it's not yours"
(, Sun 26 Apr 2009, 22:01, 5 replies)
Hot Dog?
Not posted on here for a while, hope I haven't lost the knack.

Managed to pull in the smoking yard of Corporation Nightclub in Sheffield about two weeks ago. Things got pretty heated and I ended up gettin' sucked off in a quiet corner away from the crowd. The last thing I expected was two guys coming up and standing right next to us; one of them getting down on his knees in front of the other. Turns out they'd bought a hotdog from the cart outside and one of them had inserted it into his fly so his mate was copying the moves of my lady friend as best he could.

It is incredibly hard to concentrate on getting head when all you can see is two guys gurning like mongs and laughing their tits off. After what seemed like an eternity I was about to blow my load and at that exact moment I hear the shout of "You fucker you've bit the tip off"...that threw me over the edge and I pulled out of my lady friends moist oral cavity, bending over double and guffawing like only a drunk can!

...I was still bent over when I shot right into my own eye, yelped, fell forward headbutting the poor lass who promptly kicked me in the knackers and hit me with her shoe

Public Sex should come with a health warning

[apologies for any spelling/grammar mistakes. It's very late and I will amend it when I get a chance]
(, Wed 29 Apr 2009, 4:34, 1 reply)
A few years back I had the great misfortune of spending a couple of weeks at Disneyworld, Florida - dodging the puddles of kiddie vomit whilst battling the armies of terminally fat and incredibly stupid fuckwits. And all this under a persistant, blazing hot sun that made your skin peel as effectively as bathing in paint stripper and using caustic soda as a skin exfoliator.

I still to this day experience fucking scary as fuck random talking-giant-mouse related hallucinations because of that fucking God-awful holiday.

But it wasn't all bad, I suppose - at least I can say with some pride I joined a certain club on my way to Shitsville aka Orlando.

At the time my ladyfriend was a girl named Vic. She was a little bit older than me, so I naturally called her Old Vic. We boarded the Virgin Atlantic flight at Heathrow and found our seats, took off, as you do, and settled down to six grueling hours of shit Adam Sandler movies on those annoying little TV screens.

Fuck that...

I decided to keep Old Vic entertained with my witty reportie instead. Unfortunately, she got pretty sick and tired of my endless being-inside-a-Virgin-related punnage pretty damn quickly.

Then they served us a meal. Ooohhh! And it was utter bollocks - but at least it passed the time.

Then I watched X-Men while Old Vic read a book.

Then I was officially bored shitless. And that's when the idea popped into my head. Fuck me, that's a fucking great idea, Spanky! I thought to myself. I tapped Old Vic on the shoulder, leaned close to her ear, and relayed my great idea.

She looked at me to see if I was being serious and said a very curt: "No. Not gonna happen."

And that was the end of that.

But I'm a persistent little cunt, so I kept up with a little gentle nagging, I even came up with a list of plausible reasons why it would be a great thing to do, I whined, I may even have done a little quiet sobbing at one stage. Anyway, after nearly two hours of this Old Vic eventually relented.

"Oh, go on then!" she said. "You go on ahead and I'll follow you in a few minutes." and she stowed her book away.

I was shocked: "You being serious?" I asked.

She nodded: "Go on," and she motioned for me to fuck off. "Before I change my mind."

And I was off and out my seat faster than puke out of a bulemic.

Excited, I almost sprinted down the isle, found a nice quiet place out the way, and loitered waiting for Old Vic to turn up.

And she did. "This one?" she asked, looking round to make sure the coast was clear. It was, so we scurried quickly inside and closed the door.

And there was no fucking room to move.

"Err, how are we gonna do this, Spanky?" Old Vic asked.

I thought about it for a couple of seconds. "Let me squeeze past you so I can sit on the shitter, than you can just sort of lower yourself down onto me..." and I wheezed and panted into position, edging slowly past Old Vic's rather ample tittage.

Fuck me, aeroplane toilets are fucking tiny.

"Are you even hard?" Old Vic asked as I started to pull down my trousers.

