Dear BumGirl,
'Hirsute trucker'!!! It was a pizza delivery moped as you well know, and I really object to you describing me as 'hirsute'. Certainly, you and your assorted collective of 'hen do' harlots and horny housewives didn't seem to object to the natural curls that adorned my pubic mound and lined my cunt lips. In fact, I distinctly remember one of them purring with delight at the sight of a 'natural redhead' and all of them seemed keen to feel the tickle of my pubic undergrowth against their faces as they tongued me to endless glorious orgasms. I particularly recall you, yourself, grazing on the juice smeared fronds and suckling at them as if you were consuming your last supper. It's just jealousy; that's what it is because your aged lovebox is a slappy, wrinkly, bald piece of flesh with all the sexual allure of a plucked chicken.
Yours in adoration, craving a lifetime of marital bliss,
Flame Eternal
Ps. You are quite correct, Dartford, Gravesend and Chatham are absolute shit holes.
Pps. But are quite handy for both Thurrock and Bluewater Shopping Centres which is a plus.
Well, I'm glad we've clarified that then, and maybe we can agree to split our differences and simply acknowledge her as a hirsute fucker. Works for me. But enough of all this chatter about facial and pubic hair, there are some serious life-defining issues here that need attention, so without barely a pause to gulp down the remaining dregs of the first bottle of blush zinfandel, let's go 'to a letter'.
Dear Crumbly,
I am affianced to Ariel the most perfect of all earth's creatures but our upcoming wedding day and, more particularly, the completion of my conjugal rights is causing me nervous jitters. How, oh Agony Aunt who surpasses all understanding, do you sexually pleasure a mermaid, and is there a special tentacle that I should be using.
Yours in an inky cloud of doubtful expectation,
Kraken (The)
Oh for Milly Molly Mandy's sake, do I really need to answer this? What were you doing during all those inter-species sex education lessons in Junior High, Mr Kraken? Probably making inky paper pellets and projecting them across the room to splatter on some poor unsuspecting student. This is the absolute basics and if the public education system didn't cover it, then I'd certainly have thought that Mom and Pops might have sat you down and given you a little birds and bees, fish and molluscs chat. And you better not claim they're both dead or I'm going to go all Lady Bracknell on you. But no, why should they do it when there is an unbelievably fabulous, worldwide famous, Agony Aunt to pick up the slack.
Right, you're going to need the two tridents and the extra-large penis gag from your tentacle accessory kit. Attach the penis gag to tentacle one and the two tridents to tentacles six and seven (figure 1). Now grasp the mermaid about her midriff (that's the bit where the scaly tail meets the human flesh), using tentacle four and get a firm grip on the tail just above the tail fin with tentacle eight (figure 2). And I do mean firm because this bitch is going to thrash around like crazy. Position the triple prongs of the trident in tentacle six about 15 inches (40 centimetres if you've gone metric) below the tentacle-encircled midriff, pointing upwards towards the head at an angle of about 30 degrees to the body (figure 3). Find the bottom scale edges and gently slide the prongs beneath the scales and into her flesh (figure 4). If blood starts pouring from your entry thrust, you've gone in too high and if you continue, you'll rupture a major organ, have an ex-bride on your tentacles, and be in need of a quickie divorce, so go slow. Once the trident is fully inserted, repeat the process with the trident attached on tentacle seven into the rear of her tail (figure 5). If you have completed it correctly, your bride is now properly skewered by your twin instruments of loving, but before commencing fucking, let's give the gushy little bitch a couple of other tentacles to enjoy. Tentacle one with the extra-large penis gag can now be inserted into her mouth (figure 6). This isn't obligatory but, believe me, watching her gasping for breath as you ravage her nether regions will make this worthy of the extra effort. Finally, tentacles two and three need to squirm their way beneath her brassiere shells to grasp hold of her milking sucklets (figure 7).
And now you're ready to give her a night of nuptials that she'll never forget. Start by pulse-suckling at her nipples. Get yourself a nice gentle rhythm going and enjoy the sight of her eyes fluttering wildly and the gorgeous gurgling sounds coming from her gagged mouth. Now gradually withdraw the front trident until just the triple tips remain within her oozing, trembling flesh. Then, as you start to push back in, withdraw the rear trident at the same pace. Try to marry the pace of your trident insertion/removal to the pulsing and tugging of your tentacles atop her sensitive nublets. What you are aiming for is smooth, pleasure-giving, trident penetration. As one leaves, another enters; her body trapped between the dual points of your possessive manhood.
