A naughty tribute to the Sploshers of the Splosh Forum

[Marion]

So, Splosh has moved into a castle, eh?

I'm so pleased. I've been here for nearly a year now but, of course, I for a while I didn't think I'd reach that milestone. Now it's properly back!

I'm so happy to see this forum alive and kicking again that I've written a piece of very dirty fiction to try and pin-down why I think this community is rather special.

This is for everyone who likes their porn to have a plot and a punchline.


Marion


***



Daisy's Last Hoorah.


She’s too heavy, David; compared to today’s models. And just too fucking old. It’s time to let her go.”

“Jen, she was my first big thing, ok? Getting into this crazy business - it all started with her. Y’know?”

“I know.” She said.

The blonde woman let out breath in slow resignation, raking her fingers through her hair before trying to scrub the tiredness off her face with pressed palms. When she looked up again, her expression was composed but not unkind.

“She takes up too much of our time to make any profit on a weekend booking and, frankly, she’s ugly: past-it. David, our customers cast one glance over the bulges and the wrinkles and the stitches and… and I’m sorry David, but she smells.”

“But she was my first bouncy castle, Jen! When I started it was just me with Daisy in the back of the van… school fairs, parties… I bought the first sound systems with the money I took that summer. I built the whole business up with her.”

“Yes David, I do understand, but that was summer 1993. And the weight of the bouncy castle was what broke the axle in that van, I also recall. We would recoup the investment on an efficient replacement with only ten bookings. And we could take two extra bookings a month if we had a bouncy castle that didn’t take six days to dry out after every drizzly event! You know I’m sick of having her inflated inside the hangar – we could do so much more with that space, David.”

The couple sat in silence for a moment.

“All right Jennifer. I know. I’ll do it. The day has come. I’ll… take Daisy to the dump on Monday,” he said.

Her face softened. Her husband was sentimentally attached to almost every possession he’d ever owned. She encouraged him to draw the line at ragged underpants… and now elderly, sagging bouncy castles. But it was still a big deal.

“We should give Daisy a proper send-off: a Viking funeral,” she said.

“Daisy’s fully flame retardant.”

She laughed: “I have always maintained a healthy scepticism on that point, my love,” then smiled; “Nevermind, I’ll think up something special.”

***

When David stepped out of the shower on Sunday morning his wife was waiting for him wearing a pair of skin-tight white jeans, leaning provocatively against the bathroom wall. Unfortunately, the surprise cost him both his balance and his dignity. It had been a little while since either had ambushed the other through the steam. He eventually recovered with:

“Holy shit Love, look at you. What’s this for? That’s… Jen? Is that what you were wearing when I first met you?”

“Yes. Not the exact same pair of jeans, of course…”

“Of course not…”

“… because you covered those with grey emulsion paint in and ketchup the garden at the last house and tore them off me in little strips.”

“Sometimes I still can’t believe you fucking let me!” he said. Their eyes met in a grin. “You look so fucking hot …and your hair!” David had no idea what Jennifer had done to her hair, but it was whatever she used to do to it when she was about 23. It was enormous and full of tiny ripples. “I loved that hair. What are you… or are we … are you getting into the shower like that? I –”

“-No. No, you and I are going out to the Hangar today. I’m going to help you put the nostalgia to bed.”

“And so you’re driving there dressed like that?!”

Apparently she was. As they climbed into the car he hoped that, whatever game she wanted to play, he’d work out what he was supposed to do when time came. After all, it had been a little while since Jen had given him a throbbing boner just by changing her clothes. He watched her arrange her seatbelt between breasts that were surely bare under the tight white t-shirt. He’d had no idea she’d kept it, that t-shirt. The front sported the bold logo of the radio-station she’d been marketing for at the carnival where they met. He knew what was on the back, too. He’d never forget. The back read: YOU’RE NEXT in the GUNGE TANK!

