Manchester
Twas in the late 1990’s,

I worked on Merseyside and my boss lived in Manchester but commuted daily.

A top bloke – who played hard and got away with doing as little as possible in work and generally went easy on us..

Back in his locality, he used to frequent a local working mans club for darts and poker and came into work one day saying there was to be a ‘Mens Night’ in his local club and did we all want to go. It would be an evening of blue comedians and strippers. With nothing better to do on a Wednesday night and having the drinking invincibility of youth behind me – I (we all) agreed and purchased tickets for said event.

When we arrived we were quickly aware that we had to keep a low profile as we were in a rough Manchester working-mans Club with Merseyside accents, and a bit of eaves dropping over our first pint confirmed our suspicions that these people did indeed hate anything to do with Liverpool.

The Show started, and as expected, the comedian ripped into everything ‘Liverpool’ and the crowd lapped it up… we stayed close to the back of the room and enjoyed the banter. Then the Strippers came on and did their show… nothing over the top – a professional effort, a bit of audience participation and they got a worthy round of applause. When they finished, (some of you might know where this is going), the MC announced that he would be coming round with a bucket and that if enough money was collected – the strippers would put on a ‘show’. I went up to the bar and whilst all was quiet, I ended up talking to one of the strippers. She too was from Merseyside and upon finding out we had something in common, told me she would ‘sort me out’ when the show started (said with a wink).

I retired back to my table at the back of the room with my mates and kept my head down – she was now in the middle of inserting as many dildo’s as humanly possible into every orifice, much to the delight of the crowd. Then it happened…

“ Ok – I need a volunteer’ she said

All the blokes above the age of 40 had their hands in the air like kids at a party trying to win sweets. She looked around the room. I avoided eye contact.

“Lad at the back with the blue top on – you’ll do” she said

All the pervs looked at me with distain – I’d stolen their moment. I made my way to the stage (clearing on the floor) where I was greeted by the stark naked stripper who its worth mentioning at this point was a good 5’ 11” – not fat, but ‘big boned’. She told me to lie down on the floor on the towel that was laid out. I obliged. It was then she reached for what looked like Fred West’s leather tool bag, she rummaged around pulling out all manner of sex aids until she found what she was after. It must have been a good 17 inches long, Black, with veins and the girth of a standard black pudding.

Without even asking, she told me to open my mouth, she then placed the base of the dildo in my mouth and told me to bite hard. Terror was now sinking in as she straddled over me, she then lowered herself onto the cock and proceeded to sit on my face. Then she started to ride it. Up and down. I was watching this ample clunge move away then rapidly descend towards my face at an increasing rate and with each downstroke, I felt like my teeth were going to be knocked out. Cheers echoed from the audience, I could barely see as my eyes were watering so much. If I was to die, it would have made an interesting headline.

Finally – she dismounted, and pulled the dildo out of my mouth. I was dazed, confused yet a hero amongst the audience. I returned to my seat looking like I’d spent 3 weeks in solitary without food. My jaw ached and my bite had altered slightly. I failed to see how her doing this to me constituted any kind of favour but, ever the gentleman, I said thank you anyway.

She made no apologies about the length…
(Pat mustard, Thu 17 May 2012, 14:52, 7 replies)

Roasted Peas in a pod
Many moons ago, I thought it would be a laugh to make a wax candle / dildo in the shape of my cock, and send it to my ex girlfriend. Remind her exactly what she was missing, that kind of caper. And also to give her light for many, many hours, of course (modest cough).

Now at that time I hadn't heard of dental algenate, so I set about making a mould out of plaster. How clever am I, I thought, because when the erection goes down, it will shrink and I'll be left with a perfect cast, with no need for the complexity of a two-part split mould.

So, I set about it. I cut a suitable hole in a plastic tub, edged the hole with sponge for comfort and sealage, positioned the tub on a cabinet which was at the correct poking height. Then I introduced the relevant body parts, and poured in the plaster.

I immediately hit a problem: plaster of Paris takes about 20 minutes to cure, and it's pretty tough to maintain a hands-free erection for that long -- despite the extensive array of "gentleman's literature" I had carefully prepared for this very task, plus about a week of abstinence to ensure a plentiful supply of "back pressure". Plaster also gets pretty hot while it cures, which adds further complexity to the task. At the time I wished that I'd used "quick set" plaster, though as I understand that this gets hot enough to cook with, so in retrospect I got lucky there.

