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External Link/Members OnlyI have verbal diarrhoea. If you can’t read beyond a few sentences, don’t bother. Don’t read it all then criticise that it’s all verbal diarrhoea, cos that is exactly what it is.
It was a curious sequence of events leading to a very memorable experience that I will fondly reflect upon until I snuff it.
The excellent reviews of Chelsea Hart means I always stash the punting phone in my car every time I’m shooting down the M1 from the NE. It’s my trusty Nokia 6300. The broken on/off button prevents the wife from ever turning it on and revealing my sordid other life.
Every time I pass Mansfield I make the call to Chelsea. Every time I fail. She’s an enigma. I can only imagine what a meeting would be like with her, but accept that fantasy never lives up to reality. In the 80’s I used to pull apart the stuck together pages of Fiesta to reveal a spread eagled Jo Guest to wank over. I was always going to be a big shot, and Jo Guest was going to be my trophy wife. Imagining this while furiously wanking always heightened the experience. I was Peter Stringfellow.
I dumped Jo, for Jenna Jameson, but now my target is to be shagging Chelsea Hart. I text and call her hoping for a meet. I hope she likes my mullet and champagne lifestyle.
I need dominating so in anticipation of not being able to meet Chelsea, I book Mistress Phenix and Mistress Rebecca as a plan B. Booking made. 2 hours later they text me with some bullshit they can’t make the appointment. I think they were scared off by my debaucherous desires relating to poppers and piss, but suggest a meeting the following day.
Chelsea texts back, she’s fully booked.
Bollocks. I have poppers with me. If I don’t pull at the black tie event I’m going to, I will have a dirty wank in the hotel room. I love hotel rooms, you can do what you want and make loads of noise. As a teenager, my headboard used to squeak so I always had to have the left hand over the back of my head pulling on the head board while the right pulled at my foreskin. With all the wanking I used to do, I must have spent hours tensed up in this skewed position. I am amazed I don’t have a spasticated spine.
I get to my hotel in Birmingham. I’m late. Shower, DJ on in 10mins. Another 15mins to tie my bow tie.
I drown out the evening with red wine. People talking at me all night wanting to do business. The wife calling and texting for the sake of it. The free wine keeps flowing. My head’s getting more muddled and my speech is slurring.
Next thing is it’s 1am. My colleague, another bloke and a lady end up in the lady’s hotel. She’s gagging for it. We’ve smuggled 3 bottles of wine out of the event. In the hotel we have to buy another bottle to get 4 glasses. 4 bottles of wine to drink. Drinking games start. The other bloke lightweights out at 3am. We continue drinking. My colleague is a 21 stone of prop forward and necks half a bottle of wine in one go. The girl starts to get frisky and suggestive. Things are looking up. I’m pissed, but my mate is worse and is more or less out for the count.
Suddenly, my mate has a second wind, starts talking and puking at the same time. He pushes himself to his feet and then 21stone collapses on the floor. Red wine still gushing from his mouth. It’s now 5am. The hotel staff have started putting out the breakfast stuff. The girls walks off, probably out of embarrassment or to call an ambulance.
We need to get out of Dodge quickly!!! I pull my mate to his feet. He can’t walk. His DJ is covered in puke. I prop him up and unselfishly drag him along, at the expense of my own clothes getting covered in his sick. The girl has scarpered. We try to get a taxi outside the hotel. We are told to fuck off. We wander aimlessly half expecting our hotel to appear. We are 6 miles away. I have meetings at 9.30am.
I get £50 out of my wallet and start waving it around to tempt someone to give us a lift. An 18yr old shift worker stops in his Citroen Saxo. He accepts the £50 and dumps us back at our Hotel. It’s 6am.
9.00am the phone is going mad. Numerous calls from the wife. “Where the fuck are you? Blah blah blah. You need to cut the grass blah blah blah”.
I do my meetings. Mistress Phenix texts and ask whether I’m coming. I say yes. Appointment confirmed. I had douched my arse in the morning, just in case. I like to be squeaky clean. I make my way back up the M1. Traffic jams. Mistress Phenix texts to say she can’t make it. Again she lets me down. Daft cow. She’s now blacklisted.