***

‘The Hangar’ was what they called their equipment shed, a huge metal-clad frame up a drab little lane overshadowed by a row of dark evergreens. They drove the car into the fenced yard at the rear where the power-hoses were kept and parked by a stack of palettes. Jennifer made no move to open her door but twisted around in her seat to face her husband. Her jeans were so tight they creaked sub-audibly and sent gooseflesh up her arms.

“This ‘big-boy’ is for you,” she said, reaching into the seat-well behind him with a smile and sliding out a water-gun that was almost as long as her arm. She laid the bulky trigger end in his lap, the fat plastic barrel bridging the space between them and the muzzle nuzzled into the fold of her crotch. He studied her face and stroked the trigger with his fingertip, curling it in preparation to apply pressure. She held his gaze and didn’t stop him when he started to squeeze. A thick bloom of blue gunge oozed out of the end into the tight crease between her thighs. Her little gasp was very loud inside the car.

“You have to give me five minutes to go inside and turn everything on,” she said, reaching at last for the door handle and breaking the spell.

“You have turned everything on, Jen, of that I can assure you. Four minutes fifty five seconds and counting.”

***

He opened the smaller side door with some trepidation, his weapon held low but ready for rapid response, heavy with bright blue gunge. He was greeted by a wall of hot air and a din of white noise: at least one of their four industrial space-heaters must be running somewhere inside. There were no windows in the building and he groped for the switch board. In the darkness near David’s feet a smoke-machine roared into life: a scream of compressed gas almost loud enough to mask his answering cry. Was she watching him? The darkness fluttered with purple ghost-lights as his eyes strained to adjust. Sweetish smoke stifled every crack of light and made the familiar space instantly bewildering.

A spray of red laser beams descended from the shrouded ceiling, briefly illuminating a shifting maze of smoke. David raised his gun and, with two incautious strides forward, he collided with an invisible behemoth. It buzzed with the distant inflow of synthetic air. It had a faint, sad, mouldy sort of smell. In the darkness, Daisy dispassionately knocked David on his arse on the concrete floor.

Jen’s laughter came from somewhere high up on his right.

“She’s big enough David, you total, total plonker! That was classic! I wish you could have seen yourself. You’re clearly safer just staying down there on the ground until your eyes adjust.”

“Where are you?”

In answer the darkness was fractured by the stutter of a strobe light. Even when you were used to it, it still made your heart race. In a series of brief, blazing images Jen was revealed posing like a Bond Girl on top of a tarp-shrouded tower of disassembled stage planking. She was now clutching a matching water-gun; her clothes were so white she glowed. David was sufficiently stunned by the combined effect of Jen’s light show and the disorientation - as he tried to work out which wall he was facing - that he didn’t realise she was firing on him until the cold rope of slime hit bare skin at his shoulder. He felt his chest in the dark, discovering with his hands that he was plastered with something incredibly slippery in the instant before the wetness sunk through his t-shirt. His slick palms grazed his hardened nipples and his gut did a barrel-roll at the prospect of drenching Jen in this stuff and sliding her out of her clothes for a proper roll around together. Oh! Oh! Oh -on the fucking BOUNCY CASTLE! ‘Jen,’ thought David, ‘nothing else is ever going to top this.’

The strobe flashed back into life revealing Jen five paces in front of where he was crouching, back on ground-level, still and smiling with her gun slung over her back and her arms outstretched. She shut her eyes and tipped her head back as he emptied the tank at her, range point blank. The arc of slime hung in each flash-frozen slice of light and dark gunge back-splattered outwards from her breasts down her braced legs. Then the light stopped. With a visual fanfare, new lights came on, stage lights, a bank of bright discos and two soft spots illuminating Jen with the inflatable mouth of the castle behind her. Dark slime dripped in streams down her crisply clothed thighs. It was starting to get hot inside the Hangar; sweat finely beaded her brow, shining under the new lights. A tarp covered the floor beneath her feet; a tarp laden with a Mad-Hatter’s tea-party of outsized containers.

“I went to the cash and carry. I got some slightly-more-dodgy stuff off Chipvan-Andy too: note the barrel?”

