Barred in Sydney
I've been spreading my seed around Melbourne for some time now so I decided it was time to broaden my horizon and slay some fresh meat. Over the long weekend I took my hard staff to some sticky Sydney wicket and pole vaulted the fancy fanny until those cows came home.
As soon as I arrived in the city my cock was like Centrepoint Tower. The fifteen loads I tugged out over the course of the twelve hour bus ride did nothing to disperse my insatiable hunger for sweet schmoo. I came here to FUCK not sightsee. If fucking was an event in the 2000 Olympic games let's just say that the Barred Young Buck would have scored GOLD, GOLD, GOLD!
There were all manner of sweaty holes just dripping to be filled with my white lather. I couldn't turn a corner without sniffing juice. My jeans were twitching as I passed the puss parade on Pitt street. Mothers, daughters, shoppers, workers and billboards all added mortar to the cement mixer in my undies.
This photo summed up the lady situation;
I had barely set foot on Sydney soil and some SLAY-dies were already in my sights. They were four gagging for it mates on holiday; two blondes, a brunie and a square faced bush pig. They'd been following me around just begging for a piece of hard male. I thought I'd treat one of the blondes and the brunie to a man roast while the other two licked each other out. Then I'd length the other blonde and blow in the bush pig's face. Oh yeah. Those birds are gonna remember this holiday for a long time. I gave them my card so their friends back home might one day share the BYB experience.
I headed over to that long, wet stretch of snatch, Bondi, and spied some juicy-titted young flirts who, as soon as they glimpsed me, began desperately trying to get my attention by taking photos of each other's damp butts and cleavage with a digicam. As I turned my head in their direction, the posing and pouting became more frantic, until they were obviously so charged they had to take each other, then and there on the beach. Without inhibition, without shame. They pushed sand into their bikini bottoms, smeared each other with lotion, and then, tentatively, they started to kiss, peeling off sandy, skimpy cossies as they went. Naked skin, rubbing together, loving it, breaking social taboos - but they didn't care, it felt right to them. They were obviously girls who lived to fuck, and I thought it only fair that they sample the best. So when they were a little way out to sea, touching each other where neither had ever been touched, becoming women when they'd been girls only minutes before, I followed them out. They screamed at the top of their voices, clearly with pleasure and delight, as I took a fist to each of them, and triumphantly escorted them out of the water on my hard maleness.
After all my pleasuring ways I was starting to feel like eating something other than pussy. I went over to Oxford Street (I know - it's full of bufties - but the smell of hard hetero sex that oozes from my every pore was bound to put them off). I found myself in Betty's Soup Kitchen. I thought - if anyone can make this 'Betty' character soupy in the downstairs department, it's me. She sashayed closer to me, black hair daintily knotted up and tight black jeans. But as she approached, I thought, hell, there's meat in those there jeans, and it ain't halal, know what I'm saying!? It was a weazelly little Hispanic lady man, who was under the spell of my hard dicked manliness. He wanted some too. I fought my way out of the place, bufties accosting me from all angles, wising up to the smell of my potent semen. It was a close one.... but I emerged with my arse virginity intact.
As soon as I arrived in the city my cock was like Centrepoint Tower. The fifteen loads I tugged out over the course of the twelve hour bus ride did nothing to disperse my insatiable hunger for sweet schmoo. I came here to FUCK not sightsee. If fucking was an event in the 2000 Olympic games let's just say that the Barred Young Buck would have scored GOLD, GOLD, GOLD!
There were all manner of sweaty holes just dripping to be filled with my white lather. I couldn't turn a corner without sniffing juice. My jeans were twitching as I passed the puss parade on Pitt street. Mothers, daughters, shoppers, workers and billboards all added mortar to the cement mixer in my undies.
This photo summed up the lady situation;
I had barely set foot on Sydney soil and some SLAY-dies were already in my sights. They were four gagging for it mates on holiday; two blondes, a brunie and a square faced bush pig. They'd been following me around just begging for a piece of hard male. I thought I'd treat one of the blondes and the brunie to a man roast while the other two licