fredpeters

57 Varieties 

He took his keys, shouted “Bye lady” to his bad wife and wrapped himself in a Teflon-coated mackintosh – ideal for pulling the head of it with the force of a bison. The spot was only 10 frantic minutes away – called Dogger Bank by locals but known affectionately by Kevin as The Special Place To Watch People Doing It.  

A clearing in the woods marked the place where Kevin liked to stand. It never took longer than 10  minutes for the rude to start. First, a flash of the headlights and then doors slamming. Then, a cursory glance over the shoulder in case of the unthinkable. In fact, only 6 months previous to Kevin’s visit, a naughty man was grabbed from behind by a masking tape wielding numbskull. His assailant taped us his face like a good ‘un, rained blows down on his cheeks then left him panting in a mire of dock muck and spunk juice. Neither man was ever found but the legend looms large.  

Through his trembling pudding fingers Kevin could see a dusky gentleman handle a skinny rake of a woman. The woman said very little but the man talked himself into a sexual McFlurry. He had a Caribbean accent – the likes of which she had only ever heard on racist soft drink ads and dub reggae grooves when she was droop faced on Moroccan Leb.  

The man and his conquest were only partially visible – that’s how Kevin liked it. As Kevin felt his dong unfurl like a smelly caterpillar, Mr Caribbean said, “ Mmmm, feel it in me batty. Feel it in me ballox. Hmm feel it in me cock, me belly an me rocks me go, feel it in me cock an balls.”   The woman only made the sound a rat would make when shovelling sawdust away from a sausage.  

But the lilting mantra faded as the thudding of Kevin’s footsteps syncopated with the slap of his helmet on his zip fastener. His voyeuristic journey would lead him not to sexual abandon but back to the stifling torpor of home. He had left his copy of Big and Bouncy in his briefcase and his wife had offered to clean the inside of it for him, to suck out the fluff and crumb and make it whistle-clean. Did his lumpen footsteps get him back in time? Did they shitting buggery.  

Casual encounters  

Fiona put an ad on an interwebular sex site. It read the following:  

W4m. Voluptuous F 31, seeks man aged 21/51 for cuddles and frolics. I like to dominate.  

Fiona waited tables by day and waited for prince charming to come home at night and treat her so right it’s wrong. But she was married to Tom who snored, trumped and cussed his way through their marriage. He also spoke to her like shepherd do to cow pats that have wronged them. She wanted more – to feel a spark, the slap of hard body on lady wobbles. She wanted to be in charge.  

Colin trained dogs for sport and straddled a fork lift truck for booze and fags. He lost his last woman to multiple amputations. By Lord he was pumping as he replied to Fiona’s desperate plea for an injection of sticky man wee. He sent this message of tripe to PO Box 346:  

            M34 could frolic for England or even manage the national frolicking team. If you want to dominate me I’ll gladly bark like a doggy. 5 ½ inch cock, quite fat as well.  He was about to fellate a savoury cake and curry half and half when his mobile buzzed. The vibrations felt good on his balls. He must phone himself and place his mobile on the tip of his glans, he thought to himself.  

In a flash of derring do, he answered thusly:  

‘Hello, Colin here at the ready’. After a gulp of Shiraz, she piped up: Hellooo. It’s Fiona. Fiona from the small ad. You responded to my call for help…I like to dominate…’ Colin got all subordinate: ‘ Oh, hello madam - ’ ‘We haveny started yet’ chided Fiona. Colin coughed pointedly and continued: Would you like to meet me in Chasers The Wine Bar at 7.45 on Thursday evening?’ Fiona couldn’t believe that her ad had been answered with the swiftness of cum dripping off the curtains.’Err, yes, I’ll be wearing a black trouser suit. See you there.’ ‘It will be a pleasure’ returned Colin, ‘and I meant what I said about having a fat cock’. So excited was she that she wanked herself dizzy. And did Colin save himself for his big date? Did he shitting buggery..  

Big and bouncy  Dora was a 34 year old with the hairiest mary in Page Moss. She never saw it as a problem until, after a session of aquarobics, an acquaintance remarked that her downstairs area was like the Forest of Dean. Dora knew not what she meant. “‘I went there once. It was full of squirrels.” Yours will be if you don’t sort it out” was her femchum’s curt riposte.  

So, Dora had a mission. She had been reading about Noel Edmonds and his cosmic hors d’oevres. Alls you had to do, said Noel, was make a wish, write it down on a sheet of papper and the cosmos will provide. If you let a negative thought in, the cosmos would say, “No deal.” She thought Noel had a lovely bum and had rubbed it off for the first time over Multi Coloured Swap Shop.  With trembling knees she took the pen and wrote: ‘I want to get it good and proper from the Irish tinker who trims me hedge. Before that, I’m gonna trim me own ha ha.’  