But eventually the plaster went hard, with at least a semi remaining, so it was time to remove the cast. And here is where I get to the "I'm glad no-one saw me" bit: I found that the pubes on my balls were embedded as a rigid matrix in the plaster. I had effectively re-invented fibreglass, or possibly reinforced concrete.

So I'm standing in my room, naked and with about 2kg of rock swinging from my tenderest parts, firmly attached by the hairs. After trying everything I could - which involved blades in far too close proximity to my tenderest flesh - I eventually realised that there was nothing for it but to rip the damn thing off by brute force. Thankfully my house-mates were all out, so didn't hear the agonised primal screams and protracted sobbing that accompanied this DIY velcro experience.

I ended up with a far-from-impressive candle - like a tea-light that's been left in a hot car - but on the plus side, a beautifully waxed scrotum.
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Fri 18 May 2012, 13:49, 10 replies)

Not sure if this counts
But I once dated a man who turned out to have a prosthetic hand, having lost his left hand, just above the writst, in a farm machinery accident.

I don't think I can adequately describe the feeling as he used his stump to pleasure me from behind (more comfortable for both of us). It felt like an enormous, ever-rigid, 10-inch cock. And even once Kevin had wanked himself off, he could continue thrusting long into the night – or afternoon one time.

He was a lovely guy and we had lots of fun, but I called it day eventually, as we really had nothing in common, beyond the joy we gave each other in the bedroom.

And when people ask you “What on earth do you see in him?”, I realised that the answer was: “His stumpy left arm” which even I had to admit was probably not a sound basis for a long term relationship.

Still…I do miss that arm sometimes.
(K.W.A. Knickers With Attitude, Wed 23 May 2012, 15:11, 20 replies)

What on earth must the nurses have thought....
Slightly off topic for my first post, but meh.

Many years back I was on my way home from picking up a few grocery items and found myself locked out of the house. It was mid-december so the weather was more than a little on the chilly side, and none too keen to sit out in the cold and wait for the wife to get home and let me in, I set down my shopping and began to look for alternative means of entry.

As luck would have it, the upstairs bathroom window had been in need of repair for some time, since the handle was bent out of shape and did not close securely. As it was invisible from outside and an elastic band around the handle had done the trick I had yet to do anything about it, so knowing I could simply prise it open, I grabbed hold of the guttering and began climbing.

Alas, not being the best of climbers I clearly did something wrong, and by the time I was halfway up I snagged my belt on something, tugging my trousers a few inches lower than decent before I could unsnag them. I proceeded in this condition as my hands were otherwise occupied in the noble pursuit of "not letting go lest I die".

Just before I could get the window open the pipe began falling away from the wall. It must have looked hilarious, but at the time I did not see the funny side due to my falling backwards to what I expected to be my doom. Fortune smiled upon me though, and as luck would have it my fall was broken by my groceries.

Now what with this being in the days before squeezy ketchup became so popular, I had 2 glass bottle of finest Heinz ketchup in my bag. During the walk home I had become a little wary of how much they were clinking into each other, partially because I did not want to break them, and also because glass hitting glass sets my teeth right on edge. In what I considered to be a stroke of genius I had retrieved my emergency johnny from my wallet and slipped it over one of the bottles. Presto: no more glass on glass torture. With hindsight it was an even better idea than I thought, since I may have suffered serious cuts later on without it.

Alas, this bottle is what I landed on. Between the force of impact, the lowered trousers and the lubrication of the condom, the bottle had suddenly become a new internal organ.


Imagine the horror. I was able to waddle next door and procure a "no questions asked" lift to A&E from the neighbour, and luckily the nurses were able to remove the offending article, but I had a sneaking suspicion that they neither believed my tale of woe, nor intended to keep their promise not to repeat my story to anyone.


Still, at least I got my ketchup back!
(Not_Actually_Edward got mustard all over his balls on, Fri 18 May 2012, 18:47, 5 replies)

My missus asked me to buy her a vibrator, and always wanting to encourage any interest in sex, I agreed,
I went to a sex shop in Notting Hill, and not having further instruction I picked out a medium-large purple rubbery one (I opted not to get a monster, I didn't fancy going in second or risking permanently over-extending her clunge). However, when I returned home she was disappointed. I'd failed to understand that for something to be called a vibrator, it had to vibrate. What I'd bought was a dildo. I tried to return it, but sensibly they don't accept returns on sex toys, though I'm sure there's at least a market in Japan for used dildos for the enterprising businessperson. I forked out for a shiny chrome vibrator with variable speed. The unwanted purple dildo I tried putting in the hand of statue of a bloke on a horse in hyde park, but the climb was too difficult and I'd attracted onlookers and I bottled it. I ended up tossing it in the Serpentine, where it awaits to this day to rise erect cupped in a ghostly hand, for the rightful King of the Realm
( cumquat may will not be commenting further on the allegations, Thu 17 May 2012, 17:39, 2 replies)

