The Real Reason Why Rob and Jane Were Not At Bingo

Rob and Jane Topping are from Glasgow. They are on holiday in an ugly, boring park at the south end of Loch Tay, in a town called Tummell Bridge. Neither of them care about the outdoors, and it is raining in any case. The kids are at Nan’s. Jane has had her hair done they way Rob likes it, and shaved her twat.

Rob is thirty-one, a Celtic supporter, barrel-chested and slightly overweight, and prone to going red in the face when he exerts himself. He smells of tobacco and Tennants most of the time and will die of heart disease when he is 58. He has thick arms and legs, and tattoos. He met Jane at Tescos when they were both working there. She used to think about his tattooed arms when she masturbated, which was often. She is now thirty-two, a turkey-like redhead with a big arse, a wattled neck, freckles and lots of smile and worry lines. She will live to be seventy, and have just over fifty thousand orgasms in her life, most of them with Rob. She is good-natured and calls everyone pet. He is aggressive, unhappy, and calls her hen.

Their friends Pete and Trish meet them as they arrive and invite them to bingo at seven thirty but they say no, Jane has a headache and it’s a fair old drive from Glasgow, so Rob is a bit tired too. Maybe tommorow.

None of that is true. The real reason is that Jane has been gagging to get on her back since they left Lomondside and she smoked her first cone. They are in the bedroom now, hoping the noise of the Bingo Master and the neighbors’ techno will be enough to drown out her cries. Now she has had another cone and gets very red-eyed and giggly. He has two rum and cokes, mostly to make sure he doesn’t go off too early.

He downs the last of the rum and coke and tell her to take her jeans off while he removes his tracks and jocks in one go, revealing a cock that’s two thirds ready. He leaves the Celtic shirt on. Then he runs his hand between her legs to see if he needs a squirt of the lube on the dresser. The answer is no. Her juice is thick and yeasty and smells like flat ale. She squirms a little and settles back, spreading her legs to display her red, patchy twat and raising her arms to reveal the red spots in her armpits. His erection springs up like a diving board.

‘Thing I love about you most is nice wet fud on ye,’ he says. She giggles and closes her eyes.

He fucks her steadily. She comes after seven minutes, mostly from the head of his cock rapping on her cervix, a feeling she adores. He laughs as she cries out and doesn’t let up. Four minutes later she comes again and this time he tells her to be quiet so the neighbors don’t hear her. Another four minutes and she’s had her third, and he’s getting embarrassed because she sounds like she’s having her throat slit, so he flips her over, grabs the ball gag from the dresser, and puts it on her, then makes her kneel.

‘You alright, pet?’ he asks as he pushes his cock easily inside her again. Her cunt is gaping wide and there is a thick, tangy slick of fluid all over her thighs and bottom. Rob’s balls are covered in it.

She groans and tries to gives him the thumbs up, but can’t support herself on one arm and falls on her side, twisting his cock inside her.

‘Daft wee burd. Get up, I’m nae finished wi’ you.’

He keeps fucking her, and she has four more orgasms at roughly two minute intervals, her screams now reduced to muffled, choked grunts in time with his thrusts. The juice from her cunt is running down the back of her legs and there is a very large dark wet patch forming on the sheet below her.

The spams of her vagina during her seventh orgasm flutter around Rob’s cock in a way that gets the cum running it’s length and makes the testosterone surge through his body. He begins to feel dizzy. The room reeks of sex and cigarettes. He speeds up to about 120 bpm, the rhythm of the techno, and provides her with another three massive orgasms, the first two causing her cunt to spasm about so wildly that it makes a squelching noise like a wellington boot being pulled out of a peat bog, and great sticky gobs of translucent, salty moisture fly out and strike him on the chest and face. After the third orgasm the spams subside quickly, and she collapses face forward onto the bed, eyes closed.

‘Aw, passed oot again hen? Fuck it.’

Rob has another rum and coke while he waits for her to come round, which is in about ten minutes.

‘Ooooh. Gawd. Unbelievable,’ she says when she comes around.

‘You deserve it. But I’m not done, see?’

He points to his erection, and asks for her to suck it. She does so lazilly, still half-dead from the ruthless screwing, until he comes on her chest. He hardly feels his single orgasm. Then he has more rum and coke, smokes cigarettes and watches old VHS tapes of the football while she sleeps beside him.

Next day they are at Bingo at seven-thirty and they do not make it to bed until after midnight. Sex has to wait until the following morning, and even then he only makes her come twice. She teases him and says he’s losing his touch, so next afternoon he gives her six more, just to remind her who is boss.

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