Story: Learning from the past

It is often joked that my gender “never learns.” We make the same mistakes over and over again, as if the presence of a soft, dangly organ between my legs negates the ability for me to process new information. They joke, all the girls do, that “men never learn.”

And indeed, when you hear of tales about Simon, it’s understandable why some women think like that. He was a drinking buddy of mine and as we used the shortcut through the woods he would always need a pee at the same place; by the oak at the side of the path, looking out over the fields with his head resting on the branch of the tree while his bladder was drained. It was his routine.

Until the farmer erected a new fence. A new electric fence. His howls echoed around the valley, his tortured cry as dozens of volts shot up his piss and fried his cock. He cried, begging for it to stop, his hands trembled as his stomach convulsed to bring several pints of England’s finest ale onto the woodland floor.

He should have learnt his lesson. Two weeks later, what the silly drunk bugger do? His went for a leak in the same place.

He hadn’t learnt his lesson.

His second trip to A&E with his hands clasped around his electrified cock that he simply hadn’t understood the lesson from his past.

But then that’s not limited to just the men of the species, I present Rainbow. She was a lovely young lady, if somewhat blessed with an unfortunate name. Alas, her parents were undergoing a marijuana-induced hippie phase at the time of my friend’s birth and Rainbow Summer Fisher was blessed with a lifetime of sniggering.

It didn’t bother her too much; much of her upbringing could be described as wild and anarchic; her life blessed with heavy doses of liberalism. By the age of nine her hair had more colours than I had coloured felt-tip pens in my pencil case. By the age of twelve, her uniform was tie-dyed and by fourteen she was almost expelled for taking the tower block hostage to protest at the crisis in the Balkans and the genocide of Bosnians.

But as she counted down her teenage years, her sense of rebellion was exhibited through a “make love not war” attitude that made her the talk of the college.

I had the privilege on her eighteenth birthday. I don’t shag friends, and I certainly don’t shag wild friends: I have no idea where their craziness will take me, but that night she wanted to be wild. Her parents had left her the run of the house while they were at Glastonbury, and she invited dozens of her friends to drink, smoke and play.

I may have been her first kiss at twelve, but the young naturist had had many lovers since that moment on the school trip to the butterfly sanctuary: her kaleidoscopic hair was a magnet to the winged creatures then, our tentative kisses broken by the fluttering of wings on her hair.

Her hair had got brighter since that day, now matched by the faint daubs of bodypaint on her naked form running through the garden. She hugged every visitor, squeezing her breasts against their clothed bodies. She squealed drunkenly, flirted obscenely and caressed teasingly. She was the centre of attention and she loved it.

She loved the octopus-like hands of Geoff, the smarmy smile he gave as his fingers delved into her pubic hair as she sipped cocktail from his lap. She loved the feel of his erection poking against her thighs and the feverish attentions of the sex-crazed student. She adored the touch of his fingers against her clit, squealing loudly as her desperate longing overwhelmed her.

His clothes were little more than a mild annoyance; her mouth swept over the tip of his cock seconds after his Tarzan boxer shorts were discarded in her garden. The satyr bucked his hips as lips sucked him into delirium. They were both achingly horny, desperate and rampant. She just groaned into her mouthful of man as another prick slid along her crack, pushing into her hole with no resistance.

I’d never seen anyone fuck like this, but Rainbow was no ordinary girl; squealing, groaning, orgasming as she beckoned everyone to “make love” in her parents’ garden.

She wanted an orgy. And she got one.

Minutes after her first, my rubber-encased cock was guided into her sopping pussy by the lust-saturated crazy. We groaned in unison as her cunt kissed it lovingly and she caressed it with gentle squeezes. I could smell her arousal, slick wetness trickled onto my balls as I pulled on her waist, pivoting deep inside of her. I focused on the curve of her back, patches of multi-coloured bodypaint made runny by the glistening sweat on her skin. I rubbed my hand over her peachy bottom and smacked it, giggling as the sound echoed around our friends in the garden.

Her cunt pulsated in shock and quivered with anticipation as I ran my hands over her buttocks, pinching them and pulling her frame back to the root on my cock. I was plunging to her very depths, my cock alive at the brink of orgasm, groaning and squalling as her trembling cunt sent me careering over the edge.

I saw nothing; just felt the avalanche of pleasure engulf me and sweep me into a world of shuddering delight. A groan escaped, several waves of cum were pumped into the tip of the condom as my cock trembled in her young pussy. “Happy Birthday,” I muttered, looking up to see two uniformed police officers looking down at us.

Our friends were nowhere to be seen; they had obviously hot-footed it over the fence as we had been oblivious to the ensuing issue.

A neighbour had complained; drunk teenagers, many taking drugs while the Vagina Monologues were being played out on the grass next door. I got a caution from the Police, a bollocking from my family.

Lesson learnt: one does not fuck crazy girls.

Only, being arrested for the first time while your shrivelling cock is deep into a naturist hippie is something that is bound to heighten the bond between you and the said naturist hippie. A shared experience, a building of trust, and Rainbow and I got even closer.

She was desperate to orgasm under the stars in the full moon; we went to the top of a hill, and sat next to the fence. She got me to use her special G-Spot toy, and she squirted.

Straight onto the electric fence.

Her screams woke up the hounds of hell; her language bluer than the streaks in her hair. And I am now in A&E, my lesson about not being with crazy girls because crazy things happen? Not learnt.

But as she contemplated being healed and ready for a second shot in twenty-eight days time, what a lesson to not learn!

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Wicked Wednesday

Featured image used under a CC-license from here

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  1. Your story about crazy people and electric fences was very funny! Your writing is great!

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