by Sloan, Phil
Tugging away on my turgid todger, she starts screaming about all the filthy stuff she is going to do to me soon. She’s touching herself up and making all sorts of pretty unconvincing fuck noises, really putting on a show.
Throwing her head and titties about like she’s having the best orgasm she’s ever had, even though I’m tied up and can do nothing to her, even if I wanted to.
I guess that she just wants it all over with so she can bugger off home, same as any wage slave really. It is a big old turn on though, must admit and it seems like she has been pulling on my cock for ages when the inevitable happens.
Readers, you are all big boys and girls so you don’t need me to paint you a picture of what happened next.
So please select your favourite description from the following:
TOP TEN EUPHEMISMS FOR EJACULATION
1] My chicken has been choked.
2] My one eyed spitting womb ferret has spat.
3] My load has been blown.
4] My lizard has been milked.
5] My monkey has been spanked.
6] My weasel has been greased.
7] My python has been siphoned.
8] My bishop has been bashed.
9] My bolt has been shot.
10] My pelvic cream cannon has been fired.
So there I am tied to a bed, my undercarriage hanging out when a door opens in the mirrored wall and the lads (obviously minus the recently incarcerated Amnesty who has missed the show) all come bowling out from a side room in hysterics.
The mirror was one-way glass and they’ve all been in there watching me like a very, very, crap peep show. No 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 exit.
Wandering down some side streets and alleyways I haven’t got a clue where I am, just glad of the respite. The night is warm, dry and I start to feel a tiny bit better. As I turn a corner I see an amazing sight: The Rijksmuseum lit up in all its glory.
All that architecture stuff seems well poncey to me. How people get in such a big froth about bricks and mortar is well beyond me but there is something about this building that is absolutely stunning. Looking up at the huge towers and the shadows cast all over this vast building really takes my breath away.
Suddenly I can hear a choir singing which is really strange as I am nowhere near a church. Their voices are incredible and they must be Dutch as I can’t understand a word of it. But then I realise that it’s far too late for any God-botherers to be up at this time of night and I wonder where it is coming from. Listening to the harmonies makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. This lot have the voices of angels.
I feel amazing. There seems to be a golden glow of light around me like I’m starring in a Ready Break TV advert from the 1970’s. I then see a vision of my future. It is as if there is a glitch in The Matrix or a tear in the space/time continuum or something as I get to see myself years ahead.
In the dream my wife and I are walking through a field of lush green grass. There are tall trees in the distance that we are casually striding towards. The sun is shining and it’s one of those days that make you feel glad to be alive. We’re holding hands with a little boy who we are swinging between us. We shout ‘One Two Three’ and then swing him up into the air. I look down at my son who has spikey blonde hair and the most incredible icy blue eyes.
He is giggling and screaming out ‘Again! Again!’ I am overcome with happiness. In this vision my lad is about five years old and he stares up at me and says four words that melt my heart ‘I love you Daddy.’ I reply ‘I love you too son.’
I glance over at my Mrs who is also grinning from ear to ear. The three of us are then walking on laughing together.
Then there’s a loud popping sound that ends the vision, the weird glow and the singing all at once like a television going off in a power cut. I am utterly convinced that I had just had a sneaky peek at an event that was years in my future. I am overwhelmed and overjoyed.
This is my Fortean Times moment. I have never seen a ghost or a UFO in real life (I would love to) but I know that this vision was the real deal, a glimpse of what will be.
Seeing my future son has filled my soul with goodness. I’m not going to be
the fuck up I thought I would become, I will have something worth living for, a family and a happy one at that. I’m going to have someone to be proud of and look after so I’ll have to knock my drinking and immature ways…it’s a good intention that will never happen but just for those few seconds I actually fool myself into believing I will do. These are the typical delusions of a drunken man.
I feel a huge lurch in my stomach. I am going to be a father one day, I know it. It doesn’t scare me at all; I can’t wait to meet my son. Looking up at the stars I see the moon which is shining as brightly as a ravers glow stick. I stare at it dumbstruck for far too long as my head starts spinning again. I get a watery taste of bile in the back of my throat and know that Charlie Chunder has come a knocking.
