Tag Archives: sex

10 ways to keep your man happy – using only a damp flannel

9 Dec

After the success of my XXXmas post (https://kylejwilkins.wordpress.com/2011/12/06/xxxmas/) , I realised that not everyone likes Christmas and so, would not have many of the festive accessories suggested for use in the bedroom to hand.

As a result, I’ve complied a short list of 10 ways you can please your partner with an item that every household is bound to have; a damp flannel. Why spend hundreds of pounds at Agent Provocateur when you can please your man on the cheap? So sit back, read and then go and grab that flannel from the bathroom – things are about to get damp, in more ways than one.

1) Gentle Spanking — Whip him gently with a warm, damp flannel over his back, his thighs and  shoulders. Watch his toes curl. Careful not to mimic the ‘whip the back of the legs with a tea-towel’ move that some parents use on naughty children, because this will hurt like fuck.

2) Gag him — he won’t be able to control himself as you seductively gag him. Make sure the flannel is damp and not wet, as there is a small chance he might drown.

3) Water sports — A clean way to recreate a Golden Shower; simply squat over him and wring out the flannel. Works best if directed at your partner’s chest.

4) Play nurse — Put the damp flannel on his forehead as if he is unwell, then dress like a nurse and look after him. “Excuse me nurse, I don’t feel too good”.

“Well I’ll soon sort you out, fnarr fnarr!”

5) Chill Out — Place an icy cold damp flannel in front of a fan, get your man naked and watch him go all goose pimply as the cold air hits his body. Then warm him up with your mouth. Perhaps get really kinky and hang something from your erect nipples, like a coat-hanger or chocolate treat.

6) I don’t Adam and Eve it — Three damp flannels stuck teasingly over the breasts and lady garden will have him in a spell in no time. Imagine you are back in God’s garden; you have no idea what sex is yet; so go wild and invent something new. After all – it can’t be wrong can it? Nostril sex is best avoided.

7) Beads — A warm, damp flannel rolled tightly is the perfect substitute for anal beads. Look at his face as you pull them seductively from your puckering sphincter.

8) Hand Shuffle — Wrap his penis in a warm damp flannel then tug him to ecstasy. The flannel can then be used to mop up any spillages.

9) He’s in control — Take a few flannels and let him tie you to the bed and have his wicked way with you. Decide on a ‘safety word’ before hand so you can let him know once you’ve had enough. “Oh Yes!” is probably not the best choice.

10) Extra Tight — Pad yourself out to give your man the sensation he’s making love to a virgin. He’ll love you for this. Make sure the flannel is warm and very damp.

XXXMas

6 Dec

Women; are you struggling to think of a present to buy your man this year?  I might just be able to help you as I’ve come up with 10 ways to please your lover over the festive period.

1) Chocolate Starfish: The star on top of your tree doesn’t have to be just for decoration. Use your imagination; this five pointed anal probe will have your man’s toes curling all the way into the New Year.

2) Away in a minge: ‘No crib for a bed’? Well he has now! Simply let him inside you, for the whole night! He won’t want to sleep anywhere else once he’s comfy in your mutton pocket of love. Try not to roll over in the night, and keep refreshments close to hand.

3) Christmas Cracker: Hide small gifts and treats in and around your body for your partner to find as he explores you. Leave the jokes and party hats to one side on this one. Go one step further and treat his gutstick like a cracker; pull it until it explodes.

4) The Turkey Dinner: Turn over, bend your elbows upwards, and let your man give you all the stuffing you’ll both need this Christmas.

5) The Mummy: You may need a friend to help you with this one. Wrap yourself up, head-to-toe, in wrapping paper. Once the paper has been ripped off, your partner is greeted with a naked treat.

6) White Christmas: If you feel brave enough, invite a few of his mates round for a bukkake session.

7) The Mistletoe: Give your partner a sensual foot job. Use you toes to stimulate his prostate.

8) Tinsel Tease: Tie your man up to the bed with tinsel, then slowly tickle his body with it. He’ll beg you to let him enter you. See how long you can go on for. For added Christmas naughtiness, encourage your man to shout, “I am Santa and I’m emptying my sack” once you finally give in and let him roger you senseless

9) Naughty Fairy: Dress like a fairy and piss all over his chest. Guaranteed to make him rock hard! Feeling adventurous? Try doing this with a broom handle up your arse.

10) Frosty the Snowman: Try trailing ice cubes over each others bodies, then warm each other up anyway you want. He’ll love those rock hard ‘midget gem’ like nipples.

Take Me Out Part 2

13 Sep

After sending my tongue in cheek application form to the producers of Take Me Out (see here: https://kylejwilkins.wordpress.com/2011/07/07/take-me-out/) I received a number of voicemails asking me if I would still like to go on the show. I think it is up to 5 currently.

 This was then followed up yesterday with the following email: 

From: XXX.XXXXXX@talkbackThames.tv
Sent: 12 September 2011 18:30:32

 Hi there.
Apologies for the ‘out of the blue’ message.
You recently applied to be a contestant on the third series of ITV1’s ‘Take Me Out’ hosted by Paddy Mcguinness.

We have tried to contact you offering you the opportunity to audition for the series and have yet to hear back whether you are interested.
If you are still keen, please email us back as soon as possible with a contact number as the deadline for applicants is fast approaching.

If, since you applied, you have found love or are no longer interested, then feel free to ignore this email.
Feel free to pass the application form on to anyone else you know that would be keen to apply.

All the best

XXX XXXXXXX
Associate Producer
TAKE ME OUT

 

I sent this reply this morning:

 

Hi,

Many thanks for your email. I must admit that I have received a number of voicemails, but as I’m quite tight with my money, I didn’t want to call back; instead hoping that I’d catch your next call at whichever inappropriate time it was that you chose to call me.

I am afraid to say that since applying to be on Take Me Out, I have actually found love. People say love is blind, well in my case, that is spot on, as Jane is actually blind (well, partially sighted anyway). We met, funnily enough, on a blind date as well, which one of my work colleagues set up.

When I first saw Jane, I was mesmerised; completely blown away. She looked stunning and really trendy too; just my type of girl. She looked so cool in her little sunglasses. I already knew that she was hard of sight so this came as no shock, however, quite why she wanted me to wear a red carnation to identify me was a bit strange, as she didn’t even notice me approach her at the table where she was sat!

Since meeting Jane, my life has improved a great deal. I’m excelling at work, I’m constantly happy and it’s great to have someone depend on me as much as Jane does. I am her eyes, she is my plaything. It’s a great relationship. She likes to leave me romantic notes around the house and although her handwriting isn’t the best, it always brightens up my day. In return, I leave little jokes and amusing anecdotes in Braille on the back of door handles so she gets a little giggle when entering a room. We even recreated the Lionel Ritchie ‘Hello’ video the other day when we decided to indulge in a bit of role-play.

So, it is with regret, that I am going to have to decline your offer of a place on the show. I do have one request though. When Paddy Mcguinness says ‘Let the Toffee, see the Apple’, for example; perhaps he should change this on the new series to, ‘Let the Toffee, see, or indeed feel, the Apple’, because not everyone can see.

Many Thanks.

 

I await a reply.

The Daughter of Bob Geldof

1 Sep

I’d always secretly fancied Peaches Geldof since she first started appearing in the newspapers at 16. I’m not sure if it was the trying-desperately-hard-to-be-cool aura she gave off, or the fact that she looked as if she’d let you wank into her handbag without batting an eyelid.Yes, she wasn’t the type of girl I’d typically go for, but there was definitely something about her that I found most alluring, and so, I had a big crush. With her being the daughter of one of the most famous men in the country, and the fact she’d started the make a name for herself as a ‘celebrity’, I knew my chances of anything happening (should we ever meet) were incredibly low. Fate, however, works in a funny way, and it was on a sweaty summers day that I finally got my chance to chat up Peaches Geldof.