I looked down, grabbed the floppy fella and gave him a quick tug. "No - but I soon fucking will be!" And true to my word, as I sat uncomfortably on the bog, watching Old Vic hitch up her skirt and pull her knickers to one side, I got just about hard enough for a spot of honeypot-holing.

Old Vic lowered herself onto my weapon of masturbation and, what with the excitement of joining the Mile High Club, I spaffed almost immediately.

"Is that it?" she asked, sound a little pissed off. "Was it fucking worth it?"

I grinned back at her: "Shit, yeah! I mean, I came!"

And then Old Vic, squatting pecariously over me, skewered on my dick, attempted to stand -

- only she couldn't.

There wasn't enough room for her to move her legs and stand back up, instead she just sort of splayed onto me.

"Oh, fuck, Spanky!" she whispered urgently. "I'm fucking stuck!"

I chuckled...

"NO - I FUCKING MEAN IT!!!" Strange how she managed to whisper and shout all at the same time.

"I'll try and lift you up," I said, clutching her waist and using all my strength. "Shit, it's no good. I think your arse is jammed against the door and the sink..."

"Fuck," said Old Vic. "What the fuck are we gonna do???"

"Let me think about it..." I said, thinking about it, feeling my soft cock plop out of Old Vic's love chute and my cum dribble out of her vag and pool into my pubes and over my balls. It felt cold.

I was, officially, no longer feeling sexy.

Instead I was thinking desperately of a way for us to get out.

After nearly ten minutes Old Vic says:

"My legs have gone dead - you can't think of anything, can you?" I shake my head glumly in agreement. Old Vic continues: "Shit - neither can I. Ok, here goes.... HELP!!! HELP!!! HELP!!!"

Oh sweet mother of fuck and all things fuckable!

Eventually, after a few more "HELPS!!!" One of the stewards came to our rescue. He pulled open the weird slidy door thing and peered inside and nearly pissed himself laughing.

"Errr, hello...." I said.

Thankfully he was a professional. "Can I be of any assistance?" He said.

Moments later he'd reached forward and lifted Old Vic off me by grabbing hold under her armpits. He looked down at me, sitting as I was on the bog, my pants and trouser round my ankles, my sleeping cock-monster and pubes covered in globby splats of cum.

"Do you need a hand, Sir?" he asked.

"Err, no thank you - I can handle it from here..."

When I returned to my seat Old Vic was sitting there, bright red with rage and embarrassment. She told me we were lucky not to get arrested. I apologised, explained that I realised it was terriably embarrassing, but on a brighter note we HAD joined the Mile High Club...

She threatened to rip off my testicles and beat me to death with um.

An hour or so later we landed in Orlando and did the fucking awful package holiday thing.

And on the return flight two weeks later, I endured the terrible torment, the torture, the indescribable pain, of having to watch back-to-back-to-fucking-back Adam Sandler movies...

I think if I so much as moved or even attempted to speak, Old Vic would've twatted the fuck out of me.
(, Thu 23 Apr 2009, 22:40, 9 replies)
The Legend of SW19
She’d bought them in Victoria’s Secret on a business trip to New York. They were midnight blue satin with large cream polka dots, almost like something you’d see back in the 80s or early 90s, except these were the tiniest, flimsiest and most expensive pair of knickers I’d ever come across – quite literally.

We’d met at Sankey’s – the one in Royal Tunbridge Wells, I think it was 1997. It had a cellar bar I remember very well; all bare brickwork, candles and expensive wine. Tim was an old mate from Uni, he’d moved down to the posh countryside to marry a farmer’s daughter, have chocolate brown Labradors, excessively large 4x4s and an alcohol dependency problem brought on by gin and port. Sankey’s had been his suggestion, I was out of work at the time and would have preferred the simpler attractions of the local pub or even a few cans in front of the TV, but Tim wanted to impress me and show me the highlights of posh totty that the Wells could provide.

“Sal! Sal! Come on you old trollop! Show me the fucking ‘phone!” a crowd of over-made-up women were squawking at each other by the bar.

