Watford Heritage/history museum
is probably the riskiest place I've ever had sex...
(ricky_darkholer is blonde on the inside, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 13:53, 3 replies)

This is great!
First chance I had to check out the QOTW (thank spankyhanky's right bollock I didn't check at work!), and suddenly 'Paradise by the Dashboard Lights' comes on my headphones. And suddenly my first story comes to mind. Funnily enough I was recounting a list of public sex experiences with a workmate today.

Anyway, long story short, what I want to know is what kind of fuck-knuckles allow their tiny children to wander around the drive-ins in the middle of the night, peering in car windows?

I was sixteen that fateful night I saw those tiny innocent eyes looking through the window, over my then-boy's bronzed back at my shocked face and I'm still scarred.
(Angie the Redneck Wonder, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 13:51, 2 replies)

Had one of those on-off off-on relationships at University.
At the time we were 'off', went to a club night and was doing the single thing of dancing badly with people of the opposite sex and generally getting too drunk before admitting defeat.

From the other side of the dancefloor the ex noticed that my uncoordinated attempts of dancing seemed to be more effective with one particular girl and jealously / protectiveness meant that she cut in and danced with me promptly.

This led to more dancing and general back 'on' ness of our relationship, culminating in us leaving the club at about 11pm to find anywhere we could be intimiate, considering we'd had a decent few weeks break without a fuck in sight.

Brighton Pavillion Gardens was the only venue we seemingly could think of: wet arse, muddy jeans and then shame-faced back to the clubnight to cheers from our mates to get even more pissed. Good times.

We've been together since this break though if memory services me correctly and not far off a decade together now - so jealously induced fucking was a resounding success.

:)
(Pat_Gash, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 13:50, 2 replies)

Just a thought...
But I'd really quite like to see SpankyHanky, Chart Cat, and Pooflake have a threeway in public.
Might not be pretty, but it would be funny as fuck to hear what they come out with.
(Grrrrr Tigers, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 13:39, 11 replies)

In April 2004...
...me a few of my friends decided that going abroad on big group holidays was just 'too normal' so decided to rent out a massive farm house in Cornwall for a week and road trip it up in 3 cars from the other side of the country, as you do.

Suitably fuelled on about 20 cans of red bull, my boyfriend at the time lead the convoy doing an average speed of about 100mph and only slowed down to open more cans of red bull. By the time we arrived he was so jittery he actually couldn't sit down so a few of the group decided to go on a wander and see how far away the beach was from the house.
I should mention at this point that 12 out of the 15 people at the house were coupled up, two of which (my lovely friend Rob and his girlfriend Jess) had only been together about a fortnight and were in a highly frisky mood so even before we starting walking they had already made plans to sneak off for a little bit of alfresco nookie.

As we wandered along the narrow path we noticed that the pair were dragging their feet and eventually we lost sight of them all together, we all had a good chuckle about what they were up to and continued along the path - It was then we came upon the birdwatchers. A group of about 6 thermos-carrying, stupid-hat-wearing, binoculared , bespecced birdwatchers were hovering around a farm gate with an air of anticipation. My ex enquired as to what they were hanging around a gate for and they explained that the previous week one of their club members had witnessed some rare bird hanging around so they had all come along for a gander.

I couldn't help but notice that they were looking in the direction we had all just walked from and as I was contemplating this I was brought back to reality with an ear-piercing scream... turned out they had witnessed an altogether different kind of rarity, a ‘white-rumped-Rob' porking a ‘lesser-spotted-Jess' up against a tree... ah memories.
(Flim-Flam the Magnificent "You is talking loco and I like it!", Fri 24 Apr 2009, 13:36, 1 reply)

Epic fail
Time when I didn’t have sex in public. Met a girl in the local Australian themed bar in town.

“You can walk me back to my hotel if you like, but you can’t stay as I’m sharing with friends” she tells me. Ok, not too far out of my way so sounds good.

We walk back, and I notice her hotel isn’t too far from a secluded area near the golf course, think, hummn, we could have some fun here. “we could just sit on this bench for a bit?” I hopingly ask her… “sure…” so we sit, cuddle, fondle and what not. I’m blundering away trying to undo her bra when she looks over my shoulder at a memorial five feet away.

“what’s that?” she enquires… “Oh, that’s cause this* happened a couple years ago”… and then we both realise at the same time it’s best if I walk her home now.