Old Faithful
My parents came to visit me in the USA a few years ago for a few weeks. They were in their late 70’s. A couple of days after they had left, I get a phone call from my mother. After all the usual chit-chat and pleasantries, she confesses that she’s left something behind that she needs. Yes, she’d left behind Old Faithful, and old-style no-frills type of unit that she’d had for ages. And my dad had forgotten his little blue pills as well. Trying very hard not to piss myself laughing, I say that I’d post them back. I located the articles in question, and rather than touch them I use the inverted plastic bag trick utilized by many a pet owner cleaning up after their animal. But now, I have to now work out what goes on the customs declaration form. I decided to stay simple. Sex toy and Viagra. Value? Sentimental. I tried not to think of it too much after that. Other than to tell my brothers that is.
Okay, so the following year, they are back over. The 3 weeks go past relatively smoothly until the last night. They’ve packed up pretty much everything, and we’re having the last supper. My mother says that she’d already packed pretty much everything so the next day should be simple. I just say that she needs to remember to pack EVERYTHING this time. Both parents looked at me slightly puzzled. I simply repeat myself. At this point my father, usually the slower of the pair, gets my meaning, and says to my mother, “Oh you know”, and then proceeded to do an impression of the vibrator in question….as if it was powered by a 30 megawatt diesel generator. Either that or a road drill, such was the volume of the impression. My mother starts to laugh embarrassed, whilst I’m cringing in my seat. So I say to my dad “You’re not off the hook either. You forgot your pills”. My mother then comes back with “Oh don’t worry. He doesn’t always need them”, and I am left with permanent mental scars and wishing that the ground would open up and let me fall into the bowels of hell, where after having told this story, I no doubt will end up.
(Muttley, Wed 23 May 2012, 23:45, 10 replies)

It's sort-of a sex-toy, I suppose...
Many years ago, I had a job in the wonderful world of scud/grumble/Frankie Vaughan. Nothing too exotic, sadly - I worked for a company that produced one-handed reading material and skin-flicks, and it was my duty to ensure that their raft of websites was regularly updated with fresh pictures from the latest bongo-mags. It was fun (with the possible exception of Readers' Wives week), and the contents of my in-tray would routinely put the local hedgerows to shame.

One feature of the websites, quite pioneering at the time, was the Livecam. Every night, punters could log on and watch a range of models stripping off live on camera, performing lewd acts and talking filth in the chatroom. It was years ahead of those soul-crushing channels in the nine-hundreds, populated by bored-looking women listlessly waggling cordless phones in silence. Oh yes, we were offering live tragi-bation a decade ahead of those latecomers. All this action took place one floor down from my office, in a small studio containing a bed, a computer, a webcam and a lingering smell of baby-oil and resignation.

The girls built up quite a fanbase, so much so that another feature was introduced; The Livecam Shop. Here, punters could enhance their experience by purchasing a 'gift' for the girl onscreen. £5 bought her a virtual rose, £10 a box of virtual chocolates. The girls would then respond by - Well, to be honest I don't know, because even the loneliest and most desperate of worm-burpers wasn't gullible enough to fall for that scam while I was watching. Um, monitoring the service for bandwidth issues.

There was one item in the shop that wasn't a total rip-off, though; For about £15, viewers could treat themselves to their favourite Livecam girl's used knickers. These sold like hot cakes that had been kept up a fanny. The fans went wild for them, and we did a roaring trade. What more could the sophisticated man about town want? After sitting and panting at the screen for three hours, studiously poring over a model's every nork-jiggle and buttock-oiling, consigning the best bits to the mammary bank, he could complete the experience with the most personal of keepsakes; A delicate lacy undergarment that had spent a whole day tightly hugging the most intimate parts of the object of his affection. Sure, there may have been a chatroom full of pud-pullers watching her erotic display, but not many of them could claim ownership of a piece of underwear from her very own collection, wrapped snuggly around her curves for a whole day before being hermetically sealed and despatched to their door.

The romance of the situation was only slightly tarnished by the fact that, back upstairs, the chap at the next desk was kept busy for about an hour a day with the task of going through a job-lot of bright red factory-second polyester thongs brought in from the outlet store that morning, squirting each one with a bottle of Superdrug's cheapest perfume, sealing it in a polythene sandwich bag and bunging the whole sensual package in the post :(
(costas, Wed 23 May 2012, 19:35, 8 replies)

The Venus Frequency.
This may get a little bit long and technical, but bear with me.