“But darling, your shoes cost less than this ‘phone, do you honestly think I’m going to let you, with your reputation for losing fucking millions, get your sweaty little mitts on this? I mean, for fucks sake – you’ve shagged bloody Nick Leeson!“ This one was the pack leader; expensive clothes, incredibly high heels that would do real damage if she wore them naked while walking across a man’s back, I mused as I looked closely for a knicker line on her tight short skirt.

“Commando?” Tim asked – all through Uni he’d been my wingman, he knew my moves, hell, once on a particular drunken night out in Leeds he’d even been on the receiving end of my moves but apart from some uncomfortable glances – not to mention uncomfortable body parts – we’ve resolved to never mention it again.

“Yeah, I think so. How much to find out?” I replied. Tim had many weaknesses: large girls called Polly, alcohol, Mexican marching powder, me, fast cars and gambling. He bet me a small sum to discover whether the ‘phone princess was more giving with her body than her possessions.

Having watched too much American film and television I decided to be classy – I paid for a glass of pinot griot and asked the barman to give it to her while I leaned nonchalantly against the bare brickwork in the corner, bottle of sol in one hand and arrogance worn like an aftershave.

She took my wine, handed it to one of her squawk of friends and then stalked towards me holding a bottle of Bollinger and two glasses. “Rather poor I think. This stuff is better.”

She was right.

Sally was a couple of years older than me; she worked in the City and liked her men a tad on the rough side – my (then) lack of job was a turn on for her. We chatted a little about French movies, she poured me another glass. Tim had been taken a willing hostage by her pack of girlfriends. Sal turned her back on them and gently forced me further against the wall. I remember the cold roughness of the soft red Kentish bricks and the sharp bubbles of the expensive fizzy wine. Her breath was slightly sour – wine and a hint of Marlboro lights.

She didn’t kiss me. There was never any suggestion that she might. Not even when her fingers ran up my thigh and across my hardening cock.

She gave me her card and told me she would be at Wimbledon on the Friday of the first week – corporate thing – be there.

Ticket touts made me cough up £85 for the pleasure of standing around in the pouring rain while dickheads decked out entirely by Hackett wandered past eating overpriced watery strawberries and braying at the poor people who didn’t have a second holiday home in Antigua. Not my type of place. I don’t play tennis and aside from watching some of the ladies matches just to get a flash of thigh this wasn’t my thing at all. I was beginning to wonder why I’d turned up, then I caught sight of Sally, my cock twitched in anticipation and I knew why I’d turned up.

She was wearing a dark red dress, sleeveless and strappy, full skirt and of course a pair of killer heels. She stopped the conversation she was having with a large rugger bugger type and strode over to me.

“Follow me”

The look in her eye told me how this was going to end.

I followed.

I’m not sure who she paid or who she knew but within a couple of minutes we were camped out under canvas in the corner of Centre Court.

“I’ve always wanted to do it here. Maybe it’ll improve my service.” She said as she expertly unzipped my trousers, unbuckled my belt, unfastened my clothes and freed my swollen cock into the stale grassy trapped air for a brief moment before she took it deeply into her mouth.

I kept quiet, hands slowly easing her skirt up her slender thighs then fingers gently edging their way towards the damp warmth of her silken pussy. She moaned and sucked harder. My fingers probed and slipped inside her, gliding on her wetness.

She stopped, pushed me back, slid her midnight blue satin knickers down, wiped them across my face, “So you’ll smell me all day”, then shoved them into my jacket pocket. Lifting the green canvas up a little above her head she straddled me, my cock now throbbing inside one of the tightest and wettest clefts I’ve ever had the pleasure to fuck.

Years of Pony Club practice paid off as she rode me and the rain pounded down on the green canvas over our heads. Voices from the spectator stands only served to make her wetter and to fuck with more frenzy until we both couldn’t stand it – I gripped her perfect tight arse and exploded into her like the cork being pulled from a bottle of her beloved Bollinger.

The rain had begun to ease, she rolled off me, ran a finger up her thigh, dipped into herself and then sucked, “Mmm, you and I taste good – better than those fucking strawberries. Oh, and keep the knickers. A keepsake.”

She led me out to one of the staff entrances and there finally she kissed me gently on the lips.

I never saw her or the knickers again.

When Wimbledon is on and it’s raining, I sometimes think about her.