Tip for you, if you fancy having some drunk late night al fresco fun, make sure you don’t take them to the spot where some poor girl was brutally murdered and raped a few years before.

*http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/england/1639279.stm
(CornishStanley can't post hyperlinks, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 13:23, 1 reply)

One way glass...
...in the bogs here.

www.popgadget.net/2007/09/cool_bathrooms.php
(Tugnut Ex of this parish, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 13:16, Reply)

Not so good
At university I fell in love with the most beautiful girl I have ever known. I wasn't the only person to fall in love with her, but by some miracle she chose me (actually I found out later that I was one of several people, but let's not let facts spoil the story).

I'll call her Q: she was stunningly beautiful and loved mucky sex. She had a boyfriend at another university so wanted to keep our relationship a secret from her friends. She was in a shared room, I was not, so my bed saw a lot of action, but it did mean our possibilities to meet up and do the dirty were restricted.

One day, after a particularly hot shag, she whispered huskily in my ear that she wanted me to come to her parents' house that weekend "to tune my harpsichord". I thought that a rather poor euphemism: when I realised she'd said "to tune my father's harpsichord" I was even more worried. But it turned out her father really did have a harpsichord, and as I was somewhat musical this could be a good excuse.

So we took the train to her parents' house and I messed about on the harpsichord a bit in the morning. After lunch Q suggested we went for a walk in the woods. When we were well out of sight of the house she took me by the hand and led me into the trees. “This may be the only chance we get this weekend” she said as we walked deeper into the woods. Then, “I want to show you a special place”.

Well I’d already seen her special place, but perhaps seeing it outside would be even better, I thought. Turns out it was a special place in the woods she wanted to show me. There was a glade, and it was perfect. The sunlight came slanting down through the trees, illuminating the mossy floor with shafts of green and golden light. The leaves seemed to be rustling sensually as we stood looking into the hidden grove. The only thing missing was a baby dear. Two trees had grown leaning together, their trunks forming a kind of arched entrance. Q looked up at me and proceeded to tell me about wood-spirits and ancient pagan customs, and the meanings of trees. As I lost myself in her deep brown eyes and soft voice she told me that when we walked through the arch are souls would be joined and the magic glade would be ours to consummate our woodland wedding.

She led me through the arch into the clearing and we stood in a beam of sunlight, holding hands and gazing at each other. I bent down to kiss her and as our lips met I swear the birds started to sing. Well we snogged and then there was some fumbling and rubbing and pretty soon we were lying down on the mossy grass. Q started undoing my belt and trousers. My hands were already in her pants, so I pulled them down and she manouvered her legs to get them off. My cock came free and she was stroking me enthusiastically as I undid her blouse, exposing her beautifully formed breasts. She rolled me over onto my back, pulled a condom out of a pocket somewhere and expertly put it on me. “I love this girl”, I thought as she straddled me, her long dark hair falling around my face like a cage just for us two.

I think it was around then that I noticed the spider web in her hair, but my thoughts were elsewhere. Her head was down close to mine, her eyes closed as she moaned. I felt an itch under my bum, against the ground, but chose to ignore it. Q reached round to scratch an itch on her back. I kept pumping away as she squirmed delightfully on top of me, and then moved her hand to scratch one knee. I was aware of the itch on my bum getting worse, and I was starting to feel a scratching on the back of my neck. I used one hand to scratch it and felt something on my neck, something wriggly. Then there was a burning sensation starting at my neck and moving down my back, the itching on my bum turned into a biting, Q’s sexy squirming turned into an irritated shaking and her moaning from pleasurable to complaining. She suddenly leapt off me, her hands going under her clothes to scratch herself and I reached for the burning areas on my skin. I looked down to my glistening dumbstick, only to see what looked like a small army of ants marching up my thighs towards it, pausing only to sink their enormous jaws into my soft flesh. I stood up and started dancing around, slapping at my legs and back, where more ants were beating a path down my spine. Something was in my hair: a beetle! Q was standing head down frantically scratching at her head and I swear I saw spiders and centipedes falling out as she pawed at her hair.

We both ran and jumped, scratched and slapped, I more encumbered than she as my pants were round my ankles. Eventually I thought I’d got all the bugs off me but my skin was still crawling. I felt a slimy thing on my thigh only to look down and discover it was my condom-clad and now-deflated member drooping slimily against my leg. Q was crying as I pulled up my trousers, still shivering and twitching as I felt the creatures crawling over me. To cap it all off a bird flew over and crapped on me with a laughing cackle.