“Andy? You didn’t tell him what it was for, did you?” he laughed, breathless, “What’s in it? What’s in all of them?! Oh Jen, oh fuck – where do we start?”

Jen unslung her emptied weapon and effortfully hefted a cardboard box out from behind plastic drums with the side of her foot. It looked like the sort of box that held printer paper. She bent forward and straightened with a squeezy bottle of poster paint in each hand. Jen started dancing backwards towards Daisy’s stepped opening, cracking the cap off each bottle in turn with her thumbnails, daring him with her eyes. When she was out of range of the box he moved forward, reached as if to choose a bottle… then easily lifted the whole lot, smiling smugly and never taking his eyes off hers. Jen tried to back her way up onto the deck of the bouncy castle, wobbling dangerously as she spread her weight on the rolling surface, sinking unpredictably backwards with first one foot, then the other. He concluded that the soles of her pumps must be slippery and she hadn’t kicked them off yet. He heeled his way out of his own shoes without setting the box down; he didn’t want to bounce on her tiny feet with them.

Jen stopped stepping and glided like a first time skater, reaching the rear wall quite gracefully considering her squelching, sliding shoes. Blue gunge was still dripping from her jeans. Now that David was within the glow of the lights he could see his own mixture was pink; the cardboard box stuck to his chest. A darkly wet gap in her pale mane of hair showed where one of his pumps of goo had sailed unnoticed just above Jennifer’s head. She had resumed her fighting stance, bottles raised, but pressed against Daisy’s bulging rear wall Jen was trapped. She bit her lip, trying to press her smile into a pucker of concern; eyes darting to measure the closing distance between them with adorably overplayed anxiety.

“I’m coming to get you, Jenny. I’m coming to get you very dirty,”

He stepped onto the striped plastic and started closing in on her, approaching from the right to block her into a corner. When he got close enough, a jet of purple paint made lavish contact with his arms and he quickly had to set down the box. Something cold and dense gushed through his hair before he could straighten up again. Two to Jen.

David blindly selected brown and orange and, without moving closer, he sent each colour flying in chaotic splatters through the air between them. By the time the bottles were down to the farting, spluttering stage he still hadn’t got a drop on her white legs. The plastic floor all around her corner, however, was a moat of trailing paint. He met her puzzled eyes glancing up from it and held them for an instant… before pushing off on-the-spot into a floor-dropping bounce. Jen went flying! Her mouth was a perfect little ‘o’ of surprise as she sailed into a sloppy dive, sprawling inelegantly at her husband’s feet. She looked up in time to get a last mist of orange paint across her face like freckles. Rich paint smeared together under her body; the soft undersides of her arms were deeply slicked with it; her t-shirt had pulled out of her jeans. Her breasts had made a glorious butterfly print. She was filthy down the front, pristine down the back, gasping and wriggling. She was unable to articulate anything beyond a breathless ‘Oh fuck, oh Fuck, oh FUCK’, but that was fine, he liked her that way.

He knew better than to give her a chance to get back up again. Each time Jennifer got a knee under her body or braced with her feet David would give an unassuming little bounce and send her slithering onto her belly again with a laughed expletive and a rubbery slap. It was almost too easy. He selected a new bottle at leisure and started trickling yellow paint onto the perfect peach of her bum, roping it up over her bared shoulder and into the blunt edge of thickly curled hair. When she reached around to feel what he had done to her, the action pressed her cheek and her soaking tits against slimy plastic and her hand left a shockingly dark smear over the hip of her white jeans. Jen tried to get up, fell, and got a bottle of red paint drizzled into her fat sweep of hair. She tried again, fell, and got spurts of hot-pink down the backs of her legs. When he started draining two bottles together splashily onto the back of her neck, she rolled over like a cat; the deep slick of paint clutching at her hair. Her breath was coming in steady little gasps and she had stopped fighting back. He stopped pouring and waited.

“Oh fuck, come on! Get me dirty, David. Come on! Cover me with it!”

“And then?” He was enjoying this.