That was until I saw this article in the Times Online.
(, Mon 27 Apr 2009, 18:01, 8 replies)
not quite public but close
i was up early one morning banging the sass out of my then gf on the couch in the lounge. the doorbell went, and thinking it was the postman with my long awaited bike parts, i leapt up, coverd myself with the one thing to hand- HER dressing gown (i'm a big lad, she was a small girl) and answered the door.
there, on the doorstep, eager smiles fading to horror, were two very young looking jehovah's witnesses.
i was obviously red-faced and sweating, panting like a dog on a hot day, wearing a VERY revealing small pink dressing gown with some kind of floral motif. one of them started to mumble somethign about redemption and so on, and then fell silent, his horrified gaze heading downwards... i followed his eyes to find out the due to a wardrobe malfunction, little peteloaf was also staring belligerently at them, red-faced and twitching.
i uttered the immortal line 'you're not the postman!' and slammed the door on them.

poor bastards
no-one needs to see a 6'3" sweaty behemoth in a tiny dressing gown with a raging hardon, demanding to know why you're not the postman at that time of day, not even jovies.
(, Wed 29 Apr 2009, 21:37, 1 reply)
in which berk experiences the joys of outdoor lovin’…
First post (and it's a long one!) please be gentle…

(wavy lines back to summer 2003)

It was late summer, and some friends and I decided to bid farewell to our college years in style; one last halcyon week before departing our various ways to various towns and cities across the UK to go to uni. Alright, alright…less of the Enid Blyton, we spent a week on the piss in Newquay. Classy, no?

we’d taken a chalet which was more or less on the beach; it was self catered, and the beach itself had a pub – we barely even needed to move in order to supply ourselves with that studenty ambrosia which is strongbow…although as a group we would invariably traipse up the town for the evening and get pissed there. (in retrospect I suspect this was more an opportunity to visit Newquay’s fine array of takeaways than to get drunk…it’s surprising how many places hang up when you slur ‘yesh, we’d like it delivered to the beach, pleashe’, no matter how legitimate a request this may be…)

Anyway, I digress.
The group included my then-fucktoy, a sweet and innocent lad whom I had taken it upon myself to deflower, reasoning it my civic duty not to allow him to go to uni a virgin. Around 5 of us had been in town (read ‘pub’) for most of the day when it became apparent we’d lost our friends somewhere. Being sex-crazed teens it was instantly decided that this would be an opportune time to jump on each other. What with sharing a chalet with 8 other people, and possessing a modicum of respect for our friends (not to mention self-restraint) we hadn’t viciously abused each other for a whole…gosh, three days?

We staggered back to the chalet, pawing at each other’s clothes, to discover – horror upon horror! – that most of our friends were already back. Having, shall we say…worked up an appetite, there was no way we couldn’t, so…
You know those moments of genius and clarity that you have, where you can actually believe there is a lightbulb going ‘ting!’ above your head? This was not one of those moments. It was dark, it was late. More importantly, it was the actual seaside, with actual sea. And tides. ‘let’s have sex outside’, says he.
‘ok!’ I readily agreed.

Ripping our clothes off a la clark kent, (only chubbier, geekier and uglier), we soon got down to business. I complained about the wet sand digging in to my back, so the boything took one for the team and I went on top. Did I mention it was late, and dark, and I was drunk? Cue much giggling, falling off and rolling about. On wet sand…

when I got back on, it was as if he’d flung away the innocent prophylactic and sheathed himself in sandpaper. Howling like a happy-slapped mong, I leapt off and ran to rinse my now burning ladypart in the ocean. I missed my footing on some rocks, fell over in the sea and came up retching, not knowing which way was up and convinced I was dying. The boything, having established in his drink-sodden brain that leaping off his beef truncheon and running away shrieking was not my usual response to a bit of action, came to see what the matter was. He missed his footing on the same rocks and fell, only this time the tide was on the out, and he twatted his head on the rocks and knocked himself spark out.