Q stormed off, sobbing and I followed her, pushing our way through what now seemed thorny, unfriendly undergrowth, pausing occasionally to claw frantically at more spiders which had latched on to us.

We got back to her parents’ house, rushing to have (separate) showers. The harpsichord never got tuned.
(Smale is stuffed, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 13:15, 7 replies)

Foot & mouth & other bits
2001, Foot & Mouth or whatever ravaging the countryside, meeting up with a "larger lady" off off the internet. After some preliminary get to know you / you aren't an axe murderer are you? type of stuff we jump in my car to have a pootle round & see what happens. Fucksocks, the car park I have in mind is locked to stop tourists spreading cow death. OK, mist is coming down quite quickly & there's a layby. OK, stop, lets's see....
Hands touch, lips touch, she hauls up her skirt revealing red lace panties, legs half spread. At the first touch of her mound she moaned. My fingers caress the mound through the now wet gusset, finding her pleasure bud and bringing her to a ringing climax. Great, into the back seats we get. She know a few tunes to play on the pink oboe, then it was her turn again...... and a troop of walkers (yes they were out in fog & rain with the countryside shut) approached the car. Then started rubbing on the steamed-up windows to see what was going on.
"That's disgusting" we heard.....
A few minutes a police car stops opposite - oh shit! But they just glance at the car, probably making sure it wasn't nicked, then off they went. Wahaay! We figure we may as well carry on, which we did for quite a while. Finally it was back to town & a big box of ribs & chips - naughties makes me hungry :)

She told me later she liked "risky" sex, and once did it in the middle of Sainsburys car park on a busy shopping day.

Sorry for length, she was grateful for it.
(Mister_E_Meat was caught sniffing bike saddles at, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 13:01, Reply)

not so parthenic now
My Grandfather and Grandmother were asked to cut short their visit up the Acropolis for having sex on the steps.
Another time I was looking through an old album and saw a photo of my Granny snuggled up under a blanket on a flat rock projecting from a sea-side cliff. My Grandfather leans over and says "You see that rock? We had just made love on there."
Unfortunately the adventurous sex gene wasn't passed down to me and I have only earned the standard field, park, churchyard, and club toilet shag-badges.
(CaraVAGgio, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 12:39, Reply)

Quite a few alfresco tales, (who he?)
At a party once, pre Aids days, a girlie had a queue of us lined up next to the bed. I was about tenth down the line, no one was using rubbers, so you can imagine the state of her clout when it came to me. Think plasterer's bucket.
I gained fame that night by picking up a nearby sock, wiping her out with it and doing the deed. Even now, 20 years later, a guy from my home town reminds me of this, and refers to me as The Sock.

Up a tree in the park, on a drunken stumble home. Some ducks looked at me in a funny way, and put me off the vinegar strokes. Bastards.

I lost my cherry standing up outside a nightclub in the early hours. She was Scottish, red haired and I have no idea of her name now.
(Bear Pookie The Frankly Challenged. Halloween is coming to town., Fri 24 Apr 2009, 12:15, 4 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?”
“*cough*”
“What?”
“’bout seven miles”
“Twat”

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
(voodo_kinky, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 12:13, 13 replies)

Ahem, Are you sitting comfortably?
Then I'll begin...

I was about 20 or so, and had had the hots for this bloke Darryl for some time. We'd known each other for years, and enjoyed each others' company, but for some reason, just never got around to taking it further.

One night, Darryl suggested we go to the drive in, a now extinct rite of passage for all Aussies, to ostenstibly see some crappy B grade movie, but actually taking the opportunity of being in a warm car at night in the dark with someone you want to get to know a bit better.... unsurprisingly, I sparked up and started to look forward to what would most likely end up as 'THE BIG NIGHT' for us.

I arrive and find out the drive in affair is to be a double-bill: Darryl's brother and his girlfriend are coming along too. While they got busy in the back seat, Darryl and I couldn't quite bring ourselves to do the same, so contented ourselves with some hands-on exploration. Finally the movie finished, and we all pretended we'd enjoyed the film, while re-adjusting our clothing etc for the drive home.