Gradually start to increase the pace. If you're doing this correctly, she'll be moaning and whimpering about her stuffed gag by now, her body will be twitching and squirming, and her eyes will have rolled into the back of her head. Faster now. Faster and faster. Tridents sliding endlessly, demandingly, as her muscles spasm in ecstatic bliss. Feeling them clamping about you as she nears her climax, her entirety given over to the complete pleasure of being yours, to have and to hold, from this day forth. Slam them into her. Both together. Conjoined. Driving hard into her aching orgasming flesh. Mercilessly hammering at her groin as she spirals into bliss. Each rampant ravaging insertion exploding through her near-senseless body. Oh, and don't forget to give her teatlets some really, really, hard suckles. You want those babies to burn in the morning like never before.
Now, as she writhes, lost in the abandonment of pleasure, her fertile eggs will start to cascade from about your thrusting appendages to form a cloud in the water around you, so do ensure that tentacle five is primed and loaded and ready to spurt its own love juice like an untended fire hose.
And there you have it. The simple procreation of mermaids and squid creatures. To be honest, I'm just saddened that I've sunk so low and if something doesn't come along soon to cheer me up, then I might just down the rest of this bottle of wine and stomp off to bed.
(No best wishes and signature?)
beep de beepity beep
Dick pic incoming.
Well, that's a rather enticing bit of man-muscle. Loving the tricorn hat, the eye mask and the swirling black cape with red satin trim. Very mysterious and alluring. Now, if I'm going to have a wild guess at which prick is masquerading beneath that fine get-up, I'm going to have to plump for that notorious highwayman, Dick Turpin. And given the way he's standing so erect it looks like he's got his twin pistols fully loaded and is getting ready to make a delivery. Well, you're welcome to hold up my petticoats any time, Dickie, throw my feet wide and have a good rummage around in my undergarments for any hidden treasures. I'm quite certain you'll find something in there that will take your fancy and, should you feel the need to leave a large deposit in my well-concealed strongbox, then I'm sure I'd be very, very appreciative. Just the thing to keep you warm and entertained on a long journey cross country. Mmm. Yes, baby, that's it, plunder me and rob me of my last vestiges of respectability. Yummy.
Dear Cum Grunt,
I am a very confused virgin! The super-hot Cougar/MILF next door keeps batting her eyelids and flashing her panties and titties at me. Her husband is a mean, burly jealous and very bad-tempered bully, but he's away a lot. My uncle Boris has given me a few hundred quid for defloration by a professional lady of the night. Should I play it straight or bang the cougar and spill the cash on weed?
Yours fed up with hand beating my cock to a sore, reddened lump of meat when I know that the sweet embrace of a juiced-up pussy is willing and waiting just the other side of the garden fence,
Billy Ballcock
Well, Billy, these are the sort of problems that are sent to plague us all. The endless round of tricky decision-making that infects our everyday existence. Whenever I feel myself challenged by a new experience and find myself wondering what the best course of action might be, my first point of reference is The Good Book. No, silly boy, I'm not talking about 'The Story of O' or even 'The 120 Days of Sodom', I'm referring to The Bible. Being a biblical scholar of some repute, I believe we shall find the answer to your query in Proverbs, Chapter 6, Verses 23 to 34, which read as follows:
23: For the commandment is a lamp and the teaching a light, and the reproofs of discipline are the way of life,
24: to preserve you from the wife of another, from the smooth tongue of the adulteress.
25: Do not desire her beauty in your heart, and do not let her capture you with her eyelashes;
26: for a prostitute’s fee is only a loaf of bread, but the wife of another stalks a man’s very life.
34: For jealousy arouses a husband’s fury, and he shows no restraint when he takes revenge.
Now I'm not one to quibble with the words of an almighty God, but what a load of tosh. That's absolutely typical of those otherworldly ruler types, they're completely out of touch with the lives of us ordinary folk (though not that ordinary because I am an intergalactically renowned superstar Agony Aunt). Because let me tell you that I can buy a very nice seeded loaf in my local Aldi for less than one pound, sterling, whilst even Streetwalking Stacey is going to charge you twenty quid for a blowjob and a night of full-time penis emptying (all three holes available) is minimum one hundred spondolly with additional charges for any kinky shit.