I then had to drag him back to the chalet, one of us bleeding and both of us pretty much naked, drunk and sore. It is not possible, under these conditions, to sneak in to a chalet leaving your friends unaware.

suffice to say, I spent the remainder of the holiday sober and haven’t really felt the need to indulge in a bit of al fresco action since…
(, Tue 28 Apr 2009, 14:54, 7 replies)
Picture the scene
It's a cold February night in 1995 and I'm out with my then girlfriend, being 14 neither of us are ready to go all the way (or to put it another way she isn't) so we have "come" to a compromise.

Therefore we ended up one Wednesday night in the beach side of the spectators area of Whitstable Tennis club enjoying ourselves to pre agreed limits. Sitting on the bench jeans round my ankles as she knelt in front of me doing her wonderful impression of one of Dyson's finest I was in heaven looking up at the ceiling in my own little world.

At least I was right up until I looked back down and made eye contact with the police officer approaching. Suddenly panicing but also quickly approaching the moment of release I did the only thing I could think of and held up 5 fingers to the officer and began slowly counting down to my "completion". Now some people rail on the police for various things but at least one of them was cool enough to just give me a nod and turn his back for 30 seconds.

Reaching the moment of lift off we tidied ourselves up and I coughed loudly enough that when he turned on his torch and shined it toward us the young lady I was with assumed that was what had caught his attention. Giving us a stern talking to about being out past midnight on a school night he sent us on our way tipping me a wink when it was safe to do so.

So PC whoever, thanks for cutting a kid a break.

Edit: The Spectator stand in question is the green structure on the left of this picture:
View from above:
(, Thu 23 Apr 2009, 20:04, 2 replies)
To be honest, I hate outdoors sex
It's always rushed, scary, cold, uncomfortable and there are never any tissues for post coital clean-up. There's nothing quite like the sight of your girlfriend squatting in the bushes ineffectively wiping her twat with an ATM receipt to put you off sex for life.
(, Thu 23 Apr 2009, 14:38, 8 replies)
Here goes
This was a few years back. Although not too many years. Say about two. Me and the missus of the time were out with a few mates, having a good time. This being in the time before I quit drinking, we were both fairly tipsy. I sauntered off to the bogs to relieve myself of a few pints which had somehow accumulated in my bladder.

Coming back, I stopped off at the bar and procured some more amber nectar for myself and the male friends, and returned to my seat in the corner. The missus leans in close to me, and slurs in my ear, "Ghost, I'm starting to feel a bit dirty..."

Now what I've failed to previously mention is that the missus at the time likes to be licked. Anywhere, it doesn't really matter. It really turns her on. Makes her randy like a rabbit on viagra that hasn't had any for months. So I drunkenly lean in, like I'm kissing her, and instead lick her lips sneakily. She moans a little, causing our mates at the table to laugh and throw a few comments our way.

I lean back, and start to sup on my nearly-forgotten pint, and wait for things to cool down a bit. This does not please the missus, for she wants more and she wants it now. She's also very pissed now, and subtlety has never been her thing. So she plots her revenge very quickly, and walks up to the bar, and shouts out,

"I'll pay anyone a quid to lick me!"

At this point, a few blokes, slightly less pissed, amble up, and tell her in no uncertain terms that they'll lick her. So she gets the money out, and they lick her. She loves this, and moans. And then more people start joining in. I'm transfixed by this sight, too pissed to react in a coherent manner. It was at that point I decided things were over between us.

And that, ladies and gents, is my tale of Pub Licks Ex.

(apologies if bindun. And apologies for shittiness too.)

Click "I Like This" if you think it's really, really bad.
(, Tue 28 Apr 2009, 21:54, 6 replies)
couple of years ago
the bloke and i were pissed and horny waiting for a cab or nightbus or anything that didn't involve me walking in heels.

it was about 3am and there were no cabs in sight. so we started snogging, and soon enough we were pressed hard and fast up against the wall of the doorway of a big shop on regent street (that may be famous for its beige and red check pattern). i slithered drunkenly to my knees and unzipped him. all was going well; he was loving it, i was loving it, and someone thoughtful had even left a few rugs on the step so that my knees weren't hurting...

and then it happened. one second he was on the vinegars, telling the world that he was coming; the next, the smooth, hard courgette in my mouth was shrivelling fast into a button mushroom. the moaning had also turned into a rather terrified whimpering.