On arrival at Darryl's parents place, Darryl's brother and his girlfriend made themselves scarce and Darryl and I were left alone at last. It was late, and I was disappointed both mentally and physically, that neither of us had had the chance to get any action. But fate smiled on us, and when Darryl walked me back to my car, a 1974 Volvo 144GL, he noticed its comfy and huge leather bucket seats.

Within seconds, we were both in the car and Darryl had pulled me over from the driver's side onto his lap and proceeded to rekindle my interest in his physical person. Very nice it was too, so, emboldened, I hitched up my black velvet dress, and straddled him, making sure I was keeping his interest as well.

Time passed as it does, when you are totally preoccupied with the 'first time' with someone, and we were oblivious to the outside world as we pressed our bodies together as far as they would go, and in as many satisfying directions as possible for foreplay.

The windows were quite steamed up by then, and we were getting to the part of the proceedings where part A was to be inserted into slot B. This required a little bit of skill, as the Volvo was not a roomy vehicle, and there was a bit of fumbling as Darryl's trousers were undone for the final act.

I was literally poised above his manhood, about to blissfully conjoin our eager bodies, when there was a loud tap on the window right next to our heads. A disgruntled man's voice almost shouted "I don't care what you are doing in there, but TURN YOUR BLOODY MOTOR OFF!"

Neither of us had even noticed since arriving at Darryl's place that I had only put the car in park, and not turned off the ignition. It turned out we'd been parked there for over an hour, at something like 1am, with this agricultural sounding Volvo belching and farting in a quiet suburban street.

Not surprisingly, Part A decided it needed a bit of a lie-down, and Part B ended up going home unsatisfied that night.

Follow up: A couple of days later, we decided to try again, but this time, Darryl came to my place. I had just moved on to the most satisfying part of the massage when my flatmate took this opportune moment to fall off the painters scaffolding outside and hurt his back. His cries of agony put a kybosh on both our libidos. Thwarted again!!! At this point, we both kind of gave up, deciding there must be a reason for all the interruptions. We're still great friends though. Just one of my nagging regrets in life, that I didn't get nearly as much action as I should have. Oh well.
( Shazzoir Old enough to know better young enough not to care, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 12:11, Reply)

Sex pride
Ok, although I'm proud to say I've ruined ample family walks by being discoverd mid-sausage-dip, the time that really makes me cringe is as follows:
I'd just finished a rare mammoth "Oh-fuck-look-at the-time" sex session with my girlfriend when I realised I was meant to be at work fixing some blokes computer (i.e. plugging the monitor in/removing virus encrusted mature pornography).
Off I trot gaylee to work with the soggy latex man-sap dam tied up in my empty pocket.
Slowly the hour i was being paid for elapsed, and i was free to go home. Stuffing my handsome earnings (50 fucking quidlettes!!) into my trousers I ran home and strode proudly up to the kitchen table where my dear family were about to munch down sunday lunch.
Triumph in my eyes I pulled out the contents of my pocket in a tight fist:
"It only took an hour!?!" I gleed.
By the time i noticed the latex wrapped packet of dying sperm dangling between my fingers the damage had already been done.
"err..good job" My dad stutters, eyes now fixing on the kitchen table.
I'm sweating just thinking about it
(Jonniestwin, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 12:10, 3 replies)

Al fresco shagging does funny things to you
The last time Mrs Hatred went for it outdoors- on the banks of the river Eden in Cumbria for the record- I wound up engaged so I've been wary of doing so since lest I wind up a Dad or promising her a sports car or something else I'd be unlikely to do in normal circumstances. I will say however that the locale was splendid.

It must be said that my first car- a 1977 Mercedes 200- was ideal for this sort of thing as the gearshift was on the steering column meaning that the front seat was continuous and folded completely flat. This coupled with soft suspension and a reasonable stereo meant it saw a great deal of service in the passion wagon role during my formative driving years.
(Leonard Hatred briefly did some work on, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 12:06, Reply)

Half public, half fuck-up
I used to play in a lot of bands and orchestras when I was younger. I've played at the Barbican and the Royal Albert Hall. We also went on tour occasionally. You know "this one time, at band camp"? It's not that far off, as fluffles can attest to.

This year, it was Germany we were going to. And it was my 16th birthday while we were out there. I was looking forward to using the Continent's delightful tolerance of highly underage drinking to get completely leathered, and if possible, score with a girl. I had my preferences but really almost any girl would do.

But of course, this being a trip for a large group of young persons, we didn't have individual rooms. Instead I had three other guys with me in a room consisting of two double beds. Some shag-fest this was going to be.