It was a Friday and I was in Camden for a meeting with a client. It was nothing too fancy; I was in casual attire and we held the meeting over a pub lunch – all went well. It went so well in fact, that an agreement was met earlier that I had expected, and so I had a couple of hours to kill, rather than go back to the office until the end of the day. I went into the Arizona Bar for a pint, whilst I perused the newspapers and contemplated what to do next. Out the corner of my eye, I noticed a girl come into the bar and ask to use the toilets. I didn’t pay too much attention to be honest; I was deep in thought. It was only when I heard the girl return that I did look up, and to my surprise it was Peaches Geldof, dressed all fashionably, with sunglasses on despite being inside, a leopard print dress and finished off with a moody pout.

‘It’s now or never’, I thought, rather hastily to myself, and I called out her name.

“Peaches!”, I shouted. She turned and looked at me as if I’d farted in her mouth.

“Erm, can I get a photo with you please?”, I enquired, rather less boisterous than my first call.

Peaches smiled almost awkwardly, and then agreed to the photo and came over to my table. As we got chatting, I lied to her about my ‘love for fashion’, and talk turned to Peaches wish to bring out her own label. I explained that I may be able to help her, and offered her a drink, which she accepted without hesitation. As we continued to chat, I forgot that I was talking to quite a famous person; to me she was just another girl down the pub, although as the drink intake increased, she was beginning to look very attractive indeed, and my confidence levels soared tenfold.

“Peaches?”, I said softly, and I began to trace my finger up her ankle, following the outline of a garish flower tattoo she had running all the way up her leg.

“Do you fancy getting a hotel room?” I continued, finger now at the top of her thigh. Peaches blushed. She tilted her head forward slightly, and then looked up at me. A smile formed across her delicate lips,

“Not yet, mister! Let’s have a few more drinks first”.

‘What a tease’, I thought, before agreeing. We made our way to another small pub, of which I don’t remember the name, where Peaches was good mates with the owner. We started on shots of sambuca; I don’t think I spent any money, much was the willingness of the bar staff to keep our drinks topped up. After an hour a so, Peaches took me by the hand and led me up some stairs at the back of the pub. I asked where we were going,

“It’s ok. I stay here a lot – I basically have my own room”, slurred Peaches. Her faux New York/London accent was turning me on something rotten. As we reached the top of the stairs, she pushed me into a room and we started kissing. It was drunken, sloppy kissing, but it was passionate. My hands began to wander, but every time I ventured south towards her cock-slot, my hands were pushed away. I had a raging erection, and I was willing Peaches to take it in one of her grubby little hands. But she wouldn’t.

We carried on kissing and I think she sensed my sexual desperation. “I’m sorry, we can’t shag”, she said, every word punctuated with a kiss. “I have a fiancee”

“Well why the fuck am I here then?” I asked. I remember feeling both angry but incredibly aroused by the fact that she’d used the word ‘shag’.

“We can watch each other?”, Peaches mumbled. Well, that was enough for me, I was naked in no time, and I slipped her out of her dress. She lay onto a bed and began strumming away like George Formby on speed, whilst I stood over her, tugging myself silly, trying to aim my pulsating bell-end at her mouth in case I had a chance of receiving a sly suck. The site of a drunken Peaches Geldof, fwapping away blissfully, was mesmerising. My whole body tensed as an arc of gooey mess shot from my rigid rod and landed on Peaches’ leg.

“THAT’S FOR ‘DO THEY KNOW IT’S CHRISTMAS?’ YOU FRIGID TWAT”, I shouted as my first release trickled off her leg onto the bed. Peaches was in a daze, but carried on rubbing her flaps slowly. I felt the urge to go again,

“AND THAT’S FOR LIVE 8, YOU SHOWER OF SHIT”, my jism landed a good foot short of hitting her again. I knew it was time to leave. I dressed hurriedly and fled, leaving Peaches half cut and half naked in the upstairs of a pub.

Hiding in the bed

25 Aug

This story doesn’t feature me but two of my close friends. We’ll call them Ray and Ashley. They had been out drinking together, throwing a few abstract shapes on the dance floors of High Wycombe and were suitably drunk. Ray had happened to pull a tasty little blonde lass named Chloe early on in the evening, and Chloe and her mates had joined the two inebriated rapscallions on their jaunt around the pubs and bars of the Buckinghamshire town for the rest of the night. A great time was had by all I’m told; sambuca shots were downed, jugs of sickly sweet cocktails were shared, and the newly acquainted group shared laughs aplenty.

 

Eventually, 2am came, and with it, closing time. The gang made their way over to Dennis’ Kebab Van (now a small celebrity after being bigged-up by rotund comedian James Corden – who would have thought he liked junk food?-  Cracking tits though). Food was purchased and Chloe was intent on going back with Ray for the night. As Ashley had already arranged to stay at Ray’s as well, the trio finished their food and headed for the taxi rank.

 

The taxi journey itself was uneventful; I’m not sure if Ray tried to get his fingers wet or not, but with Ashley sat in the back of the taxi with him and Chloe, it made things rather awkward; after all, he didn’t want his best mate to look like a gooseberry. Time was passed with drunken conversation and banter, rather than the attempted sneaky blowjob Ray had been hoping for. Soon, they arrived home and headed for their bedrooms, with Chloe obviously joining Ray in his king size bed, and Ashley heading off to the spare room to sleep on a single mattress

 

The inevitable happened; Ray and Chloe exchanged bodily fluids and then passed out, whilst Ashley failed in a half-hearted attempt to relieve himself of his own bodily fluid before passing out. However, at around 4am, he woke from his drunken stupor with a raging headache and decided to go downstairs to acquire a drink of water.

 

To get downstairs, Ashley had to pass Ray’s bedroom, which was on the opposite side of the landing. Still drunk and feeling a little mischievous, he decided to take a peek into the bedroom to see what the two lovers were up to. He sneaked over to the door slowly, trying to avoid the creakiest floorboards. Then, he opened the door slowly, pulling it towards him so there was a gap big enough for him to slip through. As he peered over at the bed, he could see both Chloe and Ray asleep, with Chloe on her back nearest the wall, and Ray in the centre of the bed, facing her. The cover was pulled over both of them.

 

Dismayed at not even seeing a female nipple, let alone a hint of boob, Ashley saw how snug they both looked in the big spacious bed. It looked incredibly inviting, so, forgetting the reason why he had got up in the first place, he decided to get in with them. He tiptoed across the bedroom, pulled the corner of the duvet back and slipped in. Then, he pulled the cover over his whole body including his head and promptly fell asleep.

 

Ashley woke feeling hot. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep and he struggled to remember where he was. Then he heard movement next to him. Still he stayed under the covers, racking his hungover brain, trying to retrace his movements. Unexpectedly, he heard a small groan. It was a female groan, he was sure of it. Everything came flooding back to him. He knew exactly where he was.

 

Peering from the top of the duvet, Ashley saw that it was still quite dark, but he could make out the figure of Chloe sat on top of Ray, riding him like a nimble jockey. Ray was laid next to Ashley in the bed, with hands behind his head, unaware that his mate was next to him. Ashley’s initial feelings of shock and then slight horniness quickly dispersed; he now felt like a complete pervert and at a complete loss as to how he could get out of the situation. He couldn’t sneak back out of the bedroom as they’d easily see him, and he didn’t really want to take the chance that Ray and Chloe would fall back asleep once they’d finished their energetic early morning ritual. Instead, he chose another option. An option that has ensured this story gets told time and time again amongst friends.