“And then fuck me. Oh Fuck, cover me with it and then fuck me!”

He knelt immediately to upend the last two bottles, both white, onto her straining breasts. Jen arched her back and slid her own hands through the slippery mess all over her shirt, squeezing and stroking and rubbing the gathering paint into swirls. Her nipples stood out through tight, drenched fabric. She crumpled in a soft sob when he lifted her shirt to squirt a cool stream of paint onto her bare midriff and he dropped the empty bottles to stroke it into the tender skin under her breasts. The milky, muddied layer of white paint made all the colourful chaos look much dirtier than before. With a firm descending hand and a shift in his kneeling stance he pushed her shoulders down deeper into the yielding inflated floor. The multi-coloured goo crept up her pale throat and she moaned aloud. He kept his weight moving so that the whole floor responded to their motion.

“Roll in it,” he whispered, letting go, and she did, luxuriantly. The colours slowly bled and blended into sludge and the last glimpses of dry, white denim soaked up the sullied rainbow. She rolled and writhed the way she did when she was just aching to fuck him, squirming her legs together. She had lost both shoes. The pressure inside David’s own jeans was deliciously maddening and his whole crotch throbbed every time she made a little noise.

“On your feet, Jennifer. I want a proper look at the state you’ve gotten yourself into, grinding and wallowing like the mess makes you want to do something slutty. Do you want to do something slutty, Jennifer? Something very slutty? Hmm? On your feet.”

He gripped her slippery arm with both hands to steady her up.

“Well, it was pretty, I’ll give you that, but it’s still dirty I’m afraid, Jennifer: dirty. That t-shirt will have to come off for a start. Turn around… yes… Jen you’re an affront to public decency. Stand over there.”

Her cheeks tightened and burned under her lowered eyes with mirth supressed, and she bit at her lip as she hobbled slippily to the clean side of the enclosed square.

“The t-shirt, Jennifer; sad as I am to see it go.”

While she struggled the wet cloth over her face he drank-in the sight of her breasts, pale above her smeared midriff, firm with desire and uplifted by her stretch. She wore long gloves of paint, cut-off where her shirt-sleeves had covered, a striking contrast against the cleaner skin she had revealed. She dropped the shirt and grinned at him, shifting her balance to show off her body. The wettest bits of her hair clung to the back of her neck. With a hard push, he slid the cardboard box across the plastic floor to stop near her feet.

“Those are for you. A peace offering for my slutty little Mess because she’s damn hot. You look so fucking hot, Jen.”

The box turned out to contain four more bottles and all of them were black. Jen didn’t bother with the squirty caps, unscrewing the first two down to the empty necks. She met David’s eyes before pressing the caps over each of her nipples, lowering them to reveal perfect circles of thick black paint. When he watched her rub them with dirty fingertips the surge of arousal almost sent him to his knees. And at that moment she came hurtling into his arms, tits bouncing. He managed not to fall into the pool of paint, but Jen slammed him into the firm but harmless wall, pinning him with her slippery, half-naked body. A torrent of black paint spread coldly across his shoulders from the open bottle in her raised hand, the other sluiced into the tight gap between their bodies as she clung around his neck and dragged him to the deck. In a slick of black paint they pulled each other down into the enveloping swell of the furrowed, padded wall. Slick and secret. He let her roll him into the mess they’d made together, instantly soaking his clothes down the side of his body and dragging a shock of dense black into the colourful slop. It was so easy to tumble her over with the lively resistance of the bouncing floor. As their bodies tangled over and over he felt his shirt rip from hem to arm-hole under her knee. Jen found something hard under her back and her groping hands closed around the last two bottles of black paint. She drenched her husband with them, emptying the bottles in reckless gulps over bare skin through the gaping shirt, then pushed him down beneath her and dragged her tits through the black mess on his chest. She slapped handfuls of paint over his hair. Their lips found each other at last and for a while they rolled and slid together, kissing and rubbing the paint in everywhere, pelvis pressed into pelvis through the maddening barrier of two pairs of jeans.

