Chopper
On the roof of a certain block of flats in Bethnal Green, London is a spontaneous and natural garden comprising a few wind-lashed shrubs and some tufts of wheatgrass. There is also, less spontaneously, a cast iron bathtub. The plug's still in it and if you go onto the roof after a lengthy rainstorm with a genny and a couple of coil heaters, you can have yourself a decently warm bath.

It was an afternoon in late August; it had been raining since early morning up until but it was a sultry day, so you could go out and get wet in the knowledge you'd stay warm. The rain had finally stopped about half an hour before so I went up on the roof with a towel and a book. The bath had about a foot of water in it, enough for a soak. The sky was exceptionally clear after the rain and I could see one or two stars beginning to appear behind the blue expanse. On a whim I took my cock in my hand and traced the form of where I imagined the constellations to be, based on those solitary stars. I have no idea whether I was right or wrong, but it did give me an erection, so I decided to keep going without my hands. If anyone had been looking out of their office window that afternoon, they might have seen a pasty figure in a bathtub on the roof of a block of flats gyrating his hips at the sky. The, something magical happened. I had just given a particularly meaty thrust when my cock began to rotate in a circle, slowly at first but quickly getting faster like the flywheel of a gyroscope. It didn't hurt, really, although I could feel the blood rushing to my cockhead. The water in the bathtub was being blown up against the sides in waves and the downdraft was beginning to make itself felt. I grabbed hold of the bathtub to anchor myself down but it was futile: with a low splash, my dripping body lifted itself from the warm cast iron and before I had time to pick up a delivery order for Amazon, I was rising into the late summer sky over East London.

Some film characters are terrified the first time they fly under their own steam and some are exhilarated. I found the whole sensation quite peaceful; despite the supersonic rotation of my cock, I was moving pretty slowly, more like a glider than any sort of powered aircraft. I levelled off at around twenty storeys’ altitude and began to pitch towards Aldgate. I realised I had no way of steering. Flapping my arms had no noticeable effect so I forced myself to think like a pilot. What I needed was a joystick, close to the drive axis. I stuck my thumb up my arse and pressed right and left, up and down, which had the desired effect. I yawed around and swept down Bethnal Green High Street until I could see the Museum of Childhood and York Hall past the railway bridge. People walked in ant-like meanders beneath me, carrying bags of shopping and mobile phones. As I was borne along the warm risers and the wafts of fried fish and petrol by my trusty helicockter, I let my thoughts drift to how ephemeral we all are, how like marks on a sheet of paper that could be penstrokes or could be dust, to be shooed away by the wind. This made me lose my erection.

My tackle was still spinning but it was now flapping as ineffectually as a dormouse at a disco. I withdrew my thumb and frantically began fapping to control my descent but it was no use, and in a couple of seconds I had crashed folded in half into a large council bin left open on the pavement. The impact made me knee myself in the face and put my back out for the next fortnight; the pain was so intense that I completely forgot I was bursting for a piss. Probably just as well, as my cock was inches from my face at this point. The cruel irony of it all was that I ended up covered in bin-slime when I’d just had a bath.
( .Yeti., Tue 3 Dec 2013, 14:03, 2 replies)

No greasy cock?
Otherwise, I approve of this true story.
( Infidel , shit and wrong, Wed 4 Dec 2013, 10:19, closed)

No grease, alas; only manky banana skins and used teabags.

( .Yeti., Wed 4 Dec 2013, 12:36, closed)