Message-ID: <21791asstr$945151802@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Path: not-for-mail From: "stewartwarmling" Subject: {ASSM} Story. Melon Cock-Tale Lines: 124 X-Original-Message-ID: <82lruu$a3q$1@lure.pipex.net> NNTP-Posting-Date: 8 Dec 1999 15:02:54 GMT X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V4.72.3612.1700 Date: Tue, 14 Dec 1999 01:10:02 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: assm-admin If you are not old enough to vote, drink and shag, go away. This is the story of a man who loved fruit, don't blame me for the workings of my mind, it's all environmental influences that do it, honest. here we go with MELON COCK-TALE It was almost like a seduction, if you understand my meaning. I had started the preparations at eight o'clock in the morning, caressing the smooth, cool skin of the fruit. I'd heard the stories and now I would try it for myself; I would be able to nod knowingly next time the sergeant suggested it, winking at the others, as he ragged one of the younger recruits. I'd experimented over the past few weeks, no one had twigged to what I was up to, it's so easy, you see, me being a chef and all that; no one ever questions what I'm doing round here. It worked out well really 'cos we get lots of fresh fruit out here. It's a bleeding balls' ache waiting for it all to start. I was sitting nice and cushy in the kitchens at Aldershot; it was actually a real lush number, since I did my B1 course. Oh, sorry, yeah, I forgot you lot don't 'ave a fuckin' clue what I'm jabbering on about. Well, you see. Oh fuck it, I'll start again. I'm Chalky, Chalky White, geddit? No! look, mate; it's simple, in this man's army everyone has a nickname; some get a nickname 'cos they've got big ears, they get called Wingnut; others get nicknames 'cos of their surname -- everyone called White is "Chalky," even me mum calls me Chalky after she met some of the lads a few years back. Now, me brother, Dave, well, he's not called Chalky; he's Knocker. You see, he's in the Navy, a fuckin' Fish'ead. What a fuckin' embarrassment. Oh, yeah, anyway, in the Navy all Whites are Knocker, so it's easy: I'm Chalky White; he's Knocker White. So anyway, I'm a chef, I've done me B1 course so I'm fully qualified; I could do the A1 course but who wants to make fancy icing sugar patterns for some fuckin' ambassador? You know, food for some cunt from Equador or an equally shitty dive. So I ended up in K1, the big kitchen in St. Omer barracks at Aldershot, and then some rag'ead twat starts a fuckin' war and I'm out here opening tins and livin' in a fuckin' tent in the middle of Saudi-Bastard-Arabia. So anyway, like, I'd tried over the past few weeks leaving melons out in the sun for a few hours until they warmed up a bit, then cut 'em open and check. I reckon a melon weighing 5lbs needs about 6 hours to get to the right temperature. In England you could leave it out all day and nothing would happen; here, if you leave 'em outside for a couple of days, they ferment, then you can drink the juice; it's like one of them Hooch drinks, you know, an Alco-pop. Boy, would the rag'eads be pissed off if they knew we were making our own booze out of watermelons. So it got to about two in the afternoon, I'd done breakfast and lunch so I was off for the evening meal, some fucker else's problem. So I picked up the watermelon I'd left outside the tent since mid morning; she felt warm, smooth and curvy, just like women really. You would think someone would wonder what a squaddie was doing wandering round with a watermelon under his arm, but I suppose they've got bigger things to worry about, like a war. I trotted back to me tent. Now it's good in some ways 'cos being a chef we get up at all silly hours so we're on the other side of the road from everyone else. Anyway, I got back to the tent and opened the flap, inside it was pretty fucking hot, but hey, it's shade. It took me a few minutes to get me boots off; you see, I didn't want to get fruit juice on 'em 'cos the sand round here gets everywhere. When I get back from this fuckin' desert I'm goona fill in the kid's sand pit. I don't ever want to see fuckin' sand again. You can't even wank round here without sand up your bell end: talk about a fuckin' organ grinder. So after I got rid of me boots and lightweights -- sorry, that's trousers to you fuckin' civvies -- did I tell you, by the way? I fuckin HATE civvies. So I got rid of me boots and kecks and found me bayonet. I grabbed hold of the melon and slid the bayonet into one end. I pulled it out and pushed it back in, again and again until I'd got rid of a two inch square of that thick, smooth skin. Holding it in one hand I grabbed me bayonet -- no, not that bayonet, me beef bayonet, and started rubbin' it, Nowt 'appened, so I started thinkin' about our lass. That didn't do much 'cos she's a fuckin' pig, so I thought about her little sister. I'd soon got a right stalk on, I can tell you. So anyway, I grabbed the watermelon and tried to stick me cock in it, but it wouldn't go, so I had to get the bayonet out again. I pushed the tip into the hole and stabbed the watermelon a few times, sort of loosening it up a bit. I never have to loosen our lass up 'cos she's got a twat like the Mersey Tunnel, you know -- big, dark and half of Liverpool 'ave been through it, took their fuckin' cars with 'em as well, judging by the size of it. So I did me bit of bayonet foreplay on this watermelon and tried to get me cock in it again. Christ! Unfuckin' believable: it were wet, hot and tight; I could feel it part as I forced me cock up it, or in it. Do you reckon you force your cock up a woman or in a woman? Same with a watermelon I reckon, can't make me fuckin' mind up. I pulled back a bit; the melon sucked at me: it was airtight. It was unreal: I was getting sucked off by a fuckin' melon. So anyway, I soon reckoned that it were easier to hold the melon on both hands and move it backwards and forward, rather than tryin' to fuck it, so I held it, like our lass's 'ead, and moved it backwards and forwards on me meat. It only took a couple of minutes; the juice was running down me legs, causing a puddle on the groundsheet, but Christ were it good or what? It took a couple of minutes, just like vibratio, it felt, is it vibratio? That Italian word for havin' yer cock sucked? You know what I mean anyway: a large piece of fruit, Her Majesty's rations, was givin' me a gobble. So I jammed it down 'ard on me cock and squirted the mother load; I filled that fuckin' melon with pints of spunk, I tell you. But it was warm still, and tighter still than our lass's cunt. I pulled me cock out and looked at it: the poor fella had those dark seeds trapped under his foreskin. I found three later when I had a shower. Visit the Lair of The Fanged One for this story, other stories and links to other free web sites with more stories. http://pages.whowhere.lycos.com/arts/paulinusfang/index.html -- If you enjoyed this work, take a moment to email the author. Your comments are their only payment. 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