If this was your own story and not copied and pasted, I applaud your ingenius story. This is by far, the best story I have read since my days of reading Harry Potter. You sir, given the previously mentioned requirements, win the internet.
....aannndd after a quick google search, it was copy and paste. Although, I haven't read it before so you deserve kudos for bringing this light to my eyes.
-
Most people contract some form of food poisoning at least once a year. Most of the time the symptoms are mild, and can even be mistaken for a 24 hour flu bug. Other times, the symptoms are similar to one having a very bad case of the flu, but rarely do people ever need to go to the hospital for food poisoning.
Just by its nature, the probability of contracting food poisoning from fish is always higher than most other foods. This is why, based on personal experience, I recommend that no one ever engage in anal sex after your date ate a large fish dinner.
We hadn’t been dating that long, only about a month. Even though we'd only been dating a short time, we were having sex since the second date, and it was the best, freakiest, porno-style sex of my life. Seriously, this was the kind of sex that every man, deep down, dreams about having at least once in his life. It was the kind of sex that I had wished for ever since my voice started changing. It was with this woman, and only with this woman, that I was ever addressed with the phrase, “Use your whole fist for Christ’s sake.”
On one now infamous date night, we were enjoying a romantic dinner at an upscale seafood restaurant. Through the entire meal, however, sex was all that was on our minds. In retrospect, every date we ever went on seemed to just be a temporary diversion from the best part of the night, which involved animalistic insertions, feral lickings and brazen misuse of food products. We emptied wine bottle after wine bottle over the course of the dinner, and by the time the main course arrived, fish for her and lobster for me, she slipped off her shoes and casually masturbated me under the table with her stocking covered feet. Completely plastered and horny by the end of the meal, we decided to skip dessert in the restaurant because a much sweeter dessert “was being prepared in her hot, wet crotch,” she said. I paid the bill and narrowly avoided getting a speeding ticket, not to mention a DUI, during the drive back to my place.
By the time we got into my apartment, we were tearing each other’s clothes off. Sloppy in our drunkenness, we knocked over two lamps during our horny, groping journey into the bedroom. Once in the bed, she got down on all fours, arched her back, and presented her delicious ass to me. I grunted my approval while aiming my rock-hard cock missile at her hairy silo. When the head of my cock began to penetrate her lips, she stopped me.
“No. In my ass,” she hissed at me, sounding both horny and angry at the same time.
“Are you sure,” I asked?
She giggled as she said, “If I could handle last night. . .”
Oh yeah, I thought. Last night’s adventure involved a clown mask, three packets of Pop Rocks, and a twenty-inch replica of the Eiffel Tower. What the hell was I thinking? Of course she could handle some anal-action. She reached between her legs and began lubing up her asshole with her own waffleswaffleswaffleswaffleswaffles juices. Where did I find this girl? I thought. I was in horn-dog heaven. Blessed. Not being an expert in anal intrusion, I slowly eased my way into her lovely stink-star. First the head, then a quarter of the shaft, and soon I was buried to the hilt between her ass-cheeks.
“Go slowly,” she said, half moaning, half panting in both pleasure and pain, I think. I did as she bid, and very slowly began pulling out, like a steam piston on an old locomotive beginning its first run in a century. Almost all the way out of her, but keeping the head firmly planted in her ass-iris, I slowly began inserting again.
“Yeeeeees!” she moaned and began diddling her clit. Soon she said, “Faster.” So faster I went, the tempo increasing until the train was running at full speed, the piston pumping in and out so fast my cock became a complete blur, her hand rubbing her clit like she was trying to start a friction-fire in her waffleswaffleswaffleswaffleswaffles.
“Gnnnnnnnah!” she screamed. Thinking she was close to orgasm, I pumped that ass even faster, faster than Amish meth-head churns butter.
“Gnnnnnahstoooop,” she screamed, or something like this, because the noise in my head was drowning out the reality around me, for in my head I heard a steam locomotive, chugga-chugga-chugga-chugga-Woo-Woo! Barreling down the tracks, and somehow I pumped even faster.
“YES!” I screamed.
She started reaching behind her and flailing on the bed in what I thought was ecstasy—
“—Stop!” she screamed, able to finally get out the word I had mistaken for groans of ecstasy moments ago. She screamed this with such volume and guttural, primal force that it had the effect of pulling the emergency brake on a 100,000 pound locomotive running at full speed. The sex act squealed to a halt, and I pulled my cock out of her ass like the rip-cord on a parachute. Did someone order champagne? No, that popping noise was my cock coming out of her ass.
