12 May 2021

11 May 2021

Not every day as a compromised adult can be a pleasure and I awoke to discover that overnight my pokie, pleasure teatlets had become stingy, firelit beacons atop my perky, hills of bountifulness, and the gorgeous enticement of my wiggly buttocks now resembled Kata Tjuta or Uluru bathed in morning sunlight (that's Ayers Rock for any unreconstituted, colonial, imperialist, types still clinging onto a Euro-centric worldview). But I'm a bouncy, perky, pokie type of teen-angel and I wasn't going to allow such minor distractions ruin whatever adventures the day might bring. 

So faster than a ferret down a rabbit hole and speedier than a stoat up a drainpipe and zippier than the unzipping of a zipper to release its proud, penile, prisoner to plunge proudly into a provocatively proffered pussy, I showered, fixed makeup and hair, wriggled into my school uniform, ate a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios to keep me cheery, and sashayed my way out of the house, a vision of perky, pokie, post-pubescent scrummy dumptiousness. 

A vision with sensitive, hurty, grape tomato nublets rubbing against my semi-sheer, tie-fronted, super-cropped, school blouse, and a pair of over-large, over-ripe, cherries wiggling seductively beneath my pleated, flicky, micro-mini, school skirt. In other words, a feast for ogling eyes and drooling mouths. 

Which was what greeted me when I made it to the bus stop, and these ogling eyes and dribbly mouth were attached to the dirtiest, scruffiest, stinkiest boy ever. Not a boy boy, but a teen-man boy complete with bum fluff attached to his top lip and straggly hairies of post-pubescentdom decorating his chin, all dressed up in the grungiest, scuzziest, ripiest jeans and t-shirt and topped with a battered leather jacket covered in badges and patches and Tippex scrawl. 

No sooner had I wiggled my perky, pokie, adorability beneath the bus stop awning and quicker than you could say 'outdated, seventies, cliche of rebellion with no relevance to twenty-first-century teenagers' than he 'hey babed' me. Now I know better than to fraternise with rebels-without-a-clue but it was just him and me, so I gave him my most withering look with just a hint of come hither sexual allure, which was all the invitation he needed. 

He said his name was Rotten Johnny which was not to be confused with Johnny Rotten, who was apparently somebody else. Whatever!!! But rotten he definitely was. He was the rottenest, stinkiest, steamiest, steamy, steampunk in the whole history of steamy steampunkdom. Imagine taking all the hamsters in the world and putting them in a giant cage and never cleaning them out for like a month until they were just yucky sawdust and hamster stink and poop; that's how steamy he was. But we had to wait for the bus so he yacked and blathered and I stood and wiggled and concentrated on being the absolute yummiest perky, pokie, wiggly, teen-angel of seductiveness ever and by the time the bus arrived we were all new and excitable 'best friends forever' forever.

When we got on the bus, we had to go and sit on the back seat because that's where rebels-without-a-clue sit. And as the bus did its stop/start, stop/start, stop/start journey, my twin mounds of Australian sandstone went whackety-whack up and down on the barely upholstered seat, and my bounteous jigglies of lusciousness were twerking on my chest like Miley Cyrus at the MTV Awards, and my fiery noobs of suffering were rubbing themselves in violent abandon on my skimpy blouse of concealment. 

As we jiggled and bounced along, I couldn't help but notice that only slightly hidden amongst the grungy, scuzzy, ripiest jeans was a super-doopery example of steamy steampunk todger. If there is one thing I have learned as a continental adult, it is that an exposed todger is a needy todger, and what this todger seemed to need mostest of all was the warm, wet embrace of my stingy-bee lips. Well, my showerhead cunny gave a squirt of delight at the thought of feasting on all that scummy man-flesh, so I took a deep breath, because let's be honest Rotten Johnny was the steamiest steamy steampunk ever and dived right in. 

'God Save The Queen' and 'Anarchy In The UK'!!!! The taste was indescribable. As if someone had taken all the really awful 'Jelly Belly' jelly bean flavours, like 'Green Tea' and 'Puppy Sick' and 'Buttered Popcorn' and 'Hamster Droppings' and 'Liquorice' and 'Squid Ink', and mixed them all together into one of those superfood smoothies that pretentious beardy wankers and their insufferably smug significant others sup whilst clutching their Fjallraven backpacks as they wander up and down Brick Lane looking for Rough Trade East. And, having concocted the equivalent of tastebud napalm, they'd then marinated Rotten Johnny's muscle of pleasure-giving in it until it has absorbed every last droplet of awfulness. 

Now I'm a perky, pokie, sodden-cunted, teen-angel of deliciousness and I wasn't going to let a couple of small things like steamy stinkiness and vomit flavouring put me off enjoying my very first oral experience. Besides, it was obvious what he needed more than anything else was a jolly good clean and if a warm, wet, willing mouth and a flicky, lappy tongue isn't the perfect tool for the task, then I don't know what is. Even better was that I couldn't help but think about Mumsy and the cock-froth that had spilt from her lips and decorated her chin, and I really thought that it was about time I had some cock-froth of my own to savour. 

But nobody had told me that todgers get bigger when dipped in stingy-bee lips and pretty soon I was slurping and dribbling and suckling and licking and gurgling and drooling and gobbling and lapping and gagging on swollen, engorged steamy steampunk manhood. With every droplet of yucky gunk oozing into my filth filled mouth, my sodden cuntedness gave a squirt and spasm of delight and with every bob of my head down into his crusty pubic hedgerow, my bountiful breasticules jiggled and my nublets abraded themselves on their insignificant fabric harnesses. 

Almost before you could say 'vacantly pretty' my body was heaving in blissful delight at its debased degradation. Each thrust of his steamy steampunk cock-head into the tightness of my throat, causing sprinkles of cunny ambrosia to decorate my inner thighs. Until, as the bus went bumpety-bump over a sleeping policeman, his wang wedged itself in my throat and his cock of uncleanness squirted its acrid, rancid, froth of wonderment into my mouthy cum receptacle, and I exploded in my very first societally-induced, conforming-to-the-expected-stereotype-for-a-low-esteem-teen-slut-whore, contemptuous adult, organism. 

And now I know that I'm just a dirtbag teen-angel just like my steamy steampunk.

Ohhh and in all the excitement, I missed the stop for school so I bunked off and spent the whole day with Rotten Johnny and all his steamy steampunk friends being the perkiest, pokiest, jiggliest, bounciest, dirty-baggiest, teen truant ever. 

But I've got a Careers Advice Day tomorrow, so hopefully, that will be fun. 

Nighty night.