As I have mentioned before, I'm a mechanical engineer. As such I like to build things. This is the story of building a unique sex toy.

It all started with jokes about the Brown Note as referenced in South Park. The theory is that a particular frequency will cause resonance in the abdomen, causing a person to lose bowel and bladder control. But then I started to wonder about this- maybe there was another application of the concept?

There are plenty of anecdotes about women having spontaneous orgasms while riding motorcycles or sitting on top of a clothes washer during the spin cycle. So with this in mind a friend of mine and I undertook an experiment in his workshop, where he has all sorts of metalworking equipment.

We got an old fiberglass stacking chair like this one and took the seat off of the base. We built a new base from a piece of 3" steel pipe and a couple of square steel plates, added some rubber grommets to it and bolted it on top. We put four stiff coil springs under it for feet.

Then we went to the dump and scavenged a motor from a clothes washer. To the side of the pulley wheel we welded a chunk of steel that weighed about a pound or two, then attached the motor to the side of the steel pipe base. We ran the power for it through a fairly heavy rheostat and gave it enough cord that a person sitting in the chair could hold the control and adjust the speed.

My girlfriend at the time was our first test subject. She sat down in it and turned it on low speed, then gradually turned it up. After a minute or so her eyes got wide, her breath started to come in ragged gasps and she let out a sound I knew well. When she finally turned it off she could barely walk.

My friend's girlfriend took a turn on it next. From what he said it was surprising that she didn't leave her fingerprints in the arms of the damn thing.

After that my friend's workshop became a very popular place (it was too heavy to carry elsewhere, and a bit too noisy besides). We had no shortage of test subjects, and ultimately concluded that around 1800 rpm was optimal. We had found our Venus Frequency.

After a time, though, the fiberglass chair began to crack from the vibrations, so I abandoned the concept and he said he would dispose of it- it was starting to smell a bit by then anyway.

I don't know for sure what he did with it, but I do know that his wife always seems happy these days...
( The Resident Loon Not a demographic. Do not measure., Sat 19 May 2012, 10:59, Reply)

I was dating a 'nice Jewish girl'
so nice, in fact, that her father was a rabbi. I sent her a filthy text, only to get a reply from her father who was apparently borrowing the phone. It was a huge sext oy.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Fri 18 May 2012, 4:28, 17 replies)

The difference between kinky and insane
Back in the early 1990s, I worked in public health research. I was also a regular clubber. One night at a club in Glasgow, I met Ken for the first time (he's still a dear friend to this day). I was only 23 at the time and still a little naive when it came to all things sexual - despite working in the HIV field. Ken was the first out-and-proud gay man I'd ever met. At the club this night, he'd appear on the dance floor then suddenly disappear for ten minutes. This happened a couple of times. I asked him where he'd been.

'Out on the fire escape giving some guy a blowjob', was his reply. I was slightly shocked but rather curious. The nerd researcher in me felt compelled to ask. 'Do you practise safe sex?'

'Oh God no,' he said 'The riskier the better, if I can get away with it'.

I asked him what was the unsafest sex he'd ever had. He paused for a moment then said, 'Unsafest sex? Hmmm, that's a good one. Let me think.'

Now, I was expecting him to say something like a ten-man bareback orgy, or some risky outdoor encounter where there was a good chance of him being caught. I have to admit I was rather taken aback by his actual response:

'It would have to be that time I had a loaded double-barreled shotgun shoved up my arse.'
( ThisCaledonianClown has left it far too late, Fri 18 May 2012, 13:11, 2 replies)

How about a large floor-based piece of running machinery?
Technocore's story below reminded me of this beauty from the Darwin awards.

One morning I was called to the emergency room by the head ER nurse. She directed me to a patient who had refused to describe his problem other then to say that he "needed a doctor who took care of men's troubles." The patient, about 40, was pale, febrile, and obviously uncomfortable, and had little to say as he gingerly opened his trousers to expose a bit of angry red and black-and-blue scrotal skin.
After I asked the nurse to leave us, the patient permitted me to remove his trousers, shorts, and two or three yards of foul-smelling, stained gauze wrapped about his scrotum, which was swollen to twice the size of a grapefruit and extremely tender. A jagged zig-zag laceration, oozing pus and blood, extended down the left scrotum.