I look at all the other miserable fuckers going home to their wives. All of them are standstill like me, waving their arms in the air while they argue about what they want for tea. I need my porn fix and to empty my balls. Fuck it – I’ll text Chelsea. Fuck me, she says yes. – 30 mins. Yey!!!!
I make my way over to Mansfield. I feel a little tense. In my condition I begin to worry about not being able to perform. I want the head fuck of poppers, but what if in my fragile state I puke. Could I cope with her pissing all over me? I park up. Chelsea texts the address.
I knock at the door tingling with excitement and nervousness. I always have to say fuck it to myself. Temptation is a part of life and it makes me do what I love – fucking and pushing the boundaries.
Chelsea opens the door - BOOM. As fit as fuck, the nerves go, my brain automatically reprograms from filth mode to fluffy mode. She's too gorgeous to be having depraved thoughts over. I fancy her and already I'm tempted to ask her if she can cook. If so, I could have proposed.
I follow the infamous ass up the stairs and into the bedroom. I'm offered use of the bathroom. I've been drinking water to clear my head for the last hour. I'm bursting. I piss and face the first challenge. The toilet doesn’t have a handle. It must be a cheap imported pot. Not Armitage Shanks. I put my hand in the cistern and push and pull things until it flushes.
I go back to the room. Chelsea has gone to get me some water. I awkwardly look at my phone – at nothing in particular. I must call the wife at some point.
The bed is high up. I look under it, just in case there is someone hiding underneath. There isn’t. I check for fluff. There isn’t any. The carpet is a man-made weave. I wonder around the bedroom. I see the poppers. I get nervous again. I might die if she fucks me up too much.
Chelsea comes back with the water. I'm dehydrated from the night before and all the water absorbs through my lips as I drink it. Chelsea is an amazing looking girl. I have a thing for noses and hers is gorgeous. It turns me on. I explain I’m after a dom session. Next thing I’m naked, blind folded, hands tied up. Poppers are under my nose. Thankfully they are quite weak so I can handle them easily. She squats over my face and makes me lick her growler. My cock is hard and she plays with it. She spits in my mouth and then on my cock. She rolls a jonny on. She then turns around and squats her arse over my face and asks me to lick it. I stab away with my tongue. I manage to nudge the mask out of position to see the 8th wonder of the modern world. Chelsea’s bum. It’s like a peach.
More poppers. Lovely. It takes me back to being pilled up at the Hacienda and sniffing liquid gold to get that ultimate fucked up sensation. I only started associating it with sex when on one occasion I got noshed off by a girl while sniffing. It was the summer of love and it made me the horniest I’ve ever been. Until now.
Chelsea gets on her back and spreads her legs. I go down on her. She instructs me to fuck her. I willingly obey. I look into her dreamy come to bed eyes. She tells me to fuck her harder. Oh no! Oh no! Mother-in law’s moustache. What’s for tea? Pythagorus theorem. Fuck it I can’t hold it back.
Chelsea comments, “Already?”. There’s been a massive shift in the space time continuum. My 30 mins is already up, but got the feeling Chelsea was up for more. I think I maybe got a C- for attainment and B+ for effort. Must try harder!
We chat and say goodbye. I hope to see her again. Reality really does live up to fantasy.
Now here’s the thing. I’m on top of the world. It reminds me of my misspent youth when I wasn’t tied down to mortgages and school fees. I put on some Sasha from his Rennaisance days in Mansfield and grin all the way home. I look forward to being a sexual deviant for a few years yet.
The wife’s car isn’t there. Good. I open the front door. What the fuck? The hall is littered with shopping bags. Another fucking handbag. More shoes. More clothes. I’m expected to pay for all of this and I don’t even get a blow job. Right I’m going to spend the same amount seeing Chelsea. At least she’s put the dishwasher on. I open it to get a clean glass for a cold beer. How many fucking times do I have to tell her. she hasn't tessellated the stacking and all the glasses have turned over filled up with dishwasher juice.
I go and cut the grass.