i spat out the mushroom and turned round. glaring and swearing incoherently at us was a huge and filthy tramp, the kind that london specialises in, so wrapped up in newspapers and many layers of clothes, that he was about 6 feet wide. and he was seriously unimpressed. the bloke posted his now tiny cock back into his trousers, and we ran back down regent street, sparkly heels or not. and as we did, the tramp's final curse rang out as clear as a bell:

"how would you like it if i fucked in YOUR bed?"
(, Sat 25 Apr 2009, 15:18, 1 reply)
Fuck off, Dog!
So, here we are, on a rug on a hillside, lovely sunny day, myself and the beautiful-but-bonkers gf at the time. Looking down the hill we have a cracking view of a well-known university town. We are cuddling, kissing, her hand goes down south...then her head.

‘Oh goody’ I think – an alfresco blow-job.

There are people on the hill, but mostly coffin-dodgers and kite-flying children. Both sets are a long way away and I am confident, given the expert tounge-lashing that the old chap is currently rec eiving, that matters will be brought to a sticky conclusion before either of them poses a problem.

Then I notice the dog.

About twenty yards away, stupid stick in mouth. Staring at us. With his cocking head on one side.

‘Fuck off, Dog’ I mouth, pathetically gesturing at him to do so.

Inevitably he comes closer. And closer. My partner is unaware of the danger, presumably interpreting my spasmodic thrashings and muffled obscenities for some pre-climactic frenzy. This is awful. Thirty seconds ago, my whole brain was focused on how much I am going to enjoy my imminent spaffing into this lovely young lady’s mouth. Now an increasingly large percentage is taken up with how I can make this furry voyeur go away, and an even larger percentage with how wrong it is to have an erection when looking into the eyes of an animal.

Eventually, feeling horribly horribly dirty I shoot my load. The dog, now practically sitting next to us, looks disappointed – perhaps disapproving. He fucks off, at last, the bastard. My partner, swallows, wipes her mouth, sits up and winks at me roguishly. I feel weak.
(, Thu 23 Apr 2009, 15:51, 9 replies)
Wanking did you say?
"The Homecoming"

I was once driving from Nairn (near Inverness) down to Hertfordshire, a journey of over 500 miles and about 10 hours in a crappy old Daihatsu with a top speed of 85mph. I'd listened to some tapes, listened to the radio, I was bored. Very bored. So I decided to have a little tug on the A1 as I was passing through Northumberland.

There wasn't much traffic about, it was quite late, about 9pm and winter so it was pitch black both inside and outside of the car. No one could see what I was up to as I "zoomed" southwards in the fast lane.

It was an OK wank, nothing special but it did the job and before long I withdrew my hand from my underpants. The area from my index finger to my thumb was sticky, I had no tissues or rags to hand so I licked my fingers clean. Wasn't much I could do about the mess in my pants though.

The thing I find about long journeys is it's better to get them over with as quickly as possible. I'd made this journey a few times and never stopped for a break. If I stopped, I didn't want to start again. I had to keep on going so I lit a post-onanal cigarette, wound down the window, sat back and relaxed.

Have you ever sat in a chair with your own spunk trickling down your arse crack for hours on end? I can confirm that it is not the most pleasant of sensations. Then, as the gloop starts to dry out*, a crust forms which binds your hairs together into a kind of pubic mohawk with your tip peaking out from underneath looking like a toothless one-eyed punk rocker. That's how I sat for the next 250 miles.

When I arrived at my destination thinking "thank fuck that's over", I flung open the car door and jumped out for my first stretch in half a day. "Aaargh! Fuuuck!". I had almost managed to garote my own glans with a pubic cheesewire. Thankfully, upon later inspection, my shaft had proven to be robust and instead I had managed to rip out a sizeable patch of hairs which were stuck fast and sticking out from under my foreskin.

I peeled my jeans from my arse crack and went inside.

*It takes about 3 hours to completely dry if you point the hot air blower in the general direction in case you were wondering.
(, Thu 23 Apr 2009, 14:39, 7 replies)

This question is now closed.

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