“Arrrrrrgh!” She screamed, as I yanked my cock free. And then it happened.
Immediately after my cock popped out, I was sprayed from belly to thighs with watery, fish-smelling diarrhea.
“What the—-?” I said, not able to get the word ‘fuck’ out of my mouth because of my shock at the brown funk lining my body. As she sprayed me, she seemed to be propelled forward by the force of the jet-propelled diarrhea, and she collapsed onto her stomach.
“Oh. My. Fucking. God.” I murmured, completely shell-shocked. Everything was still. I could hear my wind-up alarm clock ticking on my dresser. I stared at my shit-covered body. I surveyed the room to see if there was any collateral damage. The trajectory of the diarrhea spray was similar to buck-shot in a sawed-off shotgun; it was everywhere. Unfortunately, during the sex act she had been facing the feet-side of the bed, which meant that the headboard, my bedside table and lamp had poop on them as well. Even my bedside clock had a few speckles staining its face. The bed sheets: Killed in Action. A total loss.
I looked at my date, lying there motionless. I called her name. No response. I called her name while shaking her a bit. Nothing. Fear shot through me, as I thought, “Oh my god, what if she’s dead?” But this fear quickly dissipated when I heard her snoring. She was passed out from the wine. I on the other hand was no longer blasted drunk, because the blast from her ass rendered me completely sober. This night was definitely going down in the (ahem) annals as the all time worst date of my life. In fact, I had to invent a new special category, “Even the Devil would feel sympathetic,” to describe this night.
I cleaned up. I cleaned her up. I cleaned the headboard, the dresser, the lamp and the clock. With some manipulation of her passed out body, I was able to wrangle the sheets from the bed and throw them down the garbage chute. By two in the morning, I found myself lying on my couch, drinking Jack Daniels from the bottle. I don’t remember passing out myself, but I can say that unconsciousness didn’t come soon enough.
“It was food poisoning,” her voicemail message explained to me the next day. After some silence, she added, “The fish.” More silence. “Sorry.” She left this message the following day, around 2:00 p.m. I had slept until Noon, and, thank God, she was gone when I woke up. How do you face that? She never called me again. I never called her. I definitely learned two valuable lessons that night: 1) Never have anal sex after a sea food dinner. 2) Be careful what you wish for. There’s only one other experience in my life that entered into the “Even the Devil would feel sympathetic” category, and frankly I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to tell that story. Let’s just say that the morning after a great one-night-stand, the beautiful woman you banged the night before can certainly use your bathroom. . .but she shouldn’t be more comfortable standing up while she pees.Leave a comment:
-
-
-
i don't know how i missed this thread a year ago?
i'll share: before i worked for the company i work for now, i flew cargo for this really crappy charter carrier out of detroit. they had lots of old 20 series learjets and this frankenstein of an airplane that used to be a beech 18 in a previous life. (this is what i was flying when said offensive incident came into play) as far as differences from the original, the only one that has relevance to this story is that the boarding stair from the original was replaced with this really huge cargo door on the left side of the airplane behind the wing. for those of you that don't have an aviation background, here is a photo of one of these abortions: http://www.google.com/imgres?imgurl=...VUmfi_uYwTM%3A
i was flying this trip from detroit to greenville tennessee (in the beech 18 )where we were to drop off a load of auto parts in a crate. the captain i was flying with was, well....an asshole. he had no personality and he was always in a hurry 24/7 (among other personality flaws.)
we flew down there uneventfully and with very little conversation because i was pretty much offended at breathing the same air as that douche. we landed, parked on the ramp, and shut down the engines. i walked around and did a visual inspection of the airplane and spun the props around a couple turns. captain toolsack was coordinating the fuel load for the return.
for a cargo pilot, greenville tennessee was a great destination because the fixed base operator on that field would always buy you food and have it waiting as long as you purchased fuel. right here is a good time to add that initial flying jobs pay a really shitty wage. i think my salary was about $16,000 that year. i was always poor and hungry.
so, i walked inside the building with asshole ken trailing behind me about 20 feet. as i opened the door, sitting on a folding table are 2 massive foam clamshells each containing a 2 lb hamburger and perhaps 2 lbs of crinkley fries. there is so much food in each one of these little packets of amazing joy, the cover is bowed over the contents and looks to be ready to explode off the top at any second. i grab one and sit down to eat.