The pit of paint in the middle of the bouncy castle achieved an almost uniform black, in contrast with the cheerful red and yellow walls.

“What’s next?” asked David.

“Go grab a big drum?”

“Of course. How do I know what’s in them?”

“I don’t even remember what’s in which, the writing’s tiny.”

The beer-keg sized barrel needed careful manoeuvring onto the castle, the smaller drums were light enough to toss up. Four large white cylinders splash-landed in the paint pit, also a heavy rectangular tub the size of a kitchen sink. Jen pressed herself safely against one wall while he worked. David could guess what was in the tub, so he crawled clumsily towards that one first.

Resuming his seat in the paint with the paint-covered tub in front of him, David could now see what Jen had been up to while he’d been busy hefting ‘ammunition’. The side wall she had sheltered against was now daubed with primitive graffiti. Particularly striking was the full-body print in the middle, a Jen-shaped dripping silhouette. She’d labelled it with fuck-instructions and drawn helpful arrows. David was transfixed. He tried to follow the ‘SUCK’ arrow but it kept crossing one that said ‘STROKE me with your COCK’. Next to the diagram and also demanding attention, Jennifer had drawn an enormous cock and balls and the declaration ‘David is a FILTHY PERVERT’. It appeared the cock was about to plunge between a pair of crudely drawn tits, sadly unfinished. Or perhaps that was supposed to be…

He opened his mouth to speak and turned to Jen, but to his surprise she was right behind him with an open container. An avalanche of something heavy and cold rained down into his sweaty face.

“You should never have let me stand back up”, she said, laughing as he spat out baked beans and swiped at his face. She barely let him breathe before she upended the second vessel. That one was rice pudding, but she knew he could have no idea what she was covering him with. David slid flat on the plastic under an industrial serving of sweet, reeking slop. Jen’s fingers tore at his shirt, removing the last of it, but he couldn’t open his eyes. He emerged laughing and blowing, failing to keep the beans out of his mouth.

“That was so … fucking … so fucking… juvenile Jen! That’s IT!”

He gripped her by the ankle and pulled her squealing into the thick mess beside him. She rubbed herself against the hard bulge of his cock. She felt his fingers in her hair and got lost in the helpless cringing pleasure of having it all lovingly rubbed into a big, sloppy tangle with the beans and the pudding rice. She dipped her thick, heavy crown of dirty hair back into the wet depth of paint and revelled in David’s frantic, noisy squishing. Beans and oozing rice sucked at her bare breasts where she writhed in the blissful heat of his bared skin and the yuckyness just fanned the fires. She had to get out of her jeans: now. Had to get herself and her lover stripped naked to roll in the soft slime. She tugged at David’s flies and he let her unfasten them but slid away before she could slip her hand inside. He had managed to clear his face and was reaching once again for the rectangular container. When he pried the lid the contents shone like a chest of pirate treasure in the warm glow of the lights. Jen reached to rake her fingers across the immaculate surface of the margarine but David stopped her with a gently closing hand around the wrist. With his free hand he roughly tugged her jeans open at the waist; the protected skin underneath was irresistibly, intimately, unmarred. He dug out a huge, cool, greasy chunk and fixed her with his eyes.

“This is going to feel absolutely filthy, Jen.”

He stuffed it under the waistband of her neat white knickers. She made a gut-wrenching, moaning, laughing sound and bucked under the tender pressure of his hands. Gorgeously smooth marge softened and broke between his long fingers as he stroked it all methodically down the inside of her knickers and into the fierce, tight heat of her crotch. Jen writhed in rapture as cold grease enveloped her clit and pushed into the hot wet space between her swollen lips. Her moans of pleasure were so urgent and raw, as she sank boneless onto her back in the sloppy mess, that David felt like a cad for eventually slowing long enough to let her recover her breath and scoop up her own golden handfuls.

Jen straddled David and with both hands stroked thick pads of margarine down his belly and into his pants, the twin slicks finally slopping together in a mind-blowing caress to his balls. His cock throbbed and twitched as her filthy stroking elevated his need to overwhelming urgency. Her next paired handfuls cupped the base of his shaft in an encircling cuff of cold, stiff grease and stroked slowly towards the tip. The couple sprawled in the soft mound of unrecognisable food and filled each other’s underwear with pale, smooth spread; frantic and clumsy with mutual pleasure; relishing the indignity. Greasy fingers found the sweetest places to touch as they indulged each clutch of lust. By the time the whole tub was emptied into the mess surrounding them David’s clothes were all off and Jen’s jeans were bunched fast around her knees. The latter were so tight that neither could tug them any further off over her calves, not while wearing gloves made of butter.

“Forget the scissors Jen? No handy pen-knife? For god’s sake you’re supposed to be a party planning professional! Surely over the years I have tried to impress upon you the importance of paying attention to little detai-”

The thrown clod of buttered beans impacted smartly on the side of his head, making his ears ring.

“Well if you’re going to take it like that!”

It was impossible for either of them to stand, the margarine was far too slippery. But the springy surfaces made it easy to scramble and dodge effectively on hands-and-knees. The ghastly mixture churned and slurped into an unrecognisable swamp as they let fly with handfuls of the mess, plastering the walls of the inflatable arena. Flinging gave way to wrestling and finally a slippy, steamy tangle of slick naked skin.

“What’s in the last one –the big barrel?”

“Batter mixture. Chipvan-Andy really came through for me.”

“Holy shit, that’s going to spill onto the floor; we’re already swimming in it.”

“I think with our combined weight while we fuck we should be able to keep it all in the middle. Dunkably deep…”

“Ho-lee shit. Let’s have that batter.”

David carefully hoisted the barrel at an angle so that Jen could pry the lid off. It was too heavy to lift overhead, they’d pour it out in the middle of the sloppy pool. Jen sat so that the outflow of batter would pour over her thighs and got her nails under the lip, pulling her most sweet and earnest face; poised like a conjurer about to whip away a laden tablecloth.

“Promise to bend me over this barrel and fuck me senseless once it’s empty?”

She ripped the lid away as she spoke and spread her legs into the outpouring of dense white…. powder?! They wore matched expressions of shock as Jen was buried in flour; white plumes filling the air and making her splutter.

“Oh Shit! Oh shit-shit-shit! It was supposed to be a liquid mix! I said to him to only get it if it was a liquid mix. I … David? Are you ok?”

He wasn’t. He was laughing so hard that he was choking on flour-dust. She looked so indignant! So astounded! Every time he looked at her he lost control again until soon she was laughing too. Then they were kissing and laughing. Then kissing and sneezing and laughing, which was even worse. The silky drift of flour felt gentle as breath on Jen’s skin until the space between them closed and pressed it tight between their sticky bodies. As they burrowed hands to find reaching hands it gripped and pulled on their skin. It felt wonderful.

Jen had been right about the weight pulling the whole mess together. They sunk together into the floor, caked in a mound of flour, with wet food and paint draining towards them in every direction. They squirmed and rubbed through unyielding, tickly heaviness, David pulling Jen up to straddle his lap. Slowed and ridiculously sticky, they plastered each other with layer after layer of white powder and rich greasy slime. This mess stuck and smeared and sucked at the skin, maddeningly thick and decadently filthy. The blank of flour between their crotches started to churn into the most gorgeously viscous oily goo. Squeezing his hips with her thighs, Jen lowered herself along the length of his body to kiss him and then slid them both sideways to lean her wet hair into the muddled drift of flour. AS he felt her kissing lips stretch wickedly into a smile a thought suddenly occurred to him.

“Jen, where are we going to shower this all off?”

“Powerhoses, David. In the yard. We use them nearly every day? I can’t believe you’re asking that now!”

“Outside! The water’s cold!”

“You’ll have to teach me again about attention to detail. Hot bath later: now, just go for it.”

“I can rub this into your hair?”