Amid the matted hair, edematous skin, and various exudates, I saw some half-buried dark linear objects and asked the patient what they were. Several days earlier, he replied, he had injured himself in the machine shop where he worked, and had closed the laceration himself with a heavy-duty stapling gun. The dark objects were one-inch staples of the type used in putting up wallboard.

We x-rayed the patients scrotum to locate the staples; admitting him to the hospital; and gave him tetanus antitoxin, a broad-spectrum antibacterial therapy, and hexachlorophene sitz baths prior to surgery the next morning.

The procedure consisted of exploration and debridement of the left side of the scrotal pouch. Eight rusty staples were retrieved, and the skin edges were trimmed and freshened. The left testis had been avulsed and was missing. The stump of the spermatic cord was recovered at the inguinal canal, debrided, and the vessels ligated properly, though not much of a hematoma was present. Through-and through Penrose drains were sutured loosely in site, and the skin was loosely closed.

Convalescence was uneventful, and before his release from the hospital less then a week later, the patient confided the rest of his story to me.

An unmarried loner, he usually didn't leave the machine shop at lunchtime with his co-workers. Finding himself alone, he had begun the regular practice of masturbating by holding his penis against the canvas drive-belt of a large floor-based piece of running machinery. One day, as he approached orgasm, he lost his concentration and leaned too close to the belt. When his scrotum suddenly became caught between the pulley-wheel and the drive-belt, he was thrown into the air and landed a few feet away. Unaware that he had lost his left testis, and perhaps too stunned to feel much pain, he stapled the wound closed and resumed work.

I can only assume he abandoned this method of self-gratification.
(King Nightmare, Wed 23 May 2012, 8:43, 6 replies)

Derek and Clive live on
A girlfriend of mine when I lived in South London was a bit of a goer. She used to have this big black rubber dildo; one with the balls on that could help it stand up by itself. She used to bang herself with it when I was away on business/at pub etc.
We used to use it together occasionally (no, never on me thankfully) and she used to love to shove it all the way up. Once it was all the way in with the black rubber testicles stopping it going any further, she'd get me to try to push it further in (even tho the blackballs were preventing it from happening) as it made her go a little flushed if you know what I mean.
After a while, rather than just puch it, I started hitting the base of it and she fucking loved it. We did this for a quite while and then progressed onto the bit that still makes me laugh to this day.
We would insert it then she'd stand up with her legs apart and I would gently (at first) kick the bottom of it.
As I stood there stark-bollock naked, swinging my leg toward her full snatch, all I could ever think to myself was "I'm the number one cunt-kicker in the world"
Ah, happy days.
(FUXTIX Not my words, Carol, Tue 22 May 2012, 20:39, 11 replies)

I once had an entire Moroccan street market,
flown to England and installed in my bedroom, just so that I could do it doggy-style whilst browsing for tagines and throw-rugs.
Don't judge me, I can't help my bazaar fetish.
( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Sun 20 May 2012, 23:19, 4 replies)

I have a chastity device.
Well, not so much a device as a personality.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Mon 21 May 2012, 11:53, 14 replies)

If stripper stories are allowed
May I recall a gentlemens evening, a number of years ago at a fine establishment in Antwerp . . .

The stripper appeared on stage, and proceeded to remove her clothing. She kept her G-string on, enabling her to solicit tips, the unspoken agreement being when her waistline was satisfactorily festooned with currency, she would take it off.

In due course the cash was deemed sufficient, and she took off her remaining garment, and gyrated for some time in front of the eager crowd. Thrusting and bending to afford the front row an anatomically correct view, she eventually reached the end of her act, which all told had taken perhaps 10 or 15 minutes.

After some cheering and applause, we had started to wonder why she hadn't left the stage. She was just standing there, naked.

All became clear when a cheeky grin spread across her face, she placed her feet about half a yard apart, gave a little push and 3 good sized apples fell out of her minge and rolled across the stage.

Top bird, I'd say.
(username failed moderation, Thu 17 May 2012, 15:36, 7 replies)

Back when ZX81's were new
Aged around 11 or so a couple of friends and I were playing at a mate's house, messing with his ZX81. In walks said mate waving around a white vibrator.

"It's my mum's!" he proudly announces, like it was likely to be anyone elses

"Ewww! Do you know where that goes?"

"Yea. She only uses it to massage her tits and stuff."

"How do you know that."

"I've seen her."