 

Keeping his legs flat to the bad, Ashley thrust his back and head forwards up off the mattress so that he was sat bolt upright. The duvet cover slipped off of his face, revealing him like a prize on a game show. As he reached the position where he was completely vertical, he waved his right hand in a cheery fashion and said a hearty ‘Helllllooooooo’.

 

Chloe immediately grabbed for something to cover her pendulous breasts with and jumped off Ray’s cock just as quick as she’d hopped on.  Still, Ashley sat in his bolt upright position with a huge grin on his face, maintaining the little wave with his hand, just staring into the same space. Chloe was now screaming at him asking him what the fuck he was playing at and Ray was chuckling to himself, still slightly pissed and a bit annoyed that his early morning shag had been rudely interrupted. After a good 30 seconds of waving, Ashley rolled off the edge of the bed, did a forward roll and left the room, crying with laughter.

My First Rude Discovery

17 Aug

I’d seen a view rude things growing up. From the lingerie section of the Kays catalogue, where, if I was lucky, they’d feature a few see-through bras and I’d get a hint of aereola; to the fantastic feeling of playing Hide and Seek in the woods with my mates and finding a few ripped out (but crumpled and weather damaged) pages of Fiesta left behind a bush. I, like most of you, had also caught glimpses of Eurotrash, although I could never pick up channel 4 properly in my room with the portable TV aerial so the picture was often blurred. Lola Ferrari looked more like a pixelated Donkey Kong on my TV.

It wasn’t until my first trip abroad that I really got to see something rude; something that really opened my young eyes to new delights that the world had so far hidden from me. Majorca was the destination, and to this day, the excitement of boarding and travelling in a plane, swimming in foreign seas and trying paella for the first time, is still overshadowed by my rude discovery.

It was our first full day at the resort, and my Mum sent my brother and I off to the local shop to get an ice lolly for her and my sister. At 13, I was the eldest and I was handed the cash. My brother, 11, followed me to the store, with further instructions from my Dad to get him ‘a Feast, because ice lollies are girly and just frozen water with food colouring in’. Off we marched and I still remember feeling a little nervous about whether or not the lady behind the counter would start rambling on at me in Spanish. We picked up the items we were asked to get, along with something each for ourselves (for some reason I bought a Lipton Iced Tea), and made our way up to pay. It was then that it happened.

On a stand near the counter, were various holiday trinkets; key rings, postcards, pens and other crap with ‘Majorca’ emblazoned across it. However, there was one set of items that caught my eye in particular – pornographic playing cards. My eyes lit up; here right in front of me, were images of ladies in various states of undress, and most of them had their bronze European tits out. “Look!”, I whispered to my brother, nudging him with my elbow, nodding my head towards the playing cards. He looked up and I noticed his eyes widen too.

“Shall I get a pack?” I asked him, unsure of whether he would think I was being naughty and would tell Mum.

“Erm, yes, do it”, he replied giggling.

So I did.

Although, I do have a slight confession to make. I didn’t actually pay for the cards, and it wasn’t intentional. After handing over the other items I was going to pay for, I just froze; I was a 13 year old boy with a pack of porn playing cards in my hand. As I glanced down, I noticed that I’d picked up the ‘Anal Sex’ edition. I’m not sure I even knew what anal sex was, but I could tell from the image on the front of the pack that it was quite naughty, although the woman seemed to be smiling and enjoying herself. Before I knew what I was going to do, the woman behind the counter handed me my shopping in a carrier bag, and we turned and walked out, with the cards firmly clasped in my hand.

Keeping them in my short pockets for the rest of the afternoon was a scary thought, but I had to do it. I didn’t want my parents to know I had them, and certainly didn’t want them to know I’d stolen them. The hours slowly ticked by and eventually we headed back to the hotel to get changed for dinner. It was here that I managed to unload them into my rucksack, and it was there they stayed until 10 days later, when we arrived back home. I can’t tell you how nervous I was walking through passport control on the way back, thinking I’d be arrested for having these cards on me.

I couldn’t wait to show my friends my newly acquired playing cards, and the very next day we were in the park, flicking through them, laughing at some of the images and almost vomiting at others. For the next two or three days, I was The Porn King; the 13 year old who had everything; Chewits on tap, free cola bottles and white chocolate mice when I demanded, and best swing in the park. My playing cards had given me power amongst my peers. They had also taught me something new – what the term ‘anal sex’ actually meant.
Time passed, and the novelty of the cards wore off. Other boys found their mum’s dildos, or dad’s video collection, and my playing cards could not compete with these. However, I kept them, there was no way I was going to get rid of them; what if my mum saw them in the bin?!

“But what happened to the cards?!” I hear you cry. (well, not really, but it leads me onto the next point).

I still have them.

14 years on, after 2 house moves with my parents, to me moving out on my own into rented accommodation, back in with my parents and then finally last year to my own place; these cards have come with me. It wasn’t until I thought about them again randomly this week that I remembered I still had them, so I checked, and yes, there they were, in the old box file under my bed along with my Granddad’s war medals and old school reports.

I took the liberty of taking a few photos of the images that still take me back to Majorca, the ones that really left a lasting impression:

Obviously, these links are NSFW!! They feature tits, arse, cum dripping cock, minge and ugly foreign people.

Photo 1 – The image on the box. Look how happy she looks – imgur.com/lN53p

Photo 2 – The psychedelic hat man. I always wondered why he kept his hat on, and why the fuck his bought it in the first place – imgur.com/byxvL

Photo 3 – Banana Split. This was the one that my mates and I used to piss ourselves at. – i.imgur.com/wG5We.jpg

Photo 4 – Horny. To be honest, this was the one that made my mates and I feel a bit queasy. – imgur.com/8X84O

Photo 5 – The Work Out. I used to wonder why she had this attire on. – i.imgur.com/RKvvh.jpg

I have actually played proper card games with these cards in the past and I think I’ll keep them for a while longer yet

New Girlfriend

14 Aug

When I was 19, I started dating a girl named Rachel who I met down my local. We’d been seeing each other for about 3 weeks when I sensed there was a problem ‘between the sheets’. Rachel didn’t say as much, but I could sense it and there was an underlying doubt in my mind that she was not impressed with my sexual performance, so to speak. No matter what I tried, she didn’t seem satisfied, and I could tell that she was blatantly faking her moans and groans of pleasure. It hit me hard; I was only 19, my girlfriend thought I was useless in bed, and as the relationship progressed a few weeks further, I found it more of a chore to put in the effort when having sex as I knew that she wasn’t enjoying it. ‘If only she’d tell me or show me what she likes’ I thought to myself time and time again, ‘then this relationship would be perfect’.

 I was in a position that I hadn’t found myself in before. I couldn’t go to my mates and ask for their advice; I had far too much male pride to do that, and I knew that if my suspicions should come out then they would rip the piss out of me non-stop. Knowing them, they would have offered to have a go on her themselves. I also couldn’t ask Rachel’s friends because, well, that would just be strange. Sitting in my room one night after I’d got back from Rachel’s house, I decided to go and talk to the only person that I thought would be able to give me advice; my Dad.

