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This is a question Trapped!

Pig Bodine asks: Where have you got stuck, trapped or tangled?

(, Fri 28 Feb 2014, 12:09)
Pages: Popular, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

This question is now closed.

Upside down, hanging by my feet from scaffolding...
I would like to think that my plan of swinging, tucking and landing like Thor would have worked if I were sober but instead I landed flat on my back, winded and making noises like a goose until I could finally coax some breath back into my body. Good times! :-)
(, Mon 10 Mar 2014, 23:06, Reply)
Schrodinger's box
I got stuck in a Schrodinger's box for a while.

Where I might have been dead or maybe not or even been both alive and dead simultaneously.

Gonna stay the fuck away from Expedia in the future. Worst holiday ever.
(, Mon 10 Mar 2014, 21:27, 1 reply)

(, Mon 10 Mar 2014, 20:52, 14 replies)
The only answer is....
That you fuckers are on the 777 from Malaysia and are now trapped at the bottom of the sea!

(, Mon 10 Mar 2014, 17:48, 6 replies)
Scaryduck, if this is hilarious joke,
you know, because we are trapped in this question. I would like to point out that it will only be funny, if you don't change the question for at least four weeks.
(, Mon 10 Mar 2014, 15:47, 9 replies)
Anybody been trapped in any nice lifts recently?

(, Mon 10 Mar 2014, 15:43, 11 replies)
Yeah, well....
So, anyone ever been pissed on? Do you have a 44,000 litre pool of saline in the backyard? Tell us your story.
(, Mon 10 Mar 2014, 14:15, 13 replies)
Has anyone gone round to Scaryduck's house to check that he hasn't done a Benny Hill?

(, Mon 10 Mar 2014, 14:10, Reply)
Any sign of this week's QOTW? I heard they spotted some wreckage floating around on /OT

(, Mon 10 Mar 2014, 13:46, 1 reply)
what's your favourite telly advert?
haha, remember mr.oizo?
(, Mon 10 Mar 2014, 13:08, 36 replies)
None of you seem to understand.
You're not locked in here with me. I'm locked in here with you, for fuck's sake someone let me out.
(, Mon 10 Mar 2014, 11:46, 1 reply)
OMG just make me a fucking mod for QOTW
I'll come up with some interesting questions that actually haven't been asked yet and they change on time.
(, Mon 10 Mar 2014, 11:19, 5 replies)
Is this a great joke?
Or a comment on modern life? We are all trapped by our own insignificance
(, Mon 10 Mar 2014, 9:34, 3 replies)
Don't stop me now.

(, Mon 10 Mar 2014, 9:11, 1 reply)
i want to break free, i want to break free
i want to break free from your lies you're so self satisfied i don't need you, i've got to break free
god knows, god knows i want to break free
(, Mon 10 Mar 2014, 9:08, 4 replies)
If I could wave my magic wand, I'd set everybody free.

(, Sun 9 Mar 2014, 12:49, 10 replies)
Last drinks?
A bit feeble, a bit long, but true.

Many, many years ago, (again in Hobart), my good friend John rented a flat above a rather posh delicatessen. It was a rather old building, with massive floor to ceiling windows, a rather wild 70’s décor makeover (think swirly wallpaper, burnt orange colour scheme), and long red velvet curtains on all the windows.

He shared this flat with his girlfriend Amy, and a couple of other chicks. As a youth, John was a brilliant athlete. He had represented our fine country in two sports (middle distance running, and field hockey), but he was a borderline alcoholic. He had ruined any chance of future national selection because he just loved to drink. After a while he could no longer rely on natural talent to get selected and in hindsight, he was just too young and too invincible to see what was happening.

Anyways, one fine evening, I had invited myself around to John’s flat, we had cooked up a good feast on the BBQ and I’d purchased a couple of cartons of nice cold beer to see us through the night. It was an unusual balmy evening for Hobart, so we had pulled aside the long velvet curtains and were happily sitting on the window sill, legs dangling outside, one floor up, music blaring, watching the evening traffic pass along Elizabeth Street, drinking beer, taking turns to see who could gob the furthest, and well, being a bit yobby about it all.

We had the flat to ourselves, as Amy and the other chicks were out on the town. Just two blokes, getting blind, talking shit, taking turns to grab another beer from the fridge, and generally, being a bit Neanderthal.