Suddenly without warning I vomit hard and fast. A column of sick comes racing out my north and south (mouth) covering my shirt, jeans and shoes. I am bringing up litres of spew, far more than seems humanly possible to hold in your gut sack.
All the greasy, fatty, crap food I’ve consumed to soak up the gallons of alcoholic fluids over the last twenty four hours now covers me and on the floor there is a multicoloured pavement pizza the size and depth of the kid’s pool at the local swimming baths. I am in a right state.
My eyes are streaming with tears, my beak is running with snot and I am battling to draw breath. I calm down and try to relax. I can’t have anything left to bring up I think, just as I projectile vomit up what looks suspiciously like half a lung or part of my gall bladder.
I hurl up a load of rancid stomach lining which splatters all up my shoes and stinks worse than a baboon’s chocolate starfish. The spew just won’t stop coming, I am doing a superb impression of that possessed chick in The Exorcist but without the mucky crucifix stuff.
If I don’t stop soon I am going to turn my intestines inside out and maybe lose a tooth with the force of ralfing my guts up so hard. Finally the sick switch turns to the ‘off position’ and I reel away from the huge humming lake of hurl I have made.
Still it will give the birds and local foxes something to dine out on. Don’t say I don’t do anything for our animal friends!
I decide to get back to the hotel for some well-earned R & R. Sparking up an oily rag as I’d rather have breath stinking of fag smoke than the gutsy smell of vom, I wander off down the road. My jeans are stuck to my legs by the warm thick sick and as I walk they unleash a vile stench which almost sets me off again but I get through it.
All I have to look forward to now is the hangover from hell in the morning which is just a few short hours away. I’m going to wake up with a splitting head and a mouth as dry as the bottom of a budgerigar’s cage, complete with cuttlefish and a manky bit of millet, but hey, what the fuck.
As they say, if you can’t do the time then don’t do the crime…
I wobble around the streets for half hour or so and I have no idea where else I have been but somehow I’ve ended up back in my room of doom at Kebab Heights.
Obviously the ‘beer scooter’ got me home in one piece yet again. I lay down on my filthy, stinking bed.
Despite the stimulants I have necked, sleep is now almost upon me. My last thought of the night is what my brother & I used to say to each other when we were kids at bedtime: ‘Goodnight, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite.’
Some hope of that in this filthy dive, my bed is crawling with the nippy little flesh-eating bastards.
CIGARETTES SMOKED IN THIS CHAPTER: 1…..AS A POST VOMIT BREATH FRESHENER…..141 TO GO.
BOOZE BINGED IN THIS CHAPTER: WITH MY HUMONGOUS UPCHUCK THIS IS A NEGATIVE AMOUNT OF ALCOHOL!
PART TWO: EDINBURGH
Chapter Thirteen: Dead Rabbits and Cock Crazed Hens!
Two things pop into my head as I slowly wake up. Firstly how did we survive that crazy Friday night and secondly why is there someone with a pneumatic drill in my head?
My bonce is splitting and as I check my watch I realise it’s now late morning on Saturday. Was I really tied up and manhandled by a hooker in front of all my best friend’s just hours before? No that was last month over in Amsterdam. We are somewhere else today – Scotland, I’m sure of that.
There are fourteen of us just waking up in a guest house in Edinburgh. We’ve taken over the whole of the place, all five rooms of it. A small family run place, it’s cheap and cheerful but located in the centre of town. Right in the thick of all the action, exactly where a load of rampant stags want to be. The place is nicely done out with lots of potted plants in the hallways and is smartly decorated. Far too nice a place for us bunch of reprobates.
After all the legends of the last trip have gone round the local it was easy to get the same recruits for this do up in sunny Scotland. This time around it is me heading down the aisle to certain wedded doom, so it’s the usual drill of flight, fooling around, drinking, drug taking and smoking for the weekend.
We got in from a night on the beer just a few hours ago but all agreed to meet up at twelve noon for breakfast and get ready to get on the sauce again.
