A heartwarming festive tale here, folks, as I relate the time I was given the opportunity last Christmas to bum boxing referee Ian John-Lewis.
After contracts for a good bumming were signed, I met Ian at a hotel, where he didn't hang around - he instantly dropped everything, a reasonable yet mildly disappointing Twix-like phallus peeking out from under his belly.
I wasn't sure what to make of it at first, but helpfully Ian made sure I was under no illusions as to what was going on.
"I am the man standing in front of you with an erection. I spoke to you in the dressing room - I want a good clean bumming."
Well, I didn't see the need for any penile procrastination either, so we got straight down to it... I was rimming him, sucking his *******, licking his armpits, letting him tea bag me, licking between his toes... anything went, just as long as it wasn't *****. However, as I eagerly went down on Ian, little did I realise that I had unwittingly sealed my own fate, a brush with destiny that I would only later discover.
Thankfully, we were still enjoying ourselves at this stage, and Ian had brought along Richie Woodhall to provide commentary on our love-making, using only the kind of keen insight and expert knowledge that Richie can provide.
"And of course, his **** is going right up his arsehole, you've got to remember" Richie informed anyone who would listen.
I penetrated Ian and began to time my thrusts with his moans. "And of course," said Richie Woodhall, wholly cognisant of anyone watching who might have short term memory loss,"his **** is going right up his arsehole, you've got to remember".
By this time I was bumming Ian John-Lewis right into the middle of next week, a savage buggering that Richie described as a "peach of a bumming". Ian couldn't hold on any longer and sprayed forth across the hotel room, his noble taddywhacker looking like a brown baby deer vomiting up a flagon of milk.
Well, I was proud of my work, and rightly so, but it was then that the sense of dread overcame me, faithful reader. Rather than turn and say I'd bummed him senseless, I saw Ian make calls to the BBBC (The British Bumming Board of Control) and I knew something was amiss. There was no handshake, no thankyou, and instead Ian merely waited, motionless, for some decision of which I was not privy, only the sound of his love syrup dripping on the floor a break in the silence.
After about five minutes, some officials called in the hotel, and, while I'd heard that British officiating could sometimes be suspect, I'd never thought it could happen to me.
My soul sank as I saw Ian John-Lewis show six separate men his sated bell end, falsely claiming there was a small cut on the end of it, caused by over-eagerness to fellate him, and it had caused him to cum early. "It was a clash of heads" he kept repeating, over and over. Words that hammered into my heart.
After ten minutes I found that, inexplicably, the ruling was upheld, and we were forced to go to the bumming scorecards. Ian John-Lewis's testes looked like dried cherries after they had been purged of their contents, but his Machiavellian dealings had caused this to be overlooked.
"Ian outbummed you", they told me, to my utter disbelief.
I ran from the room in flood of tears, as Ian picked up a mop to clean up white tears of his own.
Later, he'd call me, and ask if I'd bum him again. He knew I'd say yes. After all, what choice did I have, and where else could I go?
After contracts for a good bumming were signed, I met Ian at a hotel, where he didn't hang around - he instantly dropped everything, a reasonable yet mildly disappointing Twix-like phallus peeking out from under his belly.
I wasn't sure what to make of it at first, but helpfully Ian made sure I was under no illusions as to what was going on.
"I am the man standing in front of you with an erection. I spoke to you in the dressing room - I want a good clean bumming."
Well, I didn't see the need for any penile procrastination either, so we got straight down to it... I was rimming him, sucking his *******, licking his armpits, letting him tea bag me, licking between his toes... anything went, just as long as it wasn't *****. However, as I eagerly went down on Ian, little did I realise that I had unwittingly sealed my own fate, a brush with destiny that I would only later discover.
Thankfully, we were still enjoying ourselves at this stage, and Ian had brought along Richie Woodhall to provide commentary on our love-making, using only the kind of keen insight and expert knowledge that Richie can provide.
"And of course, his **** is going right up his arsehole, you've got to remember" Richie informed anyone who would listen.
I penetrated Ian and began to time my thrusts with his moans. "And of course," said Richie Woodhall, wholly cognisant of anyone watching who might have short term memory loss,"his **** is going right up his arsehole, you've got to remember".
By this time I was bumming Ian John-Lewis right into the middle of next week, a savage buggering that Richie described as a "peach of a bumming". Ian couldn't hold on any longer and sprayed forth across the hotel room, his noble taddywhacker looking like a brown baby deer vomiting up a flagon of milk.
Well, I was proud of my work, and rightly so, but it was then that the sense of dread overcame me, faithful reader. Rather than turn and say I'd bummed him senseless, I saw Ian make calls to the BBBC (The British Bumming Board of Control) and I knew something was amiss. There was no handshake, no thankyou, and instead Ian merely waited, motionless, for some decision of which I was not privy, only the sound of his love syrup dripping on the floor a break in the silence.
After about five minutes, some officials called in the hotel, and, while I'd heard that British officiating could sometimes be suspect, I'd never thought it could happen to me.
My soul sank as I saw Ian John-Lewis show six separate men his sated bell end, falsely claiming there was a small cut on the end of it, caused by over-eagerness to fellate him, and it had caused him to cum early. "It was a clash of heads" he kept repeating, over and over. Words that hammered into my heart.
After ten minutes I found that, inexplicably, the ruling was upheld, and we were forced to go to the bumming scorecards. Ian John-Lewis's testes looked like dried cherries after they had been purged of their contents, but his Machiavellian dealings had caused this to be overlooked.
"Ian outbummed you", they told me, to my utter disbelief.
I ran from the room in flood of tears, as Ian picked up a mop to clean up white tears of his own.
Later, he'd call me, and ask if I'd bum him again. He knew I'd say yes. After all, what choice did I have, and where else could I go?
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