We left it at that.
( Airman Gabber Living life like a 70's BBC presenter, Tue 22 May 2012, 15:09, 3 replies)

A lengthy one
When Mrs ScousersPet was still a student, she had a mate called Emma, who who could only be dexcribed as "as fit as a butcher's dog". She lived with a mate who's name escapes me for some reason, who was less attractive in a "still would after a couple of pints" kinda way.

Anyway, enough scene setting.

One night, we were round at theirs after the pub. I can't remember what we were talking about but, whatsherface said to Emma "have you told them about Big John?"
"Nope" she replies "should I go and get him?" and off she trots.

When she came back, she was carrying what I initially thought was a black fire-extinguisher, but on closer inspection turned out to be a massive vibrator. I mean HUGE.

While she was inspecting it, my missus pointed to a couple of lines on the "toy" and asked what they were.

Emma said "oh, sometimes, when we come back from the pub, we'll see how far we can get it up us and the other one will mark it"

When the blood started heading back to my brain, I asked for a demo, but they stated they were both "on the blob" which then prompted a discussion about how women living together get into the same cycle and Match of The Day was on, so that was that.
(ScousersPet, Fri 18 May 2012, 13:33, Reply)

I once fancied a doctor so I went to his surgery and complained of bowel pains
He told me to bend over and started a rectal exam.
"There's something obstructing the anus", he said "It looks like a bundle of stems. I'm going to try and extract it"
He started pulling and exclaimed, "Oh my god, it's a whole bunch of flowers!"
"Read the card! Read the card", I replied
( cumquat may will not be commenting further on the allegations, Tue 22 May 2012, 18:54, 27 replies)

It's a
repost, but it is from five years ago

I used to work in a bar on Oxford Street, and we had a rather unpleasant australian chef, to whom I shall refer as Oz.

He had worked for my boss at a number of different places for a number of years. My boss, a cockney chap referred to as The Whelk, for some reason maintained his employment despite his mediocre ability and unpleasant personal habits, which included, and I quote, shagging 'literally dozens of whores'.

I heard this tale second hand from a few people, and from both Oz and The Whelk. Imagine, if you will, a tatty dirty pub in a provincial town to the west of London. It is morning, and The Whelk ambles through the kitchen towards the back door, greets a hungover Oz. Oz grunts back. The Whelk is about to go outside.

"I brought a whore back last night and used one of the big snags on her. I put it back so it won't effect the stock.", says Oz

The Whelk looks puzzled. He is easily bamboozled by exotic slang. 'Snag'? Still, it didn't affect the stock, so didn't matter.

"Yeah, whatever Oz."
The Whelk ambles off, liberally slopping his coffee, as was his wont.

Later that afternoon, the Whelk enters the kitchen, for several meals need to be delivered to a table. They were a Lasagne, a Toad in the Hole, and an all-day breakfast, consisting of eggs, bacon, a jumbo sausage, beans, fried bread and a tomato. The Whelk takes the food and goes to leave

"that is the last of the big snags for the breakfasts, so from now on they'll have to get two small ones"

The Whelk nods and leaves. He deposits the food with the diners and walks away. Then a penny dropped. 'Snag'.

The Whelk re-enters the kitchen.

"Oz, what did you say this morning? About Snags."
"That I used one of the big boys on a hooker last night. Put it back though."
"Used?"
Oz explains, in detail, how he had used a seven inch frozen sausage to masturbate a middle aged prostitute.
The Whelk's jaw drops.
"You put it back?"
"Don't worry. I used it."
Oz pulls the empty cardboard box from the freezer, that had contained the large sausages.
"Sold the last half dozen today. We need to order some more."

The Whelk's jaw drops further. His brain stores a grotesque story for after work drinks.

At some point, on that day many years ago, a diner in that tatty pub somewhere to the west of London received a breakfast which included a sausage garnished with the juices of a lady of the night's vag. And they probably ate it.

I would make a poor joke about 'batter' here. But I won't.
(cs1ca, Mon 21 May 2012, 21:01, 2 replies)

Just had this conversation with the missus
Me: Qotw this week is sex toys, but I can't think of any stories we have about them, can you?

Her: Well there's the time we stayed at your parents house and afterward they gave us a duffle bag of vibrators.

Me: What? They did what? I don't remember this...
were they ours?
or did they give us a bag with their vibrators in it?

Her: Yeah, totally. everything was ours

Me: Why did they have a bag of vibrators?
of *our* vibrators I mean?!?

Her: We left them behind

Me: ...

Her: It was our bag too.

Me: Oh. Well then
That makes perfect sense
... Do we normally travel with a bag of vibrators and I just never noticed?

Her: They weren't together. That just happened to be what we left at your parents house. A bag. And some vibrators.