At reception the owner apologises but says we’d missed breakies by yonks. He did knock on all our doors but got no response apart from a mouthful of abuse from one of the rooms. He’s now serving up lunch so offers us all haggis, tatties and neeps. Thanks but no thanks, we need deep fried stodge to sort out our minging hangovers. There’s nothing better than grease encrusted eggs, sausages, chips, bacon, beans, toast, a Nancy Drew (Brew) and more chips to soothe your grumbling guts after a skin full of ale.
The guy suggests visiting some dodgy pub along The Grassmarket as they do a superb all day breakfast with an amazing black pudding. To me, black pudding is the devils work but I keep quiet. He gives us directions to the battle cruiser (boozer). It’s about a five minute walk away, so we head straight down there.
Some of the geezers look remarkably well considering they’ve had a very heavy day out yesterday. It’s almost like they have got a fresh identical twin they have sent out in their place today, while they lie down in a darkened room feeling as rough as a badger’s arse.
Others look a right mess with yellow-looking sweaty skin, big black bags under their bloodshot eyes and their breath smells terrible, like they’ve been necking turds all night.
Still it is nothing a fry up and a pint will not cure. In fact just chuck the cooked breakfast and beer into a big old blender to make the perfect hangover solving soup. Get that down your screech fella, you’ll be fine in five minutes!
We rock up to the drinker which is in the shadow of Edinburgh Castle. It’s a massive place with wooden floors, big tables and comfy looking sofas. The pub has pool tables, fruit machines and a top shelf packed with more varieties of gold watch (scotch) than you can shake a shitty stick at. Single malt, double malt, aged for 15 years, 25 years and on & on it goes. We will be tucking into that lot pretty soon me thinks.
We order up fourteen full house breakfasts with pints of lager as chasers, then we move some tables about so we can all sit down and get tucked in. As we are waiting for our breakfast remedy Kid F tells us the following story:
“Gentlemen I promised you a classic tale and so here it is. As you all know I recently moved in with my girlfriend who has a little terrier dog. Next door are a nice family with this little girl who’s about five years old who has a rabbit in a hutch at the end of the garden. She is always out there playing and cuddling this little grey rabbit and I must admit it is kind of cute.
Anyway last Saturday evening, disaster strikes: our dog wanders into the kitchen carrying this rabbit. It’s well mangled up covered in blood and dirt and is very definitely an ex-rabbit.
The dogs only been next door and offed this much loved pet rabbit. The poor wee girl is going to be absolutely heartbroken but I can’t go round next door carrying their dead rabbit that our dog has killed. The dad is a big old lump and doesn’t look the reasonable type. I somehow doubt he’s going to see the funny side.
So I decide to wait until it was well late
and climb over next door under cover of darkness, to place the dead bunny back in the hutch. I leave the door slightly open so hopefully the local fox population will get the blame. I gave him a bit of a clean-up first as the rabbit was filthy and covered in dirt. Job done! P of A (Plan of Action) sorted.
The next morning the sun is out so the Mrs & I are sitting having a very pleasant breakfast in the back garden. We hear the back door of the neighbour’s house open and the little girl comes out to play. We’re holding our breath as we know what’s going to happen next.
Sure enough there’s a huge scream and a big flood of waterworks. The dad comes flying out the house to see what the emergency is and why his daughter is sobbing her heart out. We can hear all sorts of commotion going on.
Nervously I poke my head over the fence and ask if everything is OK. The fella has a face like thunder and tells me that his kid’s rabbit died last week and they buried it in the back garden. Now some evil fucker has dug it back up again and placed it back in the hutch.
‘There’s a load of sick bastards out there’ he’s telling me, ‘if I catch him I’m going to tear his head off and shit down his neck for upsetting my daughter like this’. To say he is unhappy is the understatement of the year.
‘I’ll keep an eye out for you,’ I promise the bloke. It is difficult for me to keep a straight face so I make my excuses and leave. There’s no way he’s going to believe a fox killed that rabbit now.”
Through the laughter someone says that you are kind of the modern equivalent of Burke & Hare the grave robbers and so from that day forth Kid F becomes Burke.
The breakfasts arrive, although by now it is almost two o’clock in that afternoon, you can’t even call this brunch now, more a mid-afternoon snack, and we make short work of them.