“Fucking cover me with it”

He did. They smothered each other in a lavish all over coating of flour paste, powder and slime. The dip in the floor was sinking deeper, the empty barrel nudging intrusively as they rolled around. On top, only Jen’s shoulders and her unrecognisable head rode above the surface; David was up to his neck, but he was much taller.

“Soon we may require a buoyancy aid. Any ideas?” said Jen.

“Tits?”

She laughed: “I was thinking barrel, actually.”

“Oh. Got it.”

She gripped the barrel in a bear hug, posing, stretching, and slithered her tits against the smooth curve of the plastic. It needed to be more slippery, her skin was clotted and sticky with flour. As he slid around behind her he reached with her and helped her dunk and rotate it through the wet edge of the mess, furthest from where the unexpected flour-bomb had gone off, coating it. Their knees nudged and negotiated as David slid Jen into his embrace and stroked his hands down her flanks to rest on her hips. The floor shifted to accommodate their new position, deepening the trough that was forming around them. Jen draped herself over the empty barrel, bum in the air, and smiled over her shoulder at him. He massaged her back and the sides of her tits with greasy paint, making her slippery. She shut her eyes under the generous caress.

“Jen?”

“Mmmm?”

“This is… …”

“Yeah?”

“This is… payback for those beans!”

With a quick push her rolled Jen and the whole barrel forwards, tipping her helplessly face first into the shiny black pool on the other side and sending her legs kicking up into the air.

“I should never have given you the chance to stand back up.”

She couldn’t hear him, top-half buried by her graceless hand-stand. He was quickly ready to support her by the shoulders and drag her back through a half-rotation onto the crest of the plastic curve. He held her there and tenderly smoothed his hands over the place where he thought her forehead might be, pulling back the grease, while she spat and swore and dug with her knees to remain upright. She half turned, swiping handfuls off her cheeks. She had spit running down her chin and paint on her front teeth.

“Fuck…” She started, “Fuck. Me. Right. Now.”

“Inside?”

She answered with a dizzying grip on his painted cock, guiding it into luscious wetness at the opening to the tight place inside her. All it took was one smooth thrust – how had they waited? In their secret pool, in their isolated building, they didn’t have to hold back on the sounds of their pleasure. The slopping mess made its own contribution as David found the perfect sweet-spot and pounded her; chasing her pleasure; gaining on her. Jen was melted across the barrel, enraptured, but David was having a hard time keeping a grip with his knees; the deck had suddenly become very wobbly. It seemed less supportive. Every time they found a perfect stroke the wobble would force him to slow down, tearing an agonised groan from Jen, so close. Slowing and starting again. And then there was something supporting his feet, his knees came up against something solid, padded with mess; he didn’t need to hold so tight with his hands to support them. So there was no need to slow. Faster and deeper until there was no possibility of retreat and the tight space gripping him started to spasm and squeeze. His liberated hands found her breasts and rubbed. Jen’s moans were sucked into gasping silence as she started to come and took him with her, filling her slick and deep.

And the collapsing bouncy castle finally folded them under its deflated flanks.

It was some time before they managed to push their way out. Of course, it was some time before either felt inclined to try.

***

Afterwards:

“Jen? What the fuck are we going to do with all this? I’ve been seriously hoping you have a plan.”

“Oh, we’ll just have to get both the lads in to help us-”

“JEN!”

“Relax. The groundsheet that was too big for the small marquee is already underneath it. When we come back out here, we use the fork-lift to tuck and wrap and we drive the flat-bed right into the building.”

“Clever.”

“Thank-you.”

“Did you bring towels?”

“Shit!”

“Nevermind. Jen… those new models of castle you’ve been looking at – are they easier to clean?”

“The best ones are virtually indestructible: silicone sealed.”

“Well then. Nothing but the best, I suppose?”






Disclaimer: Marion knows absolutely nothing about bouncy castles. But you’d guessed that already, hadn’t you? Thank you for reading all the way to the bottom.

[Squelch]

Phew! I will never look at a bouncy castle in the same way again Hot story! Well done for making it here a year.