Inevitably, the beer started to have its effect, and I was busting for a piss. John must have been in a similar predicament too, but rather than hop back inside and make his way to the loo, he stood up on the window sill and let forth a mighty stream of beery piss into the street below.

Now this didn’t really surprise me at all, as I have lived with John and have witnessed him pissing down a flight of stairs simply to annoy everyone in the loungeroom below (it worked), trying to piss out of his bedroom window while blind drunk, but forgetting the window was head high, so only succeeding in showering himself in beery urine as it ricocheted violently off the wall, and, laying a massive vomit in a crowded bar, only to wipe his mouth, laugh, take advantage of the quickly parting crowd to make his way to the head of the queue at the bar and order another beer.

It would be an understatement to say that he lost all inhibitions when on the grog. I suppose I wasn’t really much better at that age.

Yeah well, anyway, his flat was above a rather posh delicatessen, and the owners of the delicatessen has installed some rather twee green and white canvas awnings above their shop windows, which were directly below us, so the flow of beery piss made a rather satisfying thrumming noise as it cascaded off the awning, and spattered all over the pavement.

So now the standard had been set. No more civilised visits to the loo, the seal had been well and truly broken. In-between visits to the fridge, and changes of music, either one of us would stagger to our feet, sway uncertainly in the window frame and release a hissing torrent of fetid liquid onto the awning below and admire the dispersion effect as it sprayed all over the pavement, giggling at the debauchery of it all. Nice.

After quite a few more beers, John turned on the telly, slumped into an armchair and slowly dozed off. I was content to sit in the window, finish off my last beer and consider dialing a taxi to take me home. While in thought, I struggled to my feet, unleashed another foul torrent of piss onto the awning, only to hear a chorus of voices objecting violently from the pavement below. I sniggered drunkenly to myself, thinking what a foul joke it must be, to be showered in beery piss from above.

But shit! Hang on, what was that noise, a key scraping in the front door? Angry voices coming down the hallway?…oh fuckity fuck! Jesus Christ, of course! Ken, you fucking moron, other people lived here. Oh. Fuck. I have just sprayed beery piss all over Amy and the girls as they were walking home! Fuck, I’m about to be revealed as the absolute animal I’ve become, in the company of this…this…this fucking career piss head.

I quickly draw the curtains to hide my shame, my pants are around my ankles, I try to haul them up before Amy busts in, but well…ultra-fucking hell…before I have time to blearily react, the door is flung open. From behind the curtain, I hear three very fucking angry girls swearing and hitting John, as he groggily flails around, trying to make sense of what’s happening.

After a minute, I realise they don’t know I’m in the room too, hiding behind the curtain, cock hanging out, piss spattered shoes, listening to the hiding they are dishing out to John. Jesus, this is just fucked up. If they go to close the window, they’ll find me, if I burp, fart, cough, need another piss, they’ll find me. Fuck.

I was presumed to have gone home, and John copped all the blame, which given his previous form, was hard to defend. John told them all to get to fuck, the girls harrumphed at him, everyone had some more drinks, argued and swore.

You know those rare moments in life, when you have a clear, cold, creeping realisation that really, you’re just gone a bit too far? Things were funny, being naughty was cool, but now it’s suddenly got all serious? You just want to be somewhere else, be a nicer, better person?

Well…for the next hour (at least it felt like that), I hid behind that fucking curtain, mere feet away from the others, bladder straining, daring not to breathe, while John protested his innocence, and the girls kicked up a stink.

Any minute, I expected to be revealed, pants around ankles, weakly smiling, maybe waving a feeble “hello”, to be always held in contempt for pissing on people.

Finally, Sweet Jesus…finally, they all went to bed. I crept out from behind the curtain, stole outside, across the piss soaked pavement and stumbled home, vowing never, ever to drink with John again.

Well, until the next weekend, that is.
(, Sun 9 Mar 2014, 12:25, 16 replies)
Anyone remember Feastwiches? Maxibons aren't as nice.
(, Sun 9 Mar 2014, 12:13, Reply)

(, Sun 9 Mar 2014, 11:41, Reply)

(, Sat 8 Mar 2014, 18:37, 1 reply)
Some years ago, I was out with a few friends in a quiet pub in Hobart Town, sitting in front of a log fire, warding off the winter chill with lots of beer and cigarettes. One of my mates had invited his cousin along, Diana.