I can't remember exactly, but we were there for four nights, I think. First night we all stayed in our room. Second night there was a party in another room. I got talking to one of the girls who played clarinet - let's call her Laura (which is not her name).

We got on fairly well and laughed and blah blah blah basically we ended up staying in the same room, lying next to each other and in a pathetically teenage fashion she laid her head in the crook of my elbow. Not even the usual shoulder/armpit, but the elbow, as my arm lay by my side.

Okay, I thought, this might go somewhere.

And the next day was my birthday! Everyone was at the pub in the evening and I got a number of drinks bought for me, as well as cigarettes given to me, the teenage non-smoker who wanted to look cool.

Anyway, back at the hostel we ended up with about fifteen people in our room, laughing, drinking, smoking and eventually going to sleep.

Laura was with us again, but this time she was in the bed with me, and had moved up to the now-familiar armpit/shoulder crook. I should point out that there were at least two other people in the bed with us, possibly three, another four or five on the other bed the other side of the room, and perhaps another four or five on the floor.

As such, conversation in the room included the exclamations that "It's bloody hot in here, isn't it?" "Open the window someone" and "No shagging, it's too hot in here already".

To which Laura whispered in my ear "Oh well cypherspace..." rendering me rock hard in an instant.

As soon as the lights went out she moved to find my lips, and started kissing me... quite passionately, shall we say. The rest of the room was fairly silent save the odd quip, for example "There's some heavy breathing going on over there..."

Events confined themselves to the top half of each other's bodies, but nevertheless, it was the furthest I'd been with a girl and a pretty good birthday present. And we were quite discreet. I don't think anyone knew we'd gone any further than kissing.

The next day, the last night, we arranged to meet in my room during the evening. There was another party in another room, which I attended but then disappeared halfway through. I met Laura and we went to my room, which was now empty. There was a spare key in case of emergencies in the corridor so I took that as well as my own key, locked the door from the inside and put the key in the lock. Now, we were to be undisturbed.

Things soon got a lot more busy than they had the previous night. Laura said she didn't want to have sex, which I was okay with (I didn't have a condom anyway), but I got through a lot of firsts that night. However, halfway through we were interrupted by a knock at the door - to which we immediately ceased all activities and went deathly silent. Which wasn't suspicious at all.

"Hello?" called my roommate Simon.
"Er....hello!"
"...cyph?"
"Yep, what's up?"
"..is Laura in there?"

"Are you here?" I asked her in a whisper. She shook her head.

"No!" I called out, thinking nothing of the suspicious, several-second delay between question and answer.

"...so why is the door locked?"
"Er...."
"Are you having a wank?"

Fuck. Trapped.

"No! I'll, er, be out in a second."
"...okay...."

We got dressed hurriedly. I opened the door and peeked out of the room. Simon was nowhere to be seen. We walked down the corridor and hustled Laura into her room. I carried on to find Simon at the top of the stairs along with my other roommates.

"So... Laura wasn't with you then?"
"No!"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes! Why are you so sure she was with me?!"

"Well... you've got your shirt on inside-out."

I looked down.

I looked up.

"Fuck."
(cypherspace is not a toaster, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 12:01, Reply)

Threesome in the Graveyard
This is a story which gets brought up by my friends time and time again after a few beers. It happened nearly four years ago now, but I still remember every detail like it was yesterday.

It was a warm Friday night in June, and I'd been on a bit of a session at my local pub. Upon leaving, I decided that instead of walking home my usual way through the town, I'd take a shortcut which took me through a park and through an adjoining graveyard. During the winter months, I would never dream of going this way; there are woods to the back of the graveyard and it was just far too eerie. It was a combination of the booze and the warm evening air that took me through the graveyard. It was late, but still light.

As I neared the entrance to the graveyard I could hear raised voices and it wasn't hard to work out that it was a man and woman having an argument.As I got closer, I could see the woman was clearly upset, pushing the man away from her whilst shouting a mass of abuse at him.

I ventured over; the woman looked very upset,her face was red and blotchy, and although the man didn't look threatening in the physical sense, he was calling her all the names under the sun. He turned to look at me,"Fuck off mate, this has nothing to do with you".

"I just want to check that she's ok" I murmured, and the woman turned to look at me.

"She's fine, now fuck off" scowled the angry man, but I wasn't scared. God bless alcohol.