 Now, this in itself was a big thing for me. We’d never had ‘the chat’, and we didn’t really talk about things like this with each other, apart from the odd ‘Don’t get many of them to the pound’ comment my Dad would make in the car when we drove past a busty female pedestrian. I inhaled deeply and went to the front room, where my Dad was watching the TV.

“Dad”, I said quietly. “I…erm…Can I talk to you about something?”

My Dad, eyes remaining transfixed on the TV, muttered “Yes” and so I began explaining to him in great detail about my fears; about how I didn’t think I was satisfying Rachel, about my constant worry that she’d leave me for someone else if I couldn’t please her in the bedroom and that I didn’t know what to do to make things better. It was a long outpouring of my feelings, and I had to check twice that my Dad was actually listening to me as he remained focused on the TV. After I’d finished, he finally looked at me,

“Son, you don’t need to worry about things like that”. He took a sip of his coffee before he continued, “What you need is a pillow.”

“A pillow?”, I was confused.

“Yes son, a pillow. When you’re doing the dirty, slip a pillow underneath her bum. Works all the time, you can’t fail to hit the spot, she’ll love it. Trust me, when I first started dating your mu..”

“THANKS DAD!” I cut him off before he could go any further and retired to bed optimistic about my future with Rachel. The following day was Friday, and we were going out for drinks before staying the night at my house.

Friday came and drinks were enjoyed. We had a good laugh and my sexual fears and frustrations temporarily disappeared. It wasn’t until the walk home that I started to get a bit nervous about doing the deed again, but my Dad’s words of advice the night before were still ringing in my ears. We eventually got home and I checked the front room to see if my parents were still up. There was no sign of them, so I assumed that they were in bed. Rachel and I headed upstairs, and being quite merry, it wasn’t long before we were kissing passionately, and undressing each other, whilst trying to keep quiet so that we didn’t wake my parents, who were asleep in the next room. Before I knew it, I was on top of Rachel’s perfect, naked body and thrusting away. As usual, I was getting nothing in response, so heeding my Dad’s advice, I reached for pillow. I withdrew temporarily, and lifted Rachel’s legs and pert bum off the bed, sliding the pillow under her. Within seconds I was back inside her sponge cavern and was starting to build up a nice rhythm. I then saw something that will stay with me to the day I die.

My Dad stealthly rolled out from under my bloody bed, gave me a quick thumbs up and crept, on all fours, out of my room. The thing that perplexed me the most was his grin – he looked so pleased that I’d done what he told me to do. It was enough to end my night’s action. I feigned a headache to Rachel (who fortunately didn’t witness any of this) and we went to sleep. All I could think of whilst I lay in bed was my Dad’s big, cheesy grin; like a Cheshire cat.

I got a lock on my room after that.

AB#7 – Whore House

9 Aug

I often find myself struggling to get the attention of females, whether they are young, old or disabled. I put this down to the fact that they are too scared to approach me, not that I am intimidating, but because they probably feel that I am out of their league. Yes, I may be a self proclaimed eccentric; I like to wear a stuffed toucan on one shoulder when going out to socialise, but inside I am like every other man out there, only a little bit nicer.

As a result of the insecurities of the females in my town, I find myself having to pay for sexual gratification. It’s more of a necessity than a hobby. Well, it was, until two nights ago when I paid a discreet visit to my local brothel, Bones. By day, Bones runs as a massage parlour, a good one at that. However, at night, the shutters come down and the action moves to the flats upstairs. Either way, you can enter the premises stiff as a board, but leave feeling flimsy, with a smile on your face. The local constabulary are well aware of what goes on, but there is an unwritten rule around here amongst the men that we keep it a secret from the majority of women in the town. The only ones who know are Gladys and Martha, who own the massage parlour, and indeed the prostitutes that work there.

What I enjoy about visiting Bones is the huge selection. You get to choose the woman you want, how long you want her for, where you want her, what you’d like her to wear, what you want to do to her and, my personal favourite, what you’d like her to do to you. All the options are handed to you on a laminated sheet of A4 at reception and you simply select the combination that tickles your fancy. You just write down what you want, and when your girl is free, you’re good to go. Last Thursday I opted for the following:

Renata – 30 minutes – Bathroom – Barney dinosaur costume – fist – hand job.

 Now Renata is a filthy minx of a Polish woman, and she has a tidy little torso on her as well. She had a tiny shaving rash around her vagina the last time I had her, but I liked this quite a bit. It looked naughty. For my thirty minute session, I paid the sum of £40, a bargain I’m sure you’ll agree. I’ve been with Renata a few times as she’s money well spent. She actually looks like she enjoys her job, unlike some of the others, particularly the Romanians. I heard rumours from other regulars that she’s a bit of a squirter, but I have yet to experience this phenomenon. In most of the women,you can see the fear in their eyes, which makes the whole experience thoroughly enjoyable. Shameful sex is good sex; I learnt that from my father.

Anyway, two nights ago I was at home and feeling frisky. I’d already watched my ‘Carry on up the Sphincter’ DVD twice that day and was bored of the same images; they were no longer doing anything for me, unable to raise anything more than a semi. I decided to go to Bones to see what was on offer and to hopefully satisfy my ever increasing sexual urges. I applied a delicate dollop of savlon to my sore shaft, which, if I’m honest, I had already put through its paces earlier that day and now resembled a purple button mushroom, more than it did a penis. Picking my wallet up off the mantel piece, I headed out the door with dirty thoughts running, nay fumbling, through my mind. Bones is only a ten minute walk from my house and I arrived bitterly cold; the night air was crisp and I had negated to wear a coat. My flat cap did little to cover my ears either.

I headed down the side alley next door to the massage parlour and rapped on the side entrance four times. This is the signal that you are a punter looking for business; a secret code that lets the reception area know it is safe to answer the door. Within seconds the door was ajar and I could see Gladys smiling at me from behind the security chain.

“Arthur! Come in, good to see you”, she said jubilantly, as always.

Gladys was a joy to be around, she ran a tight ship at Bones but everyone respected her. Even though she’s in her late sixties, she’s always up for a laugh and I think a lot of the young girls look up to her. They even let her look after their passports. Gladys led me upstairs to the main reception area and handed me the selection sheet for the night. I scanned the names of the women.

“No Renata tonight?” I looked at Gladys disapprovingly.

I was up for a whole night of pure kink with Renata, but my hopes had been dashed.

“Sorry Arthur, she’s ill tonight. She thought she had a shaving rash but it turned out to be a little more serious than that. Do you want to choose one of the other women?”

As I looked down the names, a lot of the regular women were on there, but I noticed one name that I hadn’t seen before; Mary. I pointed at her name on the list and asked Gladys who this new person was. I was told that Mary was a buxom beauty, and a local girl as well, just looking to get a bit of extra cash. She’d passed her HIV test, which all of the Bones employees have to take as a precaution, with flying colours, and was willing to do pretty much anything, as long as it didn’t involve being tied up as she had a phobia about this. “I’ll try anything once, Gladys. Put me down for Mary”. I scrawled my selections out on a selection sheet and handed it over, together with my £200. I was staying the night. My choices this time were:

Mary – 1 night – Bedroom – Naked – Anything she desires – Everything I desire.

I wanted to make the most of this one. New meat was rare at Bones; the company was renowned for its low employee turnover rate, so seeing a new girl on the list was not only a shock, but also a turn on. I saw Mary like a new ride at a theme park; the prospect of riding it was scary, but at the same time, hugely exciting. Gladys led me down the dimly lit corridor to the left hand side of reception and to room five. “Wait until I leave, and then knock four times. Mary will let you in when she’s ready. I’ve already phoned your requests through to her.” With that, Gladys spun on her heels and disappeared back to where we had just come from. I took a deep breath, I was feeling anxious, which was not normal for me, then knocked on the door as advised.