One sunny am, young Podraig came by, whistling a piercing tune as he stomped up the path.  “Will yer need yer hedge cuttn there, Oi can make it toidy now, much, much lower, there, or shape it loike a rabbit or a potato.”  

Dora was ready. She remarked upon how shiny his shears were and how he’ll be dripping with sweat in no time at all. “You’ll need some Vimpto after all that hard work with them soccerttoas”.  “I’ll gets to trimming, then.” As he turned he noticed her pupils bulge in synch with the bulge in his blunderpants.  

30 minutes later and the Vimto arrived all right. The frosted glass dripped cool ice down Podraig’s chest of twigs and he looked at her like an ostrich eyeballs a child’s lolly down the safari park.  Podraig knew the script. He chased chubby from here to Tipperary and he loved the slap of bollock upon wobble. “I suppose you could pay me with the sexy intercourse there”  

Dora lifted her hands up to the cosmos and with swinging bingo wings thanked Noel for his example. “Deal, Noel” she offered to the heavens. “Who the hell’s Noel?” a jealous Podraig enquired as he divested himself of his Mataland vest on the way to her threshold. “Oh, noone”, croaked Dora as she met his crusty eyes. Did she turn him down? Did she shitting buggery.  Christmas is Cum When Simon the goatee bearded chorister walked free from Midnight Mass, he felt the whistle of the yuletide breeze in his flowing robes. ‘Boy that makes me randy. I’ll look like a tent if this wind keeps up’. As an elderly gentleman scuttled past walking his dog, Simon reiterated,’ I says I’ll be like a tent if this wind keeps up’. The man with the dog quickened his pace to the speed of an Olympic walker. Undeterred, Simon continued, ‘Ya, know, with me hard on’, as dog man disappeared down the hill as though his legs were well oiled wheels. He couldn’t help thinking that the man may have been a little put off by his comments but by shitting buggery, the dog liked it.  It had been two years since a wet dream had emptied his engorged sack. He wanted to save his loins for the minge of a lady, so cracking one off, so often the refuge of church types, was taboo to poor Simon. But he wasn’t too fussed about whether his first dip would have his ring on her finger. If she had a pulse in her wrist it would be a start. And he’d fantasised many times about doing one without a pulse. He had a name for it and everything.   It was ‘pumping the dead’. Original.  

Ten doors down from the church there was a light on and some lairy couples congregating outside a mock tudor semi. ‘Oi, choirboy, can I ring yer bell’ Hahahahahaha. They bend double as though laughter made their stitches bleed. ‘What ya up to then?’ One of the men shouted from inside, ‘Come in and bring ‘im with yer –be a laugh’.  Twenty minutes later Simon was sat scraping his knees together on the pouffe with a glass of Tio Pepe in his hand. The couples – 4 of them that makes 4X2=8 - were discotheque dancing to a song Simon had never heard before. The song featured percussion that sounded as though it was being played by a madman on a biscuit tin. The lady singing wanted someone to ‘lick ma pussy and ma crack’. Simon thought how that couldn’t be very hygienic. That didn’t stop him miming the words to one of the ladies, whilst raising his eyebrows in time with the beat. ‘Look, My eyebrows are asking to lick your pussy and crack’ he remarked, The lady’ eyes went incredibly large. He’s read on the world we that that was a sign of sexual arousal. ‘Are you ready to make some sex?’, he asked politely. Her eyes went so wide, he thought they might pop.  

Within another hour, One of the couples was kissing, stripped down to their underpants. The lady kept looking at the man’s briefss and laughing. Simon thought she must like the colour of them. He could wait no more. Spurred on by his 6^th sherry he saw an amber light and jumped in.  ‘Geronimoo’   The next three minutes was to be Simon’s big moment – a pornocopia of dick, bums and precision groping. He felt his thing go inside something and as vinegar stroke gave way to copious sticky man wee, he yelled ’It feels like a lady’s reproductive organs but it’s actually a partially deflated inflatable chair’.  To match the ferocity of his warcry, he lost two years’ worth of load right there on the fireplace. Part graffiti artist, part atavistic primate, the liquid didn’t stop.  

Through a wall of stunned silence, save for the crunch of one of the men dialling 999, Simon wailed, ‘Christmas is cum! Christmas is cum!’ as the all seeing vicar peered through the window, clutching Simon’s lost keys.  ‘Christmas is cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuum!’