Diana was really attractive… and a wee bit chunky…sexy chunky, you know, buxom chunky, like Liza Tarbuck. Not gunt-overhang chunky, like Dawn French. Not that I’d say no to a roll in the hay with Dawn French, understand, but really, in the Paper / Rock / Scissors world of rating chunky chicks, buxom-chunky beats gunt-chunky.

Anyway, I digress.

After some initial awkward intro conversation, Diana and I were soon getting along famously. We liked the same bands, had travelled to the same countries, liked the same foods, made each other laugh with witty stories etc. etc. Diana was from out of town, didn’t know anyone, and was delighted to have found a good company and was having a good night out.

Sometime later in the evening, the pub inevitably closes, and before long all of us are standing outside, in the cold, deciding whether to kick on or go home. I’d run out of money, and anyway, I’d had a great, night (Diana’s phone number in my pocket, scrawled on the back of a beer coaster), so I was happy to invite everyone back home, crank up the fire and get stuck into the cheap port.

We all stumble through the biting winter wind, and tumble through the door of my house. The fire is restoked with plenty of logs, everyone finds a big armchair, or a place on the old busted sofa, the port is passed around and slowly but surely, everyone settles quietly, gazing hypnotically at the fire. The lights are turned out, the flames make dancing shadows on the wall, and the wind howls outside, but we are snug, warm, happy, and I’m idly thinking I just might score a root tonight.

Everyone is drowsy, the room is quiet, Diana’s head on my lap, slowly brushing her cheek across my jeans, knowing perfectly well that my increasingly hard cock is most appreciative of the attention.

After a while, she looks up, motions towards my bedroom, so we quietly pick our way across the slumbering bodies, and snuggle into my bed.

Within minutes, our clothes are off, and Diana is kneeling over me, guiding my cock to her mouth, she slowly bobs her head up and down, running her tongue across the Japs Eye, gently nibbling the Banjo, and slowly taking the full length into her mouth. I’m in heaven, it feels unbelievable, and I feel I should reciprocate.

I gently pull at her body to indicate she should shift position, and in one slightly drunken lurching movement, she swings one leg over my head and we are straight into a 69. Diana grinding her big thighs and wonderful moist minge onto my face, my tongue gently running across the silken inner skin of her fertile delta.

Diana’s really aroused, my cock is getting a solid work over from her hot mouth, and she’s starting to buck and grind down hard on my face, but Fuck…I can’t breathe when she does that. Her full weight is pressing down on my body, her legs pin my arms, she’s a bit too drunk to notice my increasing writhing is not ecstasy, but early onset asphyxiation panic.

Fuck. I just can’t move, can’t speak for a mouth full of inner thigh and minge, and I’m trapped underneath a drunken hefty lass! I can’t fucking breathe, Jesus, what a way to die, fuck sakes Diana, gimme some air! In desperation, I decide to bite her, give her a little nip, just to make her jump, so I give her a quick sharp bite, but wtf? She squeals and grinds down harder!

Man, I’m struggling here, trapped, in desperation I have one last roll of the dice, one last attempt to gain her attention, so I push, push and strain, strain and squeeze, squeeze harder, and just as my I’m starting to black out, my cock softens just enough to respond and right as Diana realises something is wrong and quickly rolls off, I release a healthy stream of piss…right into my own mouth.
(, Sat 8 Mar 2014, 11:23, 24 replies)
100,000's of trapped people
(, Fri 7 Mar 2014, 23:00, 1 reply)
Sad times. After defending his creepy office perv habits for nearly three hundred posts, the Lift Sniffer has gone chickenshit and deleted his thread.

(, Fri 7 Mar 2014, 16:23, 39 replies)
is there any truth to the rumour
that qotw hasn't been updated because the mods have all got their fingers trapped in dogs' bums?
(, Fri 7 Mar 2014, 15:34, 39 replies)

(, Fri 7 Mar 2014, 15:23, Reply)

(, Fri 7 Mar 2014, 15:08, 6 replies)
I got trapped in QOTW
(, Fri 7 Mar 2014, 15:05, Reply)

(, Fri 7 Mar 2014, 11:47, 15 replies)

A bigger boy made me do it.
(, Fri 7 Mar 2014, 10:01, 6 replies)

This question is now closed.

Pages: Popular, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1