ken, who is right behind me gets all pissed off at me and asks me what the fuck i think i am doing? my obvious response is that i am eating my fucking hamburger. he says, "oh hell no. we are flying back to detroit right now. you can eat on the way"
so, i sit there for a second without saying anything. i give this guy one of those looks that shoots daggers through you. slowly i get up in a passive aggressive way and walk out to the plane with my fucking food. we take off heading north and once we reach about 5000 feet, ken says "i'll fly the plane for a few minutes. go ahead and eat." (why, thanks penis breath.)
about half way through my hamburger and perhaps 20% into the french fries, i start feeling a rumble in my stomach. it begins as a little whimper at first. i choose to ignore it and continue to eat. after another 5 minutes, i start getting the sweats. they are just sort of fading in and out. another 5 minutes and my gut begins to feel like there is a retarded fetus in there throwing a temper tantrum and firing off a rocket propelled grenade or two. i close up my clamshell and set my hamburger on the floor because at this point it requires all my concentration to hold it in. i am to the point now where every time i get a contraction, come close to blacking out. i turn to ken and say that i really need to take a shit. he looks at me like i am an alien and basically says "well, you need to figure it out because we aren't stopping anywhere" so, i sit there for a minute and in my mind i say the word "fuck" about 8 times. necessity breeds ingenuity so i start forming a game plan. (i was so pissed at this guy, i probably should have just pulled down my pants, pointed my asshole at his face, and let loose with a nice hosing of liquified turd)
instead, i get up from my seat, with my clam shell and about a 1" stack of napkins. the back of the airplane is completely open to the cockpit because its a cargo airplane. anything that isn't a necessity was stripped out long ago to save weight. luckily, there is a canvas tarp that you can velcro around the inside of the fuselage in the winter time to keep the heat in the front part of the cabin. i go to work putting this up so that asshole ken won't be staring at my cock while i am shitting myself in the back. once i get the privacy situation under control, i basically just open up the clam shell, take off my pants and boxers, squat over what is left of my dinner, and blast a nasty disgusting shit all over it. It was kind of like squirting an entire bottle of hershey's syrup on vanilla ice cream.... (but different) there was so much liquid shit combined with what was left of my food, the container was within about 1/8" of overflowing! i used the entire stack of napkins to clean all the shit off my ass and the back of my legs. after a brief pause of relief, i sat there for a few minutes praying/thanking god that i didn't shit myself. i wiped all the sweat off my brow with my sleeve because there were no napkins left to use. as i sat there, i started contemplating about what my end game was going to be to dispose of my mess?
i started eying the cargo door......thinking to myself: i wonder what happens if you open it in flight? so, i walk over there.....sit in front of the door, put my left foot on the fuselage to brace myself just in case. i grab the handle and give it a twist. slowly, i release some pressure and allow it to open into the slipstream. to my surprise, opening the door is flight is actually very benign. it just sort of flops around a little in the breeze because the hinge is on the forward edge of the door. now that i have it open, i look down to see what is below. unfortunately, we are flying over downtown Indianapolis. at this time, i start to hear fucking ken yelling back my way. of course he isn't asking if i am ok. he wants me to get my ass back up to the cockpit so he can eat his food(this airplane didn't have an autopilot)
basically, my choices at this point are to leave my shitty mess in the airplane and risk the possibility of it spilling everywhere when we land (this means i would be the one cleaning it up) or chuck it out over a major metropolitan area. needless to say, i chose the latter. feeling guilty for the surprise someone on the ground just received, i re latched the cargo door, pulled down the "privacy" canvass and sat back in my seat. i took control of the airplane. ken asked me what happened back there? i just gave him a shitty look without saying anything and flew back to detroit. once we got on the ground, i did my obligatory copilot's walk around inspection of the airplane.
everything was normal except:
from the point where the cargo door ends and the fuselage begins there was this streak of smeared shit that extended all the way back to the tail. the airplane flew around like that for about 2 months until someone finally washed it.Last edited by flyboyx; 08-01-2013, 06:27 AM.Leave a comment:
-
I'm a salesman and I was talking to a customer and then it hits me. Guy was asking all sorts of questions while i'm trying to finish up a sale and i'm trying to hold it in and ends up wasting 20 minutes of my time and I ran into the restroom to blow it up, get out and there he is giving me a WTF look and I was like FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU.Leave a comment:
-
That's the worse when there's a ton of piss around the toilet and
your pants/shorts touch it.Leave a comment:
-
Leave a comment: