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What Do You Expect?

by Russ

‘Excuse me! Are you going to do something about this?’ I shouted.

The policeman just laughed, returned something along the lines of ‘What do you expect, dressed like that?’ and went back to taking selfies with a passing hen do. Meanwhile, someone belched full in my face as their tongue probed toward me like a salivating alien. I shoved them away and walked on, noticing in my peripheral how the policeman stiffened and twitched as my ‘victim’ cried out.

I won’t pretend I didn’t enjoy it at first. Whether they were genuine or not, I’ve never had so many compliments on my legs, or my eyes for that matter. Comments on my bum I was more used to, though people were more vociferous now they could actually see most of it. It was all fun though, only words, and most with a laugh behind them, bar a couple of bitter sounding sorts who were probably jealous. It was great to be the centre of attention, and I even ended up getting a couple of shots bought for me.

People did get a little more intrusive as we moved later into the night. It seemed to be a fun game to give my chest a squeeze whenever someone found themselves stood close enough, and a few cheeky souls slapped my arse as they passed. I shot most of them down with a dirty look - aside from the fit ones, obviously. Yeah, OK, winking at them was encouragement, and probably made it my fault when the pair of wobblers on the dancefloor decided to see who could leave the reddest hand-print, by going at a cheek each.

It wasn’t actually the physical stuff that got to me at first, it was what started coming out of people’s mouths as the booze and excitement did away with their inhibitions, or rather their manners, I suppose. It was all cheesy stuff to begin with, groan-inducing but not offensive. It did start getting… I don’t know if I want to say darker. More aggressive, for sure; more concerning, maybe? I just started feeling uncomfortable, like perhaps I should just cover up and stop making such a show of myself. In the end, I got fed up with it and rounded up the guys to leave the club early. There were still hours ‘til close and it was supposed to be a big night, but I just wanted to get away from the crowd. Maybe try to find somewhere quiet for a last few drinks with the gang, maybe just get back to the hotel and call it a night.

It was while we stood by the takeaway, trying to figure it out, that it all really came to a head. Some woman came right up behind me, lifted my babydoll and started trying to yank aside the front of my knickers so she could grab hold of my cock, right there in the middle of the street with everyone watching. The rest of the lads thought it was hilarious, and I’ve no doubt my bystander of a best-man was already making notes for the speech.

‘I can promise, with my hand on my heart, the groom never so much as touched another woman on his stag. As for the other way round…’

See how it goes

by James

It was the end of yet another work night out and this time I had gone the distance. I should have been in bed many hours ago, but instead, here was Jo and she was drunk. In a battle between lust and self-respect of course there can only be one winner.

Most emphatically: Jo is not my type. She is big, brassy, and she is belchy. She is the kind of girl who aims for the maximum number of reverberations, and always, even before the echoes have faded, she proclaims to the world that it’s better out than in. Well, belches anyway. She’s a hard-drinking sort of lass, all of her womanly charms hidden beneath a layer of solid flab that she keeps well fed with lager and kebabs. Oh yes, and she’s mean too, like a ferret wrapped around a rusty nail. Add to that she keeps bleating on about celebrating six months together with Harry, proudly proclaiming how she’s taken Harry in every room of the house – up against the French doors, in the bath, on the patio.

But I know her secret, told to me in spite by one of the girls from accounts. Harry is made of plastic. Harry is nine inches long and he has a sucker on one end for firm attachment to plastic and glass, and patio chairs. Me and Jo are both gold star passengers on the sleeper train that only boasts single bunks.

I took her hand and led her from the dance floor. She was drunk, but not stumbling. She didn’t have much to say but all the alcohol had replaced her semi-snarl with a goofy grin. I helped her find her coat and then I helped her home, and all the while the sense of disquiet was building in my gut. What I was about to do, it was wrong.

It was a twenty-minute walk from town to her house, and I passed that entire walk with a permanent hard-on. We would both find release together. We both had need of one another. We were both-

We were both in the hedge.

She pressed her body tight to mine, and pressed her lips tighter still. It was like having an ash try wiped semi-clean with Sambuca smushed so hard against my face that even my nose was hurting. Two long minutes later when we broke apart for air but still with no moonlight between our bodies she ground her hips into mine, and with a low groan asked if that was for her. I could not bring myself to say yes, but I forced out a nod. Even Jo was worth it to break my year long dry spell.

She looked away, and in a softer voice than her usual vociferous tones told me she had no idea I thought of her in that way. Her and me both, but God, I needed the kind of release that didn’t arrive through the palm of my right hand.

Jo snogged me again, and then broke our bodies apart. Still she didn’t look at me, and in that strange soft voice I never knew she had she shyly suggested we could get together on Friday, take in a movie, see how it goes.


by Jenny

The first pale fingertips of light were beginning to creep their way across the grey sky. Everything was still and calm, waiting for the day to begin.