Me: that does sound like us
I don't remember this at all

Her: I was embarrassed enough by the whole thing that I don't think I'll ever forget it, but even then I don't really know how it happened

Me: Is the fact that this whole event didn't register enough in my head to be memorable a good thing, or a bad thing?

Her: ...

Me: Maybe, in the future, you shouldn't leave your vibrators at my parents house darling.

Her: ya think?

Me: well I would think it would go with out saying ... but apparently...

Her: =p

--------------------------------------

Apparently I do have a sex toy story.
( Allisade would love to hear from you, Tue 22 May 2012, 16:27, 3 replies)

never try to get off by using a frozen pilchard up your arse
as it thaws, the scales will open up making it extremely difficult to get back out - Rick Stein’s Seafood Odyssey, 1999 (ISBN 0-577-33874-0)
( cumquat may will not be commenting further on the allegations, Mon 21 May 2012, 22:37, Reply)

A request...
Speaking as someone who works in a microbiology laboratory at a large hospital, please can I respectfully ask that people do not use aerosol bottles with detachable lids for anything other than their designed purpose?
We received one a lid which had become detached from the bottle while being used for more pleasurable purposes. The lady in question had attempted to remove it, but it was too far in. She left it for a while (ie - a couple of weeks!) in the hope it would work its way down. It didn't. She then visited the hospital, who removed it, and sent it to us for bacterial testing. In fourteen years of working there, I have only once smelled something worse - and that was a necrotic anus.
The black plastic had actually degraded and was discoloured. The test we perform requires it being placed in a liquid, and incubated for a fortnight to encourage a type of bacteria called actinomyces. We didn't get as far as two weeks - after 8 days it had produced so much bacteria that the resulting gas blew the lid off the airtight jar! Despite much cleaning, the incubator stank for over a week!
God alone knows what state the woman's bits were in!
(Captain Coffee Break, Mon 21 May 2012, 7:07, 10 replies)

cheers ape
Apes dubious question below reminds me;

While perusing some 'gentlemans entertainment' I happened upon a video of a woman pretending to be a real-doll. She complied with the guys positioning of her and remained silent and motionless as he relieved himself within her.
How freaky is that? A woman pretending to be an inanimate object which resembles a woman!
Just get married for fucks sake!
(Greencloud Wanted to go fishing on, Fri 18 May 2012, 13:41, Reply)

If you fantasise about sex with a film star...
Do what I did. Buy a rubber sex doll and turn it inside out. It'll be exactly like shagging an impressively erect Yul Brynner.
(judgetheobscure used to sweep in butchers' shops., Thu 17 May 2012, 21:36, Reply)

There's an old Arab proverb
"A woman for duty
A boy for pleasure
A melon for ecstasy"

I tried it with a melon once, but the woman on the till at Lidl called the police.
( shinyshinyscalp less a man, more a way of life, Thu 17 May 2012, 15:54, 5 replies)

As related to me by a very dear friend. Mind bleach supplied if required.
My friend's sister was happily married, and apparently, the sex was awesome. That is, until her husband passed away in tragic circumstances. As his death was in suspicious circumstances, his remains were kept in the morgue.

Trouble was, the lady in question had something of a high libido. After wearing out three vibrators, one carrot, a garden gnome and the handle of the toilet brush, she was realised she had a problem. So she confided in her friend, who referred her to the local witch doctor.

And so the lady in question visited the witch doctor, who for the purposes of this story, conforms to no stereotypes whatsoever. "What you need to do" he said, "Is to bring me the sexual organs of your deceased husband. Can you do that for me?". And so our lady goes, and returns with her husband's meat and two. "Give me seven days, and return" said the witch doctor.

Seven days, several more carrots, three hairbrushes and a mobile phone later, the lady returns to the witch doctor. He proceeded to bring out a jar, with her husband's veiny rocket and fuel tanks inside. It was bigger than she'd ever seen it. Looking suitably impressed, she asked how to use it. "What you do, is lie back, legs akimbo, and shout '"Pickled willy fanny!'. After thirty minutes, then shout 'Pickled willy jar!' Do not use it for more than thirty minutes, or there will be dire consequences."

The lady rushed home, duly warned. She placed the jar on her bedside table, set a thirty minute time, stripped off as quick as she could, and shouted "Pickled willy fanny!". The jar unscrewed itself, and the magical skin flute hopped across the bed, and went to work. When her thirty minutes were up, she shouted "Pickled willy jar!". The bewitched bell end withdrew, hopped back across the bed, and placed itself back in the jar.