I spent the next 45 minutes sat on a bench in the graveyard finding out that they were, as I suspected, a couple, and were arguing because Craig (the angry man) had been chatting up some random bird earlier that evening, much to Debbie's (the woman) annoyance. My drunken state led me to believe I was some sort of Trisha Goddard/Jeremy Kyle type. I was on a crusade.

I told them that I could see how much they loved each other. I expressed my concern that they were damaging their relationship by arguing like they were. I told Debbie that she should trust Craig more, and I advised Craig not to take the piss too much, put himself in Debbie's position for once. I let them know of past relationships I'd thrown away and of how lucky they were to have each other. I talked non-stop bollocks, rambled on and on, but I'd calmed the situation quite remarkably.

Then, it happened.

Wihout any warning, Debbie leant in for a kiss. I was taken aback to say the least. There I was, trying to sort out their relationship,a relationship of 2 people I'd met less than an hour previously, and she was coming onto me.

Now Debbie wasn't the ugliest, but by no means was she pretty. The best I could describe her would to be 'chavvy' or whatever the equivilant of that was 4 years ago. I could make out a slim figure underneath the tracksuit top and jeans, the moon seemed to reflect off her shiny forehead. She smelt strongly of fags and hairspray.

I decided to do what any man would - I kissed her back.
As we gained momentum, passionately shoving our tongues into each others mouths, I grew more aware that Craig didn't seem to mind. I didn't open my eyes to find out, I was actually enjoying the moment, but you'd have expected him to at least throw a bit of a wobbly.

As things started to heat up, I felt by no means awkward. The situation was so bizarre but I just seemed to get on with it.
Debbie reached into my trousers and started tugging on my ever hardening cock quite feverishly. I carried on kissing her, eyes closed, and reached into her top to have a fondle of her (quite firm) breasts.
I became aware that Craig had stood up. Through my squinting eyes I could see him bashing himself silly, all the while staring at me and Debbie intently.

Soon enough we were all naked. I took Debbie from behind, quite slowly, whilst she performed fellatio on Craig. I remember her using the end of the bench to steady herself. As I began to thrust harder and harder, Debbie was begging me to come deep inside her but I wasn’t ready.Perhaps it was the alcohol that was giving me the stamina.
I squeezed my throbbing shaft at the base and withdrew. The sight of me, member bobbing around proudly, caused Phil to withdraw from Debbie's mouth and spatter her face with his man fat. She looked like a plasterer’s radio, but she managed to force a smile and lick her lips a little.
I was started tugging myself like a little Spider monkey at this point, whilst furiously fingering Debbie’s baggy snatch. Yes, she wasn't 10/10 for looks, but her pert breasts more than made up for the lack of friction I was receiving from her vaginal passage. She had a nice little rug on her as well, like a 70s German porn star.
Craig was watching us again with beady eyes and was semi-erect. I took his place on the bench and lay down. Debbie shimmied herself over me and then squatted, releasing a torrent of fluid over my chest, which I massaged into myself. She then lowered herself onto my wand and began to slowly gyrate, leaning forward so I could take a nipple between my teeth. I held onto her arse for support and went at jack hammer speed. Debbie wailed loudly and arched her back, her ribcage protruded through her skin. I was ready to unleash my load into her cunny and she shouted, “I’m coming you fucker” as she climaxed.

After she had dismounted, i looked at Craig. He nooded as if to say, 'No problem'. They got dressed quickly and left with a quick 'See you around'. I kissed Debbie on the cheek and as I watched them walk off into the night, the realisation of what had just happened hit me. I sat where Iwas for a while, slack-jawed. My heart was pounding and I'd sobbered up quite a bit.

Then, much to my shock,I heard clapping and cheers. From the wooded area at the back of the graveyard, 4 lads emerged from the darkness.

"Good lad", "You dirty fucker", "Nice one fella".

The shouts were aimed at me.
I was very embarrassed but strangley aroused. I'd never been caught in the act before.

Head down, I ran home, and proceeded to have the best wank of my life to date.
(Monkey the Chicken Twitter: death_stairs, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 11:59, 4 replies)

In freshers at uni....
Next to the war memorial statue in the clifton cemetary. Wasn't trying to raise any spirits, just my cock.
(Pingoo likes cheese, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 11:52, Reply)

Love takes many forms !
Have you ever done it on a form?

You get splinters in your wrists, and the OAP bowlers come to have a look.
(paof2 Nude might not be rude, but rude could be nude..., Fri 24 Apr 2009, 11:40, Reply)

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.
( chart cat has an itch, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 11:19, 33 replies)

I hope he is not on B3TA or he might kill me......
My Friend who I shall call M for that is his first initial, had been going out with his still current girlfriend for about 2 years.

One afternoon last year they decided to go for a Picnic in Windsor Great Park and the walked around enjoying the sun and the sites and had from what Im told was a really nice lunch. Later in the afternoon they found they were alone in a part of the park no one appears to be in. Both of them were feeling rather horny to say the least as they only get to see each other every other weekend at this point so they start to do the dirty and play with every posible hole. Whilst they are Mid flow a loud noise is herd, Like Meercats they pop there heads up to see the Queens procession going by whilst pulling clothes back on and luckily they did not get seen doing the business.

I would like to think that if the Queen had seen them that they maybe would have been Hung or some such other old victorian punishment.....
(tfi049113 Was found alive on, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 11:16, Reply)

First time lovelyness...
Hello hello.
The first time me and Miss Thunderwulf consummated our relationship we were in a corn field at about 10pm, on a lovely clear night, with a band playing shit metal beautiful music about a quarter of a mile away.
Her band had just performed, and I'd completely fallen in love with her voice, powerful yet angelic.
We walked off, hand in hand, until eventually the grubby stoners petered out and we found ourselves alone.
Natural urges inevitably took over (close up on camera two please, soft focus).
After we'd both "ooh"ed, "aah"ed and "nng"ed to a sweaty, breathless conclusion, we rolled onto our backs and laid arm-in-arm, looking at the starlit sky.
Incredibly, there was some kind of meteor shower, and we spent five or ten minutes watching shooting stars fly before our eyes, wonderfully happy, realising and declaring our love for one another.
Then we stood up and discovered we were covered in slugs and spiders.
Al fresco rutting: good if you like bugs, horrifying if you don't.
(Paolo Nutini's Bikini Better than Frederick Fleet's optometrist, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 11:07, 2 replies)

Cambridge University. University Library.
That is all.
(indie design Can I smell lobster bisque?, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 11:05, 3 replies)

Goth Boy

My next door neighbor is a Goth and, as you'd expect, he's got a Goth girl friend. And she's a screamer.

So every time she's stays over and they get down to the sweet, sweet, lovin' she starts to howl.

Now normally I can't hear shit from Goth Boys place but I can when the Banshee starts up.

So a little tradition has started here in the Legless houshold. When she starts the screaming I go to :

www.youtube.com/watch?v=pKZV1MSldJk

I skip forward to 55 seconds and crank the volume up on my speakers.

I should really grow up.

Cheers

That link is probably NSFW and, if you have your sound up full, then it's *definitely* NSFW
( Legless Mister Stabby - shanks for the memory, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 10:59, 4 replies)

I wasn't having sex in the park late at night
but I had consumed, along with 6 other friends around 5grams of dried mushrooms.

I'm not sure what the half dressed couple thought of the giggling saucer eyed loons staring at them but I would very much like to publicly apologise for getting down on my hands and knees to get a better look.

I wasn't perving at all, I was just somewhat baffled as to why the bench was gyrating.

sorry.
(Tibble off the crack since, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 10:57, Reply)

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.
( Pooflake braces for an onslaught..., Fri 24 Apr 2009, 10:23, 16 replies)

Not it's intended use
I once woke up on a friend's couch after a very heavy night out to discover the friend who's flat it was berating another friend of mine for his antics of the night before. It turns out he had pulled in his own words 'a whale' and they had both had the great idea of not using the girl's safe and private bed in the hall of residence in case anyone else in the flat became aware of what they were doing.

So in their infinite wisdom they took a short walk out of the building to the hall's activity room where my mate bent her over the pool table and rode her bareback as any good gentleman would.

It was during this ever-so romantic endeavour that they were busted by a warden who was either doing the rounds or had spotted them on one of the prominant cctv cameras. The following exchange was priceless.

Warden: What do you think you're doing? This is the activity room!

My drunk mate: It's an activity isn't it?!

Beautiful.
( Raindance Work is inversely proportional to post-count, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 10:22, 1 reply)

HMS Invincible

During my former years, I was a short lived broadcast journalist. I did some cool stuff and even went to the Ivor Novello awards and got to interview Kylie, she was tiny.

But the best thing I ever did [and even now] was a two week placement with NATO, as a journalist for a war exercise they do annually. An embedded journalist, on HMS Invincible, a bloody great big aircraft carrier.

It was basically a big floating hotel, with awesome food, free [we forgot to pay at the end] booze, and free reign of the ship, but this hotel had armed guards and Harrier jump jets waking you up at 6am. But still, was bloody awesome.

The war exercise went well, we did our interviews and had a great time. However, by week 2, my girlfriend of the time, also a journalist, joined us on the ship. Sweet. More fun was had, lots of boozing [the Navy boys can drink – hell the pilots can fly the planes after a hard nights boozing] and one night, me and the girlfriend decided to spend the night, and hell, when are we going to get the chance to have sex on an aircraft carrier again?

Crept off to her bunk room, her room mate was out, so we did the deed, and passed out. Until we were woke by our media liaison officer [oh, we were also told we weren’t allowed to cohabit while on shit, Navy policies] the following morning. “Er, Mrs Stanley, is Stanley in there?” I decided to hide as I thought I’d be in trouble… “Well Mrs Stanley, we don’t mind if he is, just that we can’t find him and we may have to do a ‘man overboard’ which will mean stopping this 20,000 tonne vessel and sending out a search and rescue helicopter at a vast expense”… thought I’d better own up at that point. Still was worth it. Got to have sex on a Navy Warship while Harriers took above us… Awesome.
(CornishStanley can't post hyperlinks, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 10:14, Reply)

fore!
Think I might be busy this week…

Last year my lovely wife and I, stupidly left a beautiful rural location in Scotland to live in the dustbowl that is Dubai – a silly mistake but then we all make them. Anyway – wavy lines …

We’re both from Bonny Scotland to begin with but we were brought up in the city so when we moved to a small town some 16 years ago, (more a village with aspirations to be honest) we fell in love with the place. The Clyde Valley is a truly beautiful place with historic little towns like Lanark (yes William Wallace and all that) nestling in some of the most beautiful rolling countryside the Big Fella ever made.

So we took to strolling around of an evening to enjoy the sunset – I miss long summer evenings, here its just - right, 6pm ITSFUCKINGNIGHTTIMELIGHTSOFF.

So one fine summer’s eve Mrs Spimf and I were sauntering along our local golf course long after the duffers had left. Golf courses become beautiful places as soon as those tits with sticks and their little fey trolley's trundle off. So there we were, heading for home along the fairways and across the greens as the day drew to a close and the butterflies began to consider the sinking sun.

Now I don’t play golf myself – waste of a good walk, but I know only too well it involves a considerable degree of complex etiquette and falderal so when we wandered by a sand trap at the 16th Mrs Spimf was intrigued by the rake left there and the Zen manner in which the sand had been drawn into neat little furrows. I explained that accepted practice was, should you be so unfortunate as to whack your silly little ball with your silly little bat so incompetently it ended up in a bunker, after one had finished flailing and cursing and kicking up more sand than a nesting turtle, it was considered gentlemanly to smooth over the lumps and bumps in case it made things more difficult for the next white-man-dressed-as-a-pimp to punt his silly little ball into a similar predicament.

Mrs Spimf was both equally amused and inspired by this and with a lascivious glint in her eye and the warm glow of the last rays of sun bringing out the auburn in her hair she looked coquettishly at me, tugged at my jeans and was in an instant going at me like a dog eating hot chips. Its fair to say we then went on to enjoy a damn fine shag in that there sandy bunker.

After we had finished our carnal desecration of the course and were dusting ourselves down I happened to glance down at where we had lain mere moments before. There in the sand like some fallen snow angel was a PERFECT impression of my wife’s beautifully formed posterior molded into the cool damp sand for posterity. The deep impressions left by her arse, elbows and ankles together with my knees made it blisteringly clear to even the most casual observer that some dirty buggers had been banging away in the bunkers. I felt it only right and fitting we sign such an artistic installation, so i scrawled crudely... “we shagged here on (date)”... eloquent, informative and childishly concise i thought.

We even nicked the flag off the 16th pin as a trophy.

I’d loved to have seen the faces on the next bunch of lambswool wankers to happen upon our tomshaggery.
( spimf ™ is whoever you want him to be, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 10:04, 4 replies)