It was Harry’s favourite time of day; he felt like he had the whole world to himself for those few precious hours, before the raging traffic, the vociferous commuters, the shriek of other people’s children started up all over again

The sound of leaves rustling softly filled the air. Not even the birds had started to sing yet, but Harry knew it wouldn’t be long until the dog walkers began their rounds. He savoured these last few moments alone in the park.

Then he heard the creak of the gate and felt the anticipation surge like fire in the pit of his stomach. He forced it down, but it was like suppressing a belch and he could still feel it burning uncomfortably inside him. He pressed himself back into the undergrowth.

Perhaps it would be that young woman he’d seen on his recce last night. He pictured the way her winter coat followed the contours of her body, the soft curl of brown hair against the skin of her neck.

Harry let out the tiniest groan.

Or maybe a young runner, cheeks just beginning to flush, skin tight lycra and breaths coming faster, faster.

The sweat trickled down the side of Harry’s cheek.

Footsteps on the path now, getting closer. Harry reached for the edges of his long coat. Timing was everything - too soon and she would run before she’d seen it properly, too late and she might pass him altogether.

The rustle of a waterproof. Probably not runner, definitely getting nearer. Harry listened out for the sound of a dog He’d had trouble with dogs before - not insurmountable, but forewarned is forearmed, especially if it was a big dog off the lead.

Breathing now, hot breath coming quick, clouds of steam in the icy air. Any...second…


Harry threw himself out of the bushes, eyes closed tight, and flung open his long coat in a movement he’d perfected over years. The rush of adrenaline as the winter morning air wrapped itself around his member, the moment of anticipation as she took in the tumescent glory of him.

He waited for the screams.

But none came. He sensed her presence on the path in front of him, but she was just standing there. Frowning, Harry opened his eyes.

There stood a thin, short balding middle-aged man bollock naked in an open brown coat staring open-mouthed at Harry, his failing erection drooping sadly against his leg.

Both men stared at each other for a few seconds before sheepishly belting up their coats, seedily tucking themselves away, and turning to hurry off in opposite directions. The cold air no longer felt like an erotic thrill and Harry was chilled to the bone.

He looked over his shoulder at the retreating form of the other man, a picture of shame and disappointment and squalid desperation and suddenly realised he might have been looking at himself in a mirror.

The Locked Room Ch 9

by Jon Peters

The bar was empty save the three of us. We were dirty, smelly and slightly terrified. But Crab Bay was to be our personal paradise from the zombie horde invading the outside world.

“Want a beer?” Christina asked, popping a cap off a Lonestar and taking a swig as if she were on her front porch enjoying a hot July, Sunday Texas afternoon. Which it was, but that’s not the point of this story.

“Just water for me. Kat?” Evelina asked as she reached over the wooden bar and grabbed two pint glasses, knowing my answer already. She walked behind the bar and filled both mugs with ice and water from the soda gun.

She slung my glass down the bar toward me like they did in those old western movies from the last century, and I gulped down the ice-cold water. It had a slightly sweet taste to it-Dr. Pepper, I knew instantly-a consequence of using the soda gun. Fuck it, though, I didn’t care.

“Filler’ up,” I said, flinging the glass back to Evelina, who had downed her own water even faster than me and was going for seconds herself.

“Jesus, what the hell happened to you guys?” Christina asked, sipping her beer, looking at us as if she just noticed we’d been chased for miles by zombies.

“Other than running into a mad preacher, a burning church, a zombie horde, and a crazy zombie baby, not much,” Evelina deadpanned. “How are you holding up?” Evelina finally sat down on a barstool, her shoulders slumped. I joined her, tension pressing inward on my temples.

“Sounds like a party,” Christina belched. “You guys seen the news yet?” she asked as she turned on the thirteen-inch T.V. in the corner of the bar. If Evelina was calm under duress, Christina was practically comatose.

Black and white wavy bars slithered through the television screen, and each turn of the nob produced the same outcome.

“When is that neckbeard of an owner of this joint going to join the twenty-first century and get a real T.V.?” Evelina barked just as Christina found a working station. A cheery blonde woman’s face appeared on the screen, a stark contrast to the shrieking violence of her cackling voice.

“And the DEMOCRATS...” shouted the bleached woman from of the screen.

“We’re in the middle of a zombie apocalypse and all we got is Fox fucking news?!” groaned Evelina. Christina switched the channels again until she found the local station, channel 8. A man in a disheveled black blazer appeared on the screen, his shouts intermittently cut by a distant howling. He was backing away from the camera and pointing somewhere behind the cameraman.

“Behind you!” the man screamed just before the camera dropped to the ground, the reporter’s feet disappearing in the distance. The camera man screamed off camera as red liquid splashed the lens.

“I do not approve,” I said vociferously. Christina chuckled. Evelina cracked a smile. And I needed to pee.