 It took what seemed like an eternity before there was any answer, during which time my little womb ferret had decided to make his presence known to the front of my jeans. I quickly reached down and pulled him upwards, tucking him underneath my belt. I didn’t want to look too keen.

“Come in”. The voice was a husky whisper.

 It was obvious that she was a new worker as she didn’t have the confidence in her voice that many of the other girls have. I opened the door and waddled in. I couldn’t walk properly as I was now concealing a rather large bulge down below. I closed the door gently behind me and spotted Mary perched on the edge of the bed, her bare back to me, and smoking a cigarette. She looked lovely. She wasn’t a petit from what I could make out, but she was by no means large. As I went to take a step forward, Mary turned to face me, manoeuvring her legs onto the bed, so she was now lying on top of it.

“Ma..Mary?!”

“Ar thur?!” I stayed where I was, aghast.

The new worker was none other than Mary O’Connor, the woman who lives across the road from me, and who I used to actively stalk. I couldn’t believe my luck. For just £200, I was going to be able to do anything to her I wanted. My head was awash with thoughts, part of me thought that if I could put in a decent performance, I might persuade her to be with me, to run away with me like I had always wanted to do. Mary looked as shocked to see me, as I did her. She crossed her arms awkwardly in a desperate attempt to cover her soft breasts and placed a tatty white pillow in front of her beaver.

“Arthur…What are you doing here? You have to leave, we can’t do this…I…I…know you. Please don’t tell anyone I do this. Please”.

“Damn you, Mary.” I proclaimed in a rather spiteful manner and I approached the bed.

The moonlight was pouring through the gap in the curtains and onto her body, making her shimmer like a glorious mermaid, without the tail. Or the scales. “I’ve paid good money for tonight. It’s your job; you can’t turn me away; besides, because it’s you, I’ll be gentle. You know how much I adore you.”

With that, I clambered up onto the bed and towards Mary, who had a look of bewilderment in her face. She was shaking a little bit, probably through shock, and this made her nipples gyrate hypnotically. I took the opportunity to push Mary down flat onto the bed, and knelt on her outstretched arms, so my groin was in her face. She said nothing; she just lay there gazing into my bloodshot eyes. I knew at this point I was going to have to pull something special out of the bag, so to speak. I put my finger to Mary’s lips (facial), as she started to sob gently.

“Shhhhhh, Mary. Relax. I’ll make it all better”. I was trying to calm her down, not too much, but enough so she might enjoy it as well.

I unbuttoned my jeans and wriggled free from them, like a snake shedding its skin. Next, my maroon, and embarrassingly stained boxer shorts were pulled down. I teased the tip of my shaft around Mary’s neck and then up onto her cheeks, whilst moving her left hand onto my balls. She squeezed them tightly as I entered her mouth. Her lips were dry, but I enjoyed the friction. As I thrust in and out of her gaping jaw, I was planning my next romantic move. I knew it had to be special. I ordered Mary to turn over and push her chest to the bed with her arse in the air. She obliged, eventually.

I took up my position up off the bed and took a small run up, my erect penis aimed arrow-like at Mary’s winking snatch. Her arse looked wonderful, like a peach, but a little less furry. There was a squelching sound as I entered her and I must admit I let out a small woop of joy; I was shagging Mary, the woman of my dreams. I thrust deeper and deeper into her velvety folds, holding her around the waist and rocking her back and forth to a nice gentle rhythm. I could feel myself nearing orgasm with every thrust so I removed myself from her passage and stood up once more.

Mary collapsed face down onto the bed; her legs were weak from cramp from the position she had been in. I rolled her onto her side and began to slowly stroke myself whilst I cupped her breast in my other hand. I moved in for a kiss but she turned her head away and this made me a little angry, reminding me of the times she’s shunned me in the past.

“Run away with me”, I whispered delicately into her ear, hoping to change the mood in the room somewhat.

She didn’t respond so I gave her fanny a gentle pat, then climbed on top of her and penetration commenced once again. I was more vigorous this time. I no longer cared about my £200; I wanted to finish off the dirty work and then cuddle up to Mary before chatting deep into the night, about our future plans together.

“One more manoeuvre”, I exclaimed through drawn breath. Mary nodded her head as if to say ‘go on then’ and I took up by the hand and led her across the room, positioning her against the wall opposite a wardrobe which had a mirror on the front. I wanted to watch myself in action, and watch Mary’s curves ripple slightly as I serviced her. I dropped to my knees and lapped at Mary’s sweaty pink hole with my tongue. I gave a performance like Pac-Man on acid, and Mary actually shuddered a little as her vaginal muscles contracted and sent a wave of pleasure through her body. I rolled onto the floor, triumphantly. I’d succeeded in what I wanted to do; prove to Mary that I could make her happy.

I lay there, physically and mentally exhausted, and it was in this position that I had a moment of epiphany. I realised that Mary O’Connor would never give me a proper chance outside of the brothel. She was dead to the world and had no true feelings. Besides, I’d got what I’d always wanted, and I’d discovered Mary was nowhere near as exciting as Renata. I was finally over the bitch, and I’d achieved it by having intercourse with her, whilst at the same time degrading her. What a way to get over her.

“Shoot that poison arrow through my hearrrr—aarrr-ar-art”, I sang as I left the room. Mary was still naked, stood against the wall with her legs apart and head to one side with her eyes closed. As I shut the door behind me, I heard a thud, which I assume was her slumping to the floor. This made me smile. I am now looking forward to another liaison with Renata, I may even try and find out where she lives…

AB#5 – The Return of Axle Strider

7 Aug

My local pub, the Bell End View Local Tavern is where I go every Sunday night for a couple of pints of Abbot Ale, and to join in the quiz with all the other locals. Yesterday saw a £50 prize going to the winner, so I headed straight down after my dinner to get a decent seat. The pub itself has a very cosy atmosphere; the faded red upholstery that adorns most of the seats now has a more of a pink tinge to it, and the old oak posts and floorboards are battered and worn. Old brass utensils are hung sporadically on the walls and the low sloping ceiling makes the whole place seem smaller than it really is. A log fire burns most nights keeping the pub warm and inviting.

It’s shielded from the rest of the pub by a very large grill. It didn’t used to be, but after an elderly chap had a rather bad accident after too much rum in close proximity to the fire, Health and Safety called for it to be installed. His nickname is now ‘Weston’. The pub has no pool table, which I like, as it keeps unwanted youths away, and the bitter is always of good quality. The main reason I come here though is the people. From landlady Scatty Morag to many of the other locals – Big Paul, Carpenter Dave (he’s a plumber), Chin O’Brien and Mustang Wally; they are all a lovely bunch of people that give me a lot of time and good conversation.

I arrived at about ten past seven to yesterdays quiz, and the pub was already to beginning to fill up with hopeful people all wanting to take part and win. I always enter the quiz on my own, rather than being in a team, as I like to take all the glory for myself. Plus, what’s the point of splitting £50 five ways? I’ve never seen the use of winning a tenner. My usual stool at the end of the bar was unoccupied so I ordered a pint of Abbot and a packet of pork scratchings and sat down.

“What time do we get underway, Morag”, I asked as she handed me my change.

”Well Arthur it’s an 8 o’clock kick off, would you like a cheese sandwich?” she replied, smiling.

“No thanks, I’ve just eaten” was my response and I was a bit surprised at how quickly she’d managed to change the subject, which Morag was famed for.