And what about Mrs super-hot Cougar/MILF? Where's the consideration for her? There she is each and every day wriggling her arse into the tiniest of thongs, dragging it up so high that the gusset all but disappears between her plump pussy lips, ensuring her breasts receive maximum support so that they form a pair of undulating fleshy hillocks with a valley so deep you could bury your face between them and go bubble-bubble-bubble-brrr. And then sheathing the entirety in a deep scooped, form-fitting, micro dress that just about hugs the bottom of her arse cheeks and ensures her full-fat titties are provocatively displayed. Which isn't even to mention spending her entire day wobbling about on spindly heels so that everything wiggles and jiggles to perfection.
All the time knowing that there is a virginal prick, oozing precum, its thick shaft jumping to attention and twitching vigorously at the merest hint of a dribbling pussy, its ball sacs engorged and stuffed to the brim with scrummy, yummy spermatozoa all desperate to gush forth from that smooth, swollen, reddened dome in a veritable geyser of delicious cummy froth.
And think about her score chart and reputation down at the Hot Wives of Sudbury Common Club, where, currently, she's lying in third place behind a raven-haired temptress all mystery and come hither hips, and a perky, bouncy, bottle-blonde midget who has no moral compass and the sexual appetite of an entire warren of rabbits. Doesn't she deserve the opportunity to add maximum points for deflowering a virgin in her quest to become Slapper Supreme?
So, Mr Ballcock, take your 'few hundred quid' and buy her some expensive gifts; I'm thinking some ridiculously pricey lingerie or babydoll nightie and a nice fluffy pair of kitten-heeled 'fuck me' mules for her to parade around before your straining, appreciative cock, and maybe some excessively over-priced perfume that she can rub down her cleavage for your olfactory delight.
As for hubby; well, one of life's key lessons is 'don't get caught', so it's probably about time you learnt that.
Cum Girl (Mrs)
Excellent advice, I think we can all agree.
I don't know about you, dear saddo, but this not very spectacular ‘Omnium Spectacular' does seem to be going on forever and what is even worse is that seemingly we're only about halfway through. Now, I don't know about you but I could definitely do with a short break for a little light refreshment and I can't help but notice that I am completely out of Vino di Plonko so I am going to adjourn to the all-night twenty-four-hour garage to see what they might have in a soft blush pink, paint-stripper at £5.99 a bottle for me to consume. But, don't worry, because in amongst all the letters, I've found a little story that someone has sent in. Yes, it's on lined paper, and, yes, it is written in crayon, and, yes, the handwriting is all individual letters with none of them joined up, but really, I don't think that any of us have the right to be too judgemental about such an infantile presentation. So, and this is exciting because they're words I've never had to utter before, let's go 'to the story'.
Once upon a time in a land far, far away there lived a Princess. But she wasn't one of those waiting to be found by a handsome Prince, Princesses, or even a Princess with a desire to kiss slimy amphibians. No, she was an already married Princess just like Princess Margaret or Princess Diana.
Just like Margo and Di, our Princess had discovered that she had betrothed herself to an Austin Allegro of a Prince and rather than live happily ever after was spending her days wandering across to the used car lot to see what other models were available. Things had got so bad that our heroine had even taken to stroking the paintwork of some of the more enticing rides in public without a care as to who should be watching like paparazzi or other low-born sleaze-bag lifeforms. Well, one thing led to another and before you knew it, Mrs Princess was hopping in and out of all sorts of carriages and wiggling her pretty posterior about on the seating and playing footsie with the pedals and blowing kisses at herself in the rear view mirror and seeing how far she could recline on the front seat and checking out the fondling capacity of the back seat and even thrusting her aching, pulsing fuckhole down onto the gearstick and ravaging herself into a frenzy of orgasmic pleasure.
As sure as eggs are eggs—and I can confirm that indeed eggs are eggs—it wasn't long before the Prince found out about the Princess playing hide-the-gearstick with every make and model that caught her wandering eye. Not only did the Prince find out but everybody in the kingdom found out because it was on the front page of every tabloid newspaper every single day with accompanying pictures because nothing sells newspapers like a little royal infidelity. So there was lots of harrumphing and hee-hawing from anybody who was nobody and all the talking heads talked and never stopped and finally, it was decided that the best thing for everyone was if the Prince and the Princess got a divorce.
