Rock On Porn #06
[All characters described are over the age of 18.]
#6
Two more stoned wanks and then it's back to realty -- that widely advertised horror show of piss-stinking post-office queues and own-brand medicament -- it's enough to make you cut your cock off. Or am I taking these enlightening images of the Multiversal harem being cummed upon to bits a little too seriously? . . . But I just can't stop looking at them! They're all so damn fine in the pants! . . . Surely life wouldn't be worth living without at least one sexual panic attack a day . . . Obviously I am suffering some kind of wanking fever . . . Or am I just a foolish wanker? . . . Thirty-seven years on the tug and proud, sir! . . . Well, not so much proud as fatally shamed, and sweaty, and perhaps a touch on the unhygienic side . . . But, to business.
Just a day or two ago I was staring down into the gusset of my Primark briefs when, blow me, if I didn't see the face of Kate Moss, rendered in a delicate tracery of skidish remains, gazing up at me with a come hither scowl on her suntanned visage; so enraptured was I that, when I alighted from the toilet bowl, I cut out the enigmatic stain and had it sealed in Perspex with a small testimonial from a sub-editor at Vogue; I keep it on my bookshelf next to a plastic stegosaurus with the face of a young Victor Mature . . . But I digress. The modern age surely is a veritable quagmire of smut -- personally I am of the same mind as the Marquis de Sade, 'In an age that is utterly corrupt, the best policy is to do as others do.' -- we exist in a perpetual state of gapping arse-holes and bulging eyes, wondering with all our pathetic might how to get our hard-drive's clean of the fact.
And why not? After all, we're all in it together -- the state, that is, not the holes; well, perhaps the holes; for my own part, I haven't been in a hole for many a moon, in fact I spend most of my time with my cock firmly in nothing but my calloused left hand (right hand for clicking), with a look on my face that could turn even the most hardened coroner white with revulsion. Whether it be sock, carpet, curtain, or porcelain, my aim is never anything less than indifferent -- due, in part, to the prohibitive cost of quality toilet tissue . . . But again, I digress -- I'd have been better sticking with my previous digression, at least it held a vestige of today's naughty little subject: the fetishization of certain tight fitting clothing, and stains therein contained.
Lycra! There, I've said it. No use beating around the bush -- we'll get to that glorious business in next month's article; assuming I can be bothered. Anyway, Lycra! Yes! Lycra . . . Excuse the pause (explanations by postal request) . . . It has long been my belief that a fit young lady in a leotard is somehow fitter than a control subject in a woollen jerkin -- though I imagine some would disagree; woollen jerkins, no doubt, having their own scratchy niche to fill. Indeed, even the lowest resolution image of a slender slip of a thing in a stretchy electric-blue body-stocking can often cause me to sink to my knees and call out as though religiously afflicted . . . Great balls on fire! . . . To those of you with sincere religious delusions I can say only this: Get real! Even chimps got more sense! . . . (There now follows a revolting testament to the livid powers of the goddess Lycra -- those of a tender disposition might prefer to skip the next paragraph or two; those with testicles built of purest polonium read on.)
One day, back in a time when mobile phones were only available to cunts in ill-fitting suits, and the internet had less to do with computers than it did to extreme sporting gussets -- basically in the early years of my deeply disturbed teens; the fucking pox-ridden eighties, if you want to know -- I found myself alone in the house of a trusting neighbour -- something to do with cats and plant watering. And whilst discharging my onerous duties, wandering around, pissing in the larder, and so forth, I happened upon the bedroom of an eighteen year old dance student -- the daughter of said trusting neighbour's -- and instantly felt somehow duty bound to examine the interior of her draws. And, in one of her draws, having moved on, trembling, from a series of previous draws -- all stuffed to the lips with secret cotton charms -- I turned up, by lucky happenstance, an alluring quantity of Lycra over-garments, and other articles of an equally manmade hue -- leotards, hot pants, boob tubes, gimp masks, etc. Now, being that I was a mere chit of a lad, and being that I had recently introduced myself to a number of inhibition destroying drugs and unguents, and being that I was fully under the influence of a full six bottles of Baby Sham -- left over from the previous horrific xmas -- I decided, for reasons I can hardly recall, to try the fuckers on -- having first raided the kitchen for nutmeg and cooking oil -- and have a wank over her photo album . . . At this point, I should of course apologize to the poor gal. But I'm not going to; a lot of watery substance has passed beneath the bridge since then, and I really don't imagine a great deal of good would come of her discovering the unlikely final resting place of a heavily soiled leotard in a bin bag, that, in all probability she imagined her father to have stolen . . .
Stripping off and encasing myself in one of 'Trudy's' petite little jig bags, covering myself, head to stirruped foot, in Flora; choking back the tin of ground nutmeg -- aside from the terrible sick feeling, much like an overly enthusiastic blast of cheap dirty hash -- I then drew a bath and plunged in; my hands working themselves into a frenzied lather; the pages of the photo album wilting in the steam; the blessed Lycra stretching in every direction at the same time; and went wild with devotion -- truly I must have looked like a vibrant sack of rutting, drowning Tasmanian devils.
But then, of course, the unthinkable happened; the unexpected key in the door routine! Dun-dun-daaaa! . . .
Luckily for me -- unluckily for the local press -- I had just enough time to exit the bath, drag my jeans and T-shirt on, smash the nearest window, and scatter, Bond-like, into the twilit Crescent, racing madly through a couple of thorny hedges, to find myself at the back door of my parents unsuspecting hovel -- my dear old ma set in concrete at the sink, washing up her worst china, not even noticing me dash madly past her, dripping prolifically, up the stairs to my room; where I quickly completed my discombobulated gyrations and then disrobed with a heartfelt groan/chuckle.
And ever since then -- perhaps even before -- I've had this thing about Lycra; and thanks to the wonders of modern technology, I also have a vast collection of images from the wonderful wanking web of women being multifariously messed about with in just such wonderfully cameltoe promoting attire. Amazing.
So, think on, dear reader, think on. If you, or a member of your immediate family, or the strangest mother-fucker in your worryingly small circle of acquaintances, has an unnatural love of any kind of garment, or tight-fitting accessory, then waste no time, direct them immediately to their nearest terminal and beseech them to Google their desire, because rest assured it's in there somewhere. But you know that.
Anyway, now I'm off to knock one out over the memory of the regularly billowing skirt of a retired English teacher and her inability to keep her crotch securely buttoned. Good old Mrs. Mayhew -- many's the time I've conjured her up before my gruesome mind's eye in an attempt to re-sit my O-levels -- could it be that I'm the most pathetic middle-aged man alive? . . . It's surely not impossible . . .
For more adventures of Arthur 'the virus boy' stay tuned, as we'll be back after this small apocalypse . . . SPUT!
https://www.bonanza.com/users/42902448/profile
https://www.blognone.com/node/112743
http://sharicehanson.brandyourself.com/
https://www.buzzfeed.com/ninixiqo/wow-hello-aim-here-bwsrmeefu4
https://bootyoftheday.co/2016/12/14/thick-asians-asuka-hoshiyoshi-and-urara-motomura/
https://blog.bmtmicro.com/3-tips-to-improve-your-content-marketing/
https://www.blendernation.com/2019/11/25/behind-the-scenes-garden-blender-2-8/
https://www.bma.org.uk/connecting-doctors/b/work/posts/staying-up-on-christmas-eve-in-a-amp-e
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