I passed her my £1 entry fee and looked around scanning any potential competition. Most of the usual faces were already gathered in their groups; my main rivals were sat directly opposite me near the door. ‘God Shave the Queen’ is their ‘hilarious’ team name, but they have won six of the last eight quiz nights. Mustang Wally is the brains behind the team, specializing in both science and geography, but his wife Brenda is also capable when it comes to history questions. I think that they carry the other two members of the team somewhat, their next door neighbours Colin and Bruce, a couple of homosexuals that have matching moustaches and who like to fornicate in public.

Also present were ‘The Old Couple’, ‘Pump your Quiz on me’, ‘Farmers Meekly’ and ‘Beadle’s Claw’, among others. I opted to go for my usual name of ‘Solo Baggall’. Although it sounds like some sort of lurid sex act, I like this name and I will always keep it. I can’t stand teams that change their team name every week; in fact, I think there should be a 10 point deduction for any team that wants to change their name. Farcical. As 8 o’clock neared, the pub was bustling with people getting drinks in ready prior to the quiz starting. I got another pint in as the first one had gone down so well.

Question Master for the evening was to be Morag’s husband, Phil, who always did a good job. Morag passed Phil a microphone from behind the bar and it made a piercing shrill as he flicked it on. “Good evening Ladies and Gents and welcome to the weekly Bell End View quiz night! As some of you know, first prize tonight is £50, so good luck all. Morag is handing out paper and pens to all the teams as we speak and once she’s done that, I’ll start the quiz!” I took my pen in my hand and then hunched over my paper slightly in the fashion of a child at school, so no-one could copy any of my answers. I was quietly confident that this was going to be my week.

“Round 1 will be on Capital Cities”, said Phil. My eyes lit up. I couldn’t believe it, my best topic. I was determined to get into an early lead and show my rivals I meant business. Phil picked up his clipboard of questions and spoke into the microphone.

 “Ok, question 1. What is the capita ARRHHGGGHHH, what the f….”

He was stopped mid sentence by an almighty smash. There were cries of terror coming from two women sat on a table behind me, near the back entrance which leads to the garden. Looking over my shoulder I saw broken glass littering the tables, chairs and floor that stood in front of what used to be a window. The occupants of the table were not badly hurt; one lady had a deep gouge on her cheek but was otherwise fine. She looked to be making the most of it, milking the fact she was bleeding as a way of getting a bit of attention. The woman and her friends made their way over to the bar and everyone was now beginning to crowd around the area where I was sat to see what had happened. The whole pub had fallen into an eerie silence. The congregation around me reeked of anticipation; they were expecting something else to happen.

“Please remain calm and return to your seating”, announced Phil with slight discomfort in his voice.

No-one listened; they remained focused on the smashed window. Morag had shimmied over to the area to retrieve a brick from the floor. This was obviously the projectile that had been used to cause this damage but who had thrown it? Although it only happened yesterday, I cannot really remember what was going through my head at this point. I think I was more transfixed on watching the actions of others. I remember having a gut feeling that something else was going to happen, and I was right. From out of the dark night sky, a figure moved towards the shattered window. I could only make out the silhouetted outline at first but as they moved nearer, It slowly dawned on me as to who it was. The person in question is a beast of a man, the local nutcase who had previously done time for GBH, armed robbery and necrophilia; a man that I had the misfortune of spending my school years with. Most of the crimes he commits are carried out whilst he’s high on drugs, I’ve spotted him on my binoculars before, sniffing glue and popping pills in the early hours of the morning.

The man who had smashed the window was Axle Strider.

He was back from wherever he’d been, and he didn’t look too happy. His face was contorted with rage; his bulbous eyes with dilated pupils looked full of confusion and anger. Sweat trickled down his bald, veiny head, and it glistened like a disco ball from the light emitted from the pubs fire. His stonewash jeans were tattered and dirty, and they were held onto his lower torso with what looked to be a bungee cord. His white vest was thick with grease and mud and clung to his toned chest like a limpet. Over this he wore a denim jacket, with the sleeves rolled up. It didn’t quite match the shade of his jeans, it appeared to be newer. In one hand he clasped a butchers’ knife. The other was in the air with the middle finger raised.

“What the fook are you lot lookin’ at, eh?” he screamed, as he waved the knife menacingly.

Many people in the pub had moved back now towards the entrance and those that had been around me trying to see what was going on were following suit. I remained in my seat trying to stay calm. In truth I was petrified. Axle used to bully me at school and it was no surprise to me he had turned out like he had. I wanted to keep my head down, try and look away, but something was stopping me. I just had to watch the mentalist.

“Axle, my love, what the bleedin’ Hell are you doing? What do you want? Can I get you a Stella? Why did you smash my window?” Morag was hysterical. She was shaking like a cold Parkinson’s sufferer.

Phil had moved behind the bar and put a reassuring arm around her. She nuzzled into his neck and began to sob.

“Pleeease, please go Axle. Why are you doing this to my pub?” Her words sounded weak and feeble. The corner of Axle’s mouth moved up slightly and he broke into a smile. As he smiled, his chapped top lip bled slightly as the skin broke out from the tight position it had previously been in. He was now starting to climb through the window and no one was doing anything to stop him. I remember Mustang Wally attempting to remonstrate with him and I admire him for that. He walked towards Axle, picking up an empty pint glass on the way. Axle leapt through the window, knocking the remaining shards of glass out from the window frame with his feet as he did so. Wally was in trouble and we all knew it.

“Leave him Wally”, said Phil, almost inaudibly. Wally looked at Phil and then backed away slowly from the window. Axle started to laugh.

“HAHAHA, you utter wimp, you complete and utter wimp” and as he said this he moved towards the bar where we were all gathered. My heart sank as his gaze fixed onto me, once again I was trying to look away but I just couldn’t. I knew he recognised me from somewhere, I was just hoping he wouldn’t figure it out. Many people were pleading with him to leave.

All he would say though was “I am Axle Strider and I will do what I please”. “YOU!” he shouted, prodding me in the chest with his finger. “Who are you? I know you from somewhere, don’t I?”

He was right in my face now, spitting the words out through his clenched teeth. I was so close to him, I could see the patterns of stubble against his rough skin. I could smell alcohol on his breath and I could taste his salty body odour which was raping the air. I was scared and he knew it.

“No, not me, Sir” I said, in the gentlest manner I could. “I think you have me confused with someone else”. It sounded convincing enough in my head.

Axle took a step back and surveyed me up and down.

“No, I do know you. You’re Baggall aren’t you? I knew it! I knew I recognised you’re ugly mug”. He slammed a fist onto the bar in front of me. Morag let out a quiet whimper as if she knew what was about to happen. I looked around me for support but everyone had gone to the front of the pub, packing themselves against the wall. I was on my own. Axle lurched forward again and grabbed me by the collar of my jumper. The force of this sent my flat cap to the floor. He looked like a rabid dog; foaming at the mouth and now shouting an impressive array of obscenities. I was so scared, I couldn’t move. People were shouting, I could see their mouths moving, but I could hear nothing. It was like I was underwater.

I looked into Axle’s eyes and he just looked back blankly; it seemed as if he was looking straight through me. He moved his right arm backwards, his tightly clenched fist pointed down towards me, with numerous sovereign rings ready to pummel my face in. Everything was moving in slow motion. As his fist came through the air towards me, I did the only thing I could. I moved my head to one side and pushed my arm upwards towards his face. As I made contact with his sweaty face, I pushed my index finger deep into his eye, gouging it; twisting my wrist so that I could inflict as much pain as I physically could. Axle let out a terrifying scream in agony and staggered back, releasing his grip on me. He fell to his knees and covered his face with both of his hands. Blood was oozing from his eye socket and spilling down his face. I was in shock. I looked at my hand. I had Axle’s blood spattered over it. I remember the noise coming back into the room at this point. I heard a cry of “What has he done, Arthur’s a dead man now” and it sprung me back into action.

