One Friday night...
I was drinking with a mate in an over-priced Soho haunt on Wardour Street. We'd been on it all day and our quest for quim had dragged us to this place. After a few espresso martinis and some neat moves on the dance floor, we caught the eye of very well preserved forty something lady in a tight red dress.

We got to chatting and flirting and suddenly, within 10 minutes of small talk, she came out with an outrageous statement:

'I want BOTH of you to come back with me now.'

A long cab-ride later and the three of us were deposited outside a lovely detached house in Barnes, right on the river. It was lush. All marble floors and modern art with a gorgeous terrace over-looking the Thames. This girl was loaded. A high-flying banker. No time for husbands or children or other such horrible things.

Once inside she didn't beat about the bush. Rather she got us to beat about the bush. Or rather I started to beat about the bush whilst my too pissed mate looked on despondently. Poor chap couldn't rise to the occasion.

But me and the banker-chick were going at it full steam on the sofa. Meanwhile my partner in crime had taken to pacing up and down the living room floor, muttering to himself audibly, '...get up you fucker, why do you always let me down...'. I blocked him out of my mind and got down to business.

Then she made another wonderful statement:

'I want you in my arse NOW!'

No need to ask me twice. I flipped her over and attempted to fulfil her request. But it wasn't happening. Try as I might I could not get the old fella up there. Every angle and every position was met with absolute resistance from her tight sphincter.

Dammit.

'Oi, do something useful and find me some lubrication.' I yelled to my poor, droopy mate.

He staggered off to the kitchen and returned with a bottle of some sorts.

'Oil ok?' he asked

'Fucking anything!' I yelled back.

He lurched over and began liberally dousing us, with what I thought must be olive oil. Not the cleanest of lubricants. Probably be a bitch to get off the couch. But fuck it. It wasn't my couch.

It did the trick. Boy did it do the trick. I slipped in magnificently and my lady friend squealed in delight. Then she even squealed louder. Then she really fucking screamed. Then she leapt of the couch, ran smack into the wall, hit the floor and lay there writhing around in a greasy mess, wailing in deafening agony, all the time clawing violently at her behind, tears streaming down her face.

What the fuck was going on.

I looked around. Grabbed the 'olive oil' bottle off my knobhead friend and examined it.

Oh dear. Oh deary me.

'Waitrose Finest Chilli Oil, made with the fieriest, spiciest chillies of Southern Mexico.'

Then I felt it too. The worst, most intense pain ever, slowly spreading through my nether regions. Like razor blades slicing me internally.

But I'd got off lightly. Our new friend had real problems. But she wouldn't less us hang around to help. She screamed at us to get out. And we did. I hobbled down an unfamiliar street clutching my crotch, my mind bursting with fireworks of absolute pain. I could hardly see a thing. But we were near the river. And that's where I ended up. Knee deep in water on the banks of Thames, allowing the foul, polluted, heaven-sent H20 to slowly ease my pain.

God knows what the lady in the tight red dress did. A self-administered enema?
( Albert Marshmallow is a completely irredeemable cunt, Fri 7 Aug 2009, 11:12, 4 replies)

Ow
Beautifully told, an office Lol is yours.
(Obi wanker nobi Its not a bug, its an unexpected feature, Fri 7 Aug 2009, 12:04, closed)

I want this to be true. Loads.

( rofl harris, Fri 7 Aug 2009, 13:38, closed)

It is true! Loads.

( Albert Marshmallow is a completely irredeemable cunt, Fri 7 Aug 2009, 16:43, closed)

Have a *click* for the story...
But I wish I could take it back for putting Chris de Burgh's "Lady in Red" in my head.
( TheMagicDwarf is back like ballroom dancing, Mon 10 Aug 2009, 10:00, closed)