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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)
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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)
oohh deary me...
I need a shower after that...*click*
(, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 10:33, closed)
if i had a hat, i'd take it off.
once again, you have firmly trampled over the humour/bad taste divide with aplomb. what a great way to start my day!
(, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 10:37, closed)
I wish I hadn't read that now.
(, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 10:51, closed)
Andrea, you say?
I know an Andrea who was much the same.

Good Grief... you don't think...?
(, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 11:27, closed)
The closest I can think of as a comparison...

Is that she reminded me of 'Lizzie Birdsworth', the old codger from Prisoner: Cell Block H

*shudders again*
(, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 12:28, closed)
Fuck, I'm in pain!
I couldn't stop giggling, and my pathetic attempts to stifle my officelols only made it more obvious to everyone around me.
(, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 13:27, closed)
Wonderful, magnificent, fucking hillarious
Pooflake, you are a sexy god of sex...
(, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 13:55, closed)
I feel sullied after reading that. And yet, my shoulders were heaving up and down in silent office mirth.
(, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 14:14, closed)
holy mother of god
a little bit of my lunch just came back up

(, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 14:31, closed)
I will never be the same again...
My face hurts from the laughter. Might need to form a support group for those who've read this tale!

(, Fri 24 Apr 2009, 15:05, closed)
munting mound of melted mong manure.
For that line alone sir: CLICK!
(, Sat 25 Apr 2009, 0:52, closed)
I had trouble holding the phone steady
to get to the end. Click for uncomfortable ew factor.
(, Sat 25 Apr 2009, 5:18, closed)
That was just fucking brilliant!
I laughed so hard at some of your wonderful descriptions, I farted involuntarily.

If I had some wee in me, some of that would have come out too.

Have a click!
(, Sun 26 Apr 2009, 11:38, closed)
That was absolutely vile!! Have a click, young 'un!
(, Mon 27 Apr 2009, 17:10, closed)
Damn it...
... you're just too good.

I was going to withhold my click in protest but then I remembered you'd used the phrase "flop out a flap and wring out a kidney" and "slapping a kebab-meat bass guitar" and my clicking finger became autonomous.
(, Tue 28 Apr 2009, 14:37, closed)

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