“Take that you bastard!” I leapt forward and kicked upwards against Axle’s chin, sending him backwards onto the floor. He was sprayed out like an upturned woodlouse, disorientated and desperately trying to feel for something to help him to his feet. A nasty looking cut had formed from the kick, a gash so deep you could just see the bone. I knelt onto Axle’s chest and tried to pull his tongue out. It gripped the fleshy end between my thumb and forefinger and tugged downwards. As I did so, Axle’s head jolted forward and met the palm of my other hand, sending him back to the floor.

Blood was pissing out of his face now, he was almost recognisable. I had never got into a rage like this before, the last time I came close was when I was back at school and the bullies used to lock me in the stock cupboard with the school cleaner, who was later convicted as a paedophile. I used to get taunted saying that I had turned him. I suppose it was these memories that came flooding back as I pummelled Axle. Every last sap of energy drained out of me as I laid a relentless barrage of punches, kicks and slaps. After 5 minutes or so, I stood up, sweaty and dazed. Axle lay on the floor like a dead badger on the side of the road. I don’t know why but other people in the pub began to clap. There was cheering as well, “Way to go Arthur, Yeah!” a jubilant Morag exclaimed, “Let’s drag the evil swine outside”.

So we did. It took 4 of us to move his battered body across the floor and into the pub garden. We rolled him into the bushes and retired back to the pub for a celebratory drink. I couldn’t believe what I had done. I was a quivering wreck by this point. I wasn’t sure if it was the excitement of being a hero or the fear of Axle’s revenge. Either way, I was going to try and savour the moment. The night passed quickly without any further incident of note. I was proud to have conquered a few of my childhood demons, with Axle taking to full brunt of this.

I was rewarded with a three-some with Phil and Morag. After closing time, we headed upstairs and into their bedroom, onto the marital bed. Things were by no means awkward and we got straight on with things. I took Morag from behind, quite slowly, whilst she performed fellatio on Phil. It got quite messy. Morag was begging me to come deep inside her at one point, but I wasn’t ready. I squeezed my throbbing shaft at the base and withdrew. The sight of me, member bobbing around proudly, caused Phil to withdraw and spatter Morag’s face with his man fat. She looked like a plasterer’s radio, but she managed to force a smile and lick her lips a little. I was bashing myself off like a little spider monkey at this point, whilst furiously fingering Morag’s baggy snatch. Yes, she was old, but her pert breasts more than made up for the lack of friction I was receiving from her vaginal passage. She had a nice little rug on her as well, like a 70s German porn star.

Phil was watching, semi-awake and semi-erect. I took his place on the bed and lay down. Morag shimmied herself over me and then squatted, releasing a torrent of fluid over my chest, which I massaged into myself. She then lowered herself onto my wand and began to slowly gyrate, leaning forward so I could take a nipple between my teeth. I held onto her arse for support and went at jack hammer speed. Morag wailed loudly and arched her back, her ribcage protruded through her skin. I was ready to unleash my load into her cunny and Morag shouted, “I’m coming Mr.Baggall you fucker” as she climaxed. I won’t go into the finer details of last night, but I sure did enjoy myself. As for Axle Strider; I hope he never has the nerve to show his face around here again.

AB#4– The Man with the Dodecahedron Shaped Head

7 Aug
It’s been a while since I’ve had the chance to write as I’ve been busy helping the police with some of their more important enquiries. Believe you me; you’ll be shocked when you hear what I have to say about my ‘friend’ Barry, known around the town as ‘The Man with the dodecahedron shaped head’.
He’s also now known as a dirty zoophile.
Barry has always been a bit of a quirky fellow. Firstly let me tell you about his head, it really is a grotesque affair; weirdly shaped with bumps and lumps coming out from every angle. It’s veiny, pale and has a texture similar to that of ET; half leather, half eczema. When Barry walks, his huge head flops about carefree, like his neck has given up trying to support it. When he speaks it’s painful to listen to. A long monotonous drone followed by a thirty second stutter and spittle. And that’s just him saying his name. Not only this, he has a habit of hording anything and everything. He’ll collect rubbish from around the town and hoard it under his bed, he’ll defecate into old lunchboxes and put them in his freezer and he’s started to collect dead animals; cats, squirrels, mice, pretty much anything he sees that hasn’t got a pulse.
 
 
Having said this, I’ve always liked Barry. We met at the village fete last year where I was running a ‘Splat the Rat’ stall. Barry was my last customer that day and my only winner. He refused to use the rounders bat I offered him, instead opting to smash the ‘rat’ with his bulbous forehead. I gave him his prize, a signed photo of Dave Benson-Phillips and we hit it off from there. Since then, we have met up at least once a week, normally round my house as I find the putrid smell that lurks around his pretty unbearable.
 
 
As much as I like Barry and get on with him, it is often difficult. The public aren’t too kind when they see Barry, and treat him like a modern day John Merrick. Abuse is hurled at him wherever he walks, and being a friend of his, I often get caught in the crossfire. I’ve often seen Barry chase after local youths that have called him a freak, armed with only a leather belt and the angriest grimace on his face you can imagine. His head, although slowing him down, can make a handy weapon. Friday nights are the worse, and I’ve taken to staying in on my own. “Oi! Dodecahedron head you ugly twat”, are the most frequent cries from drunken revelers. They like to poke him and laugh at his voice. I remember one man describing Barry’s groans like that of ‘Brian Blessed’s voice, only with a megaphone, whilst battering a baby seal with all his might’.
Anyway, the events of the last few days have put a lot of things into perspective for me. The most important things I’ve learnt from what has happened is never make friends with a weirdo, never talk to a freak and never ever trust a man with a dodecahedron shaped head. The reason?  Almost all of them are dirty zoophiles. I’ve learnt from my lesson and I hope by writing down the events of the last couple of days, whoever reads this will too.
 
 
Last Thursday there was a knock at my door. I remember being a bit angered as I was playing Subbuteo against myself and actually winning for a change. I opened the door and smiling at me was Barry’s wide frog-like mouth.
 
 
“Arthur”, he said, foaming at the corner of his mouth slightly, “Fancy coming round to mine for a bite to eat?”
 
 
“I’ll pass on the food, but yeah, I can come round for a bit. Let me get my slippers on Barry and I’ll be right with you”, I replied.
 
 
Barry’s eyes lit up, I was the only person in the village that gave him any sort of time at all, he knew if I had have turned him down, he would have been forcing his faeces into Tupperware all afternoon, alone and upset. We set off from mine at about 12.30 and Barry’s house is normally a 5 minute stroll from mine, sometimes slightly longer if his head is more swollen than usual. However, Barry wasn’t intent on going straight to his house, he wanted to go via the park as “The fresh air helps my facial skin”, I remember him saying.
Now, you might not think this is strange, especially as it’s coming from the mouth of the dodecahedron shaped headed man. But, if I was to say that I had seen Barry sniffing the grass in the park where a couple of pigeons had copulated just a couple of days before, you’d have a slight air of suspicion about you. I did too. I knew this type of behavior wasn’t normal, and seeing someone with Barry’s looks displaying such behavior, only amplifies the strangeness of the situation.
 