This continued nightly for six months, until one fateful evening when our heroine returned from a party completely out of her mind. Utterly smashed. So much so, that when she began her usual nightly routine, she forgot to set the timer. After slurring her usual command, she fell asleep, waking up four hours later, with her dead husband's pickled pecker still working away. "Pickled willy jar!" she shouted, with no response from the banging bongo boner. "Pickled willy jar!" she shouted again, with increasing urgency, still without any reaction from the moving meat missile. Trying one more time verbally, and still without any murmur of recognition from the repeating magical minge mangler, she grabbed curtailed the automated custard-chucker's activities by grabbing it by the balls, pulling it out, and lobbing it behind the dresser.

She relaxed, until she heard the noise. It was chasing after her. Pulling on a dressing gown, she ran out of the house, round the corner and down the street, until she saw a police officer. "Oh officer!" she cried. "I'm being chased down the street by my dead husband's magical pickled willy!". The policeman blinked for a second, before bursting out laughing. "Pickled willy? My arse!"
(The Luggage is haunted..., Wed 23 May 2012, 14:23, 7 replies)

SF dildo kicker
A mate of mine lived and worked in San Francisco for a while a few years ago and I went over there to visit him.

One night, returning from an evening on the piss in a state of advanced refreshment, we spotted a strange object in the centre of the street near his apartment. Closer inspection revealed this to be a large purple dildo, which was pointing skywards.

Childishly, I pointed and laughed at it, having never seen a large purple dildo pointing skywards in the middle of the street before. My mate, however, retreated up the street, took a run up and booted the dildo like he was trying to convert a try in an important Six Nations game.

I recall watching in amazement as the dildo sailed through the air and down the hill for what seemed like miles. Unfortunately, I didn't see where it landed, because I fell over laughing.
(square go, Mon 21 May 2012, 20:09, 2 replies)

Game over on account of lost Broome Pearls.
When I were a lot younger.
I became enamored with a young Japanese lass who lived locally. She was very pretty, her parents were rich and as I was to find out she was fairly adventurous for a young lass brought up in a fairly strict household.

Anyhoo.

1 evening after her parents had gone out we were "fooling around" as the septics like to say and she suggested we incorporate something into our loveplay. "Umm, ok" says I throbbing from ear to ear. She disappears upstairs and returns with a string of pearls.
Now a little background quickly - both her parents were Eurasian with strong connections to the Japanese Pearl Diving community in Broome, Western Australia. She had been born & raised in Japan by her mother's family. The pearls were a family heirloom picked off the bottom of the ocean up north by 1 of her distant ancestors. And aside from being very expensive (apparently about AUD$12000) they were effectively priceless. She was (secretly) on the pill so no protection was used.

She gently wrapped said pearls (unbeknownst to me their sentimental or fiscal value) around my cock & balls (no euphemism) and then proceeded to shove the rest of the string into her front bottom. Then followed a good quarter of an hour of penis-to-vagina intercourse type thrusting. Much of it fairly vigorous.
I would just like to say here that she had been well accommodated for with a fairly hefty bout of cunnilingus and digital excitement prior to the oysters sputum making it's debut.

Eventually. (Looking for a new "anyhoo")

Things came to their natural conclusion and upon my withdrawal I discovered that the string had broken and my sated partner was spilling pearls out of her love-bud.
That's when she told me about them and we panicked.
Que her pushing pearls slowly out of her love muscle while I had turns fishing them out with my fingers and other utensils.
It cost us equally about $200 to get them properly restrung, neither of us knew whether we had got them all or not and about 3 months later (just a few weeks prior to our amicable breakup) we couldn't stop pissing ourselves when her mum wore the pearls out to a fancy dinner at a function.
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Fri 18 May 2012, 7:17, 6 replies)

Surprise!
I bought my missus a vibrator for Christmas when she'd been dropping hints about designer perfume, bags etc.

"What the fucking hell do you think this is?" she yelled.

Naturally, I told her where to shove it.
(psd eats stuff. Often., Thu 17 May 2012, 21:17, 1 reply)

Sheep
Do not, having strategically placed a sex sheep in the chair of a welsh colleague, under any circumstances attempt to measure the orifice of said sex sheep with a ruler.

They are longer than 30cm so our ruler was in danger of being swallowed.

Also, when you try to retrive your ruler you give the thing a prolapse and no-one will volunteer to tuck away the clock springs as it were.

5t.
(fivetide, Thu 17 May 2012, 14:26, 2 replies)