So both the Prince and the Princess hired themselves lawyers and agreed to meet at the court to sort things out. Not the tennis court, but the court court where everyone was going to sit around in wigs and dresses and shout out orders.
Then one day, the Princess' lawyer told the Princess that if they were to engage in horizontal activities of a sexual nature; though in truth the activities didn't need to be horizontal because the lawyer was interested in recreating all the positions in a picture book they'd found called the Kama Sutra, then the lawyer would make sure that the Princess won in the shouting orders court and she would get all the jewels and houses and horses and Land Rovers and even the gardens and definitely get to keep her tiara. The Princess had a very good think about this exceedingly kind offer and about why the lawyer was charging £500 per minute if the price of victory was a right royal rogering.
Then the very next day, the lawyer for the Prince also sat the Princess down on a knee and, using different words that really meant the same thing, said that if the Princess were to make herself physically available in a pleasuring sort of way, then they would ensure that the Prince lost and the Princess won and not only would she get all the worldly possessions and be able to holiday on whatever Caribbean beach she wanted with anyone or anything that took her fancy on the used car lot but she'd also get a new super-fantastic title like Princess Royal or some such and a guaranteed photo shoot feature in Hello magazine.
What was the Princess to do with such kind and considerate offers? It was not as if the words collusion and ethical violation meant anything to our royal non-entity, not when an offer of financial security and a lifetime as a happy, fulfilled play-bunny was merely a hop, skip and jump-my-bones away.
So the very next day, our heroine, disguised in a headscarf and sunglasses, arrived at an innocuous and clandestine hotel and insisted on paying in cash and most definitely not leaving any credit card details with the plebs manning the check-in desk. It wasn't long before both lawyers, who certainly knew the value of time and weren't afraid to charge for it so definitely weren't going to be late, sneaked into the hotel and disappeared into the Princess' room.
Nobody knows quite what happened in that room, but the Princess kept both lawyers locked away for forty-eight hours, which is a very long time for a lawyerly conference. And for much of that time, the corridors were filled with ecstatic screams of delight which may have been the Princess or may have been the lawyers. For when the forty-eight hours were over, both the lawyers found that their stockings were shredded and their shoes had snapped heels, and their lingerie was but tattered wisps of lacy fabric, and the beautiful yet professional dresses that they'd worn on arrival were now just expensive rags, and their lawyerly hairdos were dishevelled, and barely a spot of makeup remained across their cum-smeared faces, and their breasts still heaved from all the sexual bliss that the Princess had inflicted on them, and their cunts were sore and achy but not as achy as their dildo-fucked arses, and they could barely walk and hardly stand, and all they wanted to do was crawl back into the room of endless pleasure and have the Princess use and abuse their nubile flesh again and again.
So it came to pass that the Princess won her divorce case and got all the goodies that her heart desired, which now included two desperately needy nympho slut lawyers with the ethics of used car salespeople and the sexual proclivities of a pair of Babylonia whores whom she could fuck into oblivion whenever she desired.
And everyone lived happily ever after—except the Prince, maybe.
Wasn't that lovely? I do enjoy a story with a nice happy ending even if I was a little shocked at those very naughty lawyer ladies and their lack of professional standards. But let's be honest, what can you really expect? I'm sure you noticed that they were both women and lawyers which is just topsy-turvy madness. Anyone who has a proper brain knows that women can't do important thinking jobs like lawyering or science or mathematics or business because our heads are always so filled with super-important fluffy nonsense like nail colours and reality TV Z-list celebrities and baking recipes and the correct hemline/footwear combinations and whether to wear a strapless bra with a boob-tube sheath micro dress. Important stuff. Definitely not talky, shouty lawyering nonsense.
Anyway, you'll be delighted to know that Rashid had restocked the fridge with both still and sparkling rosé just on the off-chance that I might be popping by, so for the first time in ages, my fridge is full of essentials and I'm confident that I have enough ladylike sips stashed in there to get us through the rest of this 'not very spectacular' nonsense. So, with that happy news, let's all reward ourselves with a little break to sample those delightful goodies.
