Caught in the Act
My first girlfriend, to paraphrase Alan Partridge, was “certainly first in the queue when God was handing out chests”. I often remarked/boasted, as teenage boys did back then (the mid-90s), and almost certainly still do now, about her ‘assets’, with my favourite adage being that she “wouldn’t be afraid to go in the showers”. My Dad overheard this one day and added that “she wouldn’t get her feet wet”, which eventually broke forth the floodgates in terms of his array of 1970s sitcom-style innuendo-like references to the female body whenever my girlfriend’s name was mentioned from thereon in.

Anywho, as I was her first boyfriend, we were at the stage where we’d both discovered sex, me with the realisation that girls loved it as much as us boys did, and to use hackneyed phraseology, were ‘at “it” like rabbits’, most of the limited free time we had alone together; and as sixth form students with free periods and parents who both worked and younger siblings who were both in full-time education, was a lot more frequent than not.

So it passed, that one Friday afternoon, we had a free period that clashed, so adjourned to her parents’ house for some vaginally-penetrative sexual intercourse. Finding the house alone, it being daytime and all, she cheekily suggested getting down to it in the living room, and feeling the stirring in my Y-front garden (I was yet to discover the world of Calvin Klein), I was not one to cause an argument, so we soon found ourselves inflagrante on the sofa, me going away like a Singer sewing machine.

After about five minutes it happened, the catalyst to this story. “Cum on my tits” she whispered to me, mid-pushback. Wow! This was to be a first for me, the prospect of my errant member going near her bousies! The fact that she was requesting ejaculate on her mamms, would be akin to asking the Titanic to clear its bilge tanks over the dark side of the moon (and I don't mean a Pink Floyd album cover), but reaching one’s climax over a girl’s thrupnies did not require a second invitation, so I duly withdrew my, by now, pulsing gutstick from her Hong Kong garden, was met with ‘the gasp’ (not dissimilar to ‘the gasp’ when ‘it’ went ‘in’ five minutes previously), and proceeded to waddle forward on my knees, like a weary Muslim on his fifth call to Mecca that day, and straddled her, lad in hand, ready to begin stroking like a stroppy Andy Murray until the bald man cried forth his milky treat.

I was jerking away when I noticed something out of the corner of my eye at the window. Now, UK residential planning isn’t what it used to be, especially in this part of Oxfordcestershire, and parallel to their living room window was their neighbours’ driveway. I espied a block of dark blue slowly moving from left to right, and, looking up, still mid-tug, saw the next-door neighbour’s car slowly reversing down their drive. When I mentioned parallel to the drive, they could, despite the partial net curtaining of most of the window, see into the living room, should they choose to do so. In my struggle for freedom, I did not notice whether they had indeed looked in, so carried on with my personal Battle of the Bulge. It was only when that I realised, lump in throat and lump in cock, that the same block of dark blue was now slowly moving from right to left; yes, I had been spotted, and they were coming (unlike me) back to make sure their eyes hadn’t deceived them! Well fuck me sideways with a lolly stick! thought I.

So, I did what any proud Englishman would do – I carried on; I was in Sarson's Street for fucks's sake. I clocked their aghast, open mouths, and red–faced and sweating, continued to beat away for Harry, St George and England. I braved the possible ‘what would the neighbours say’ scenario (they weren’t my neighbours after all) and fed fuel to the likelihood they wouldn’t be able to look that nice girl next door in the eye again. She carried on looking my chap in the eye, and I eventually managed to bring my thought processes back to the matter at hand, eventually dousing her Devil’s dumplings with a liberal sprinkling of holy water. Like the true gentleman that I still am to this day, I did not share what I’d seen with her, and neither to my knowledge did her neighbours. We split up a couple of months later when I realised not only do girls love it as much as we do, but some let you do even more naughtier things with them. Like drawing the curtains. Then letting you wipe your cock on them afterwards.
(SonoraAeroClub "OH SWEET HELEN OF BALLS!", Fri 29 May 2009, 11:27, 6 replies)

Lol x 12 million
"me going away like a Singer sewing machine."

Win!
(McChinaman banned, Fri 29 May 2009, 11:43, closed)

Beautifully written.
This deserves to win. Oh yes.

*clicks*
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 29 May 2009, 11:57, closed)

The current Miss K2
has rather large breasticles and small feet.

I must use the 'not getting her feet wet' line and see what happens. I'll probably get a slap, but I'll get a laugh too.

*enclickens*
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Fri 29 May 2009, 12:20, closed)

My ex wife
Enormous norks and size four feet.

However, her mouth took after her chebs :-(

Current Mrs PJM is a nicely proportioned lady indeed, as fans of last week's qotw will testify.
(Bicycle Repairman "you're also a bit of a wanker", Fri 29 May 2009, 12:25, closed)

*click*
proper carry-on! Well done!
(bazmorningstar efil4nat3b, Fri 29 May 2009, 12:35, closed)

Absolutely first class
Highlights for me:

"...me going away like a Singer sewing machine"

"...pulsing gutstick..."

"...proceeded to waddle forward on my knees, like a weary Muslim on his fifth call to Mecca that day..."

"...until the bald man cried forth his milky treat."

"...lump in throat and lump in cock..."

"...in Sarson's Street ..."

"...dousing her Devil’s dumplings with a liberal sprinkling of holy water..."

So much literary goodness in so little space. *click*
( chart cat has an itch, Mon 1 Jun 2009, 5:34, closed)