 
We entered the park. There is a gravelly path which cuts through the middle of it, grass on either side of it, with a medium sized playground on one side next to a pond.”Can we, can we?!” Barry said in the manner of a drunken toddler. He was jumping up and down on the spot, head flailing about wildly and arm pointing at the park. I agreed we could stay for a while but being a grown up, and very mature man, I didn’t want to hang around for too long. I don’t want to dwell on the finer details, but there were about 3 ducks and 2 swans on the pond and two dogs with their owners near the slide.
Barry made his way over to the swings and brushed the tops of each seat gently with his hand as he walked passed. I sat on the first one I came too, but Barry looked about carefully before settling onto his swing, as if he was looking for a good position. A good position for what, I didn’t know at this point, I could tell though he wanted to be able to see the dogs playing, and birds swimming.
 
 
In a way I thought this was quite nice. I was thinking of Barry reminiscing about the time when he was young, being in the park with his parents, who are now deceased. I imagined Barry going back to an age where prejudices didn’t exist, and children played together and got on with each other without any problems. Barry has long been without anyone. He would come to the park and go into almost a trance like state. I visualized him in my head, holding hands with other children and singing ring-a-ring-a-roses. Little did I know, his thoughts were far from what I had envisaged. He was a pervert. A dirty, boulder headed pervert. And I was going to catch him out.
 
 
We stayed on those swings for about half an hour before I asked Barry if we could leave.
 
 
“Barry?”……”Barry?”…..”BARRRYYYY??!!” I had to bellow in his face. A small pool of drool had formed on the soft tarmac by his foot, not unusual for Barry, but there seemed to be a bit more than usual. He’s eyes stay transfixed on the two dogs.
 
 
“Let’s go” I said as I stood up from the swing. Barry followed from behind, almost hunched over. I thought it was the weight of his head, now I know the dirty secret he was trying to hide. Looking back to this moment, I should have seen the small bulge in Barry’s groin region, but like anyone that has ever seen Barry will tell you; it’s very hard to take you’re gaze away from his head.
 
 
Upon arriving at Barry’s house, he ushered me through to his living room. Sweeping a bird carcass and numerous empty packets of peanuts from the sofa, he offered me a seat. I brushed a few of the remaining feathers off the tattered upholstery and sat down.
 
 
“Would you like a drink of tea?” Barry spluttered.
 
 
“Please Barry; that would be nice”, I said, hiding my now growing fear about his mental state.
 
 
As soon as he was out of the room, I began looking for something. I didn’t know what, I just wanted evidence; something solid to go on. Something that would either prove me wrong and set my mind at rest, or would capture any dirty deeds Barry had been carrying out, and send the dodecahedron headed freak to prison.
I looked behind cushions, lifted carpets, opened draws and moved furniture. I was moving frantically but at the same time quietly, hoping Barry wouldn’t hear me as he could turn into an aggressive beast at the drop of a hat. I heard the click of the kettle as it finished boiling and knew I didn’t have long. Scampering around on my hands and knees, I spotted a silver object pushed firmly under the tight gap under the sofa. I snatched at it but it was wedged quite firm. Using the strength in my left wrist, I managed to push the sofa upwards, revealing a brand new laptop. I heard the clinking now of the spoons hitting the mugs as Barry stirred the tea. I stayed crouched by on the floor for what seemed like an eternity, but in truth was only about 30 seconds. As Barry walked towards the room, I decided to leave the laptop where it was and play it calm.
 
 
“My shoelace was undone” I said as Barry walked into the room.
 
 
He nodded and smiled as he handed me my tea, fortunately not noticing I had slippers on. His baggy eyelids probably played a part in this. We sat and talked for about 20 minutes. I was of a nervous disposition, sweating quite profusely, but Barry being Barry didn’t notice a thing. In my head I was trying to conjure a plan. How could I leave the house, armed with the laptop, without Barry noticing? Plans came into my head but I deemed them far too risky. There was only one thing for it.
 
 
“Take that you moron”. I flung my hot tea into the face of Barry and he yet out a loud shrieking cry, covering his face with his hands and falling to his knees. I lifted the sofa and grabbed the laptop making a run for the door. I could see Barry out of the corner of my eye starting to stand so I upped my pace and bolted out of the door, slamming it shut behind me. As I ran home, huge thoughts of doubt crossed my mind; what if Barry just liked animals? What if he wasn’t abusing them and I had just assaulted an innocent man?
 
 
I got home and went locked the door behind me. I shut every curtain in my house and made my way into the spare bedroom upstairs. The laptop whirred slowly as it started up, my heart was beating my against my rib cage so hard I could hear it. Once fully started up I began searching through the ‘My Documents’ folder.
There it was, a folder called ‘Fun’. I stopped for a deep breath and then opened it. What I saw will stay with me forever; images of Barry violating an array of animals. There were a couple of pictures of him fisting miniature horses and naked in bed with goats and sheep, all of whom I recognized from the local farm. There were more pictures of him, naked from the waist down, fellating various breeds of dogs. They looked happy, but you could see it in their eyes how uncomfortable they really were. There were hundreds of images of Barry receiving oral sex from birds. In one, what looked like a duck had its beak stuffed so full with Barry’s swollen member, his eyes were beginning pop out. In another picture, Barry was bent over with a live kipper dangling from his puckered anus, whilst Barry fingered a squirrel. It had its bushy tail tied upwards with a ribbon which had the other end attached to the ceiling. I’ll never forget the confused look in the squirrels face.
I felt sick but felt I had to look on. The next pictures I found were of Barry masturbating furiously over two chickens whilst smaller birds, possibly starlings, ate bird seed from the dents in Barry’s head. Barry had his tongue out, obviously enjoying the moment. There were more. One looked as though it was taken around Christmas time as there were decorations up. A badger was lay spread-eagled on the mould ridden floor, a mop protruding from its rear end. Barry was kissing it on the head, taking the photo with an outstretched arm. I started to look at pictures of Barry sodomising a tortoise when suddenly a thought hit me. Had Barry been violating and then killing these animals? It would explain the corpses in his house.
 
 
A small bit of acidic sick shot up my esophagus and into my throat, so I gulped it back down and sat in the darkened room; laptop still whirring quietly. I slammed it shut and started to sob gently. I let out tears for all the animals I had seen in those photos and the hundreds of others that probably met there untimely death to Barry, the man with the dodecahedron shaped head.
 
 
Gathering my thoughts, I went to the police station. I handed them the laptop and explained what had happened that afternoon and what I had seen Barry up to in previous weeks.
The next couple of days were traumatic to say the least. I had to give evidence against Barry and the local town found out what he had been up to. Phrases such as ‘Dodecahedron Dog Fiddler’ and ‘Freaky Mental Animal Sucker’ were daubed in graffiti onto Barry’s house.
 
 
I was proud with what I had done. Yes, I had lost a friend, but the man is crazy. I’ve found the locals to be a lot more friendly with me as well, more so than usual. I even received a £10 book voucher as a reward for putting Barry behind bars. There is a downside to all this though and that is the mental images that will scar my mind until the day I die. I hope all the animals that died may rest in peace, especially the miniature horse with the dreadlocks; I cannot ever imagine how he must have felt.
 
 
Apparently, Barry has tried to hang himself twice since his arrest, but on both attempts, his head proved too heavy and the noose snapped. He’s even tried to tar me with the same brush, saying I had intimate relations with a goat. What Barry doesn’t realize Is, that what I practice is a sport, not a sick fetish. I hope he rots in his cell, which, given the head size, may take a while…
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