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Authors: Phil Sloan
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one would pay good money to see that performance. ‘Captain Premature’ isn’t exactly one of the titles you can rent from your local video shop of smut is it?
The boys are bent double with laughter, ‘We’ve seen your fuck face!’ is one of the kinder remarks. My favourite though was the classic line ‘Look at the two-pump chump!’
One of them suddenly takes charge of the situation.
‘Right untie this poor excuse of a man and for fucks sake cover up his smeggy little worm. Then you can all get lost. We’ve paid for an hour of this good ladies time and by my watch we, I mean I, have at least 59 minutes to pull some shapes in her. So come on, bugger off!’ he bellows already fishing around in his wallet for a condom and taking his clothes off. He jumps on top of the poor woman like he’s never had sex before in his life (this may be the case actually).
He’s a single guy so no harm done. Rules are rules! Every hole is a goal and all that. He wants to get conkers deep.
I finally get released from the scarves that had secured me to the bed and we all troop out. As I’m leaving I look back into the room and notice the gimp mask, gag, handcuffs and my watch lying on the floor. Fantastic news! Try explaining to the ‘soon to be breadknife’ that you lost your over-priced timepiece in a knocking shop. Good luck. One wedding pretty swiftly cancelled would inevitably be on the cards.
I creep back in to retrieve my kit and already Mr Shag Nasty is ‘up to his nuts in guts.’ He is really going for it. Happily pumping away like a steam engine. Foreplay to him must be shouting ‘brace yourself I’m coming in’ OR ‘part your kidneys here I come!’
He’s on top of her and all I can see is his BOLAB going like a blur (Back Of Leg And Bollocks). He is getting stuck in right up to the makers name plate and I’m sure he was trying to push his back wheels in as well. I avert my eyes in double quick time.
I grab the stuff off the floor and run back out trying to forget the horrendous sight I had just witnessed.
Take my word for it your mate’s hairy conkers jiggling about is not something you want to ever see. I dart out the door pronto wishing I could un-remember the last few minutes of my life as I spark up an oily rag.
CIGARETTES SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER: 1…..142 TO GO……I JUST LOVE A POST COITAL SMOKE!!!!
BOOZE BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: ZIP-O-LA
Chapter Twelve: Cardinal Charlie Chunder Comes A-Knocking
I am in a deep, deep trouble. My face is flushed and sweaty although I am freezing cold. My skin has a yellowish jaundiced tint which can’t be a good thing. My heartbeat is erratic one minute it is racing then it slows right down. The room spins crazily like being on a super-fast Waltzer ride at the local crappy fun fair.
My chest feels tight and after hitting the ciggies way too hard all day I am breathing like Darth Vader. A rattling breath in is followed by the rasping escape of a stinking cloud of beer fumes. The Force is certainly not strong in this one, oh no, I am lagging and badly.
I need some fresh air so I stagger out of the bar reeling from side to side like a sailor on a ship in a Force Nine gale. I am a total mess.
It’s almost sun up on Saturday morning in Amsterdam and I am, not to put too fine a point on it, ruined. Falling out into the street I gulp the clean oxygen deep into my lungs, desperately trying to sober up. I have been overindulging on the piss all day and there is now more alcohol than blood flowing through my veins.
I just can’t take the pace and my body is telling me to put the brakes on. Desist! Stop! Cease! You are fucked mate! My liver screams at me. It is so soaked in alcohol that if you put a match to it you would get an instant liver flambé.
I wander off down the road to get away from the drinking hole we are in, knowing that if I am spotted outside I will be dragged back in by the wild boys and be made to drink even more. It’s time for a sharp
The boys are bent double with laughter, ‘We’ve seen your fuck face!’ is one of the kinder remarks. My favourite though was the classic line ‘Look at the two-pump chump!’
One of them suddenly takes charge of the situation.
‘Right untie this poor excuse of a man and for fucks sake cover up his smeggy little worm. Then you can all get lost. We’ve paid for an hour of this good ladies time and by my watch we, I mean I, have at least 59 minutes to pull some shapes in her. So come on, bugger off!’ he bellows already fishing around in his wallet for a condom and taking his clothes off. He jumps on top of the poor woman like he’s never had sex before in his life (this may be the case actually).
He’s a single guy so no harm done. Rules are rules! Every hole is a goal and all that. He wants to get conkers deep.
I finally get released from the scarves that had secured me to the bed and we all troop out. As I’m leaving I look back into the room and notice the gimp mask, gag, handcuffs and my watch lying on the floor. Fantastic news! Try explaining to the ‘soon to be breadknife’ that you lost your over-priced timepiece in a knocking shop. Good luck. One wedding pretty swiftly cancelled would inevitably be on the cards.
I creep back in to retrieve my kit and already Mr Shag Nasty is ‘up to his nuts in guts.’ He is really going for it. Happily pumping away like a steam engine. Foreplay to him must be shouting ‘brace yourself I’m coming in’ OR ‘part your kidneys here I come!’
He’s on top of her and all I can see is his BOLAB going like a blur (Back Of Leg And Bollocks). He is getting stuck in right up to the makers name plate and I’m sure he was trying to push his back wheels in as well. I avert my eyes in double quick time.
I grab the stuff off the floor and run back out trying to forget the horrendous sight I had just witnessed.
Take my word for it your mate’s hairy conkers jiggling about is not something you want to ever see. I dart out the door pronto wishing I could un-remember the last few minutes of my life as I spark up an oily rag.
CIGARETTES SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER: 1…..142 TO GO……I JUST LOVE A POST COITAL SMOKE!!!!
BOOZE BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: ZIP-O-LA
Chapter Twelve: Cardinal Charlie Chunder Comes A-Knocking
I am in a deep, deep trouble. My face is flushed and sweaty although I am freezing cold. My skin has a yellowish jaundiced tint which can’t be a good thing. My heartbeat is erratic one minute it is racing then it slows right down. The room spins crazily like being on a super-fast Waltzer ride at the local crappy fun fair.
My chest feels tight and after hitting the ciggies way too hard all day I am breathing like Darth Vader. A rattling breath in is followed by the rasping escape of a stinking cloud of beer fumes. The Force is certainly not strong in this one, oh no, I am lagging and badly.
I need some fresh air so I stagger out of the bar reeling from side to side like a sailor on a ship in a Force Nine gale. I am a total mess.
It’s almost sun up on Saturday morning in Amsterdam and I am, not to put too fine a point on it, ruined. Falling out into the street I gulp the clean oxygen deep into my lungs, desperately trying to sober up. I have been overindulging on the piss all day and there is now more alcohol than blood flowing through my veins.
I just can’t take the pace and my body is telling me to put the brakes on. Desist! Stop! Cease! You are fucked mate! My liver screams at me. It is so soaked in alcohol that if you put a match to it you would get an instant liver flambé.
I wander off down the road to get away from the drinking hole we are in, knowing that if I am spotted outside I will be dragged back in by the wild boys and be made to drink even more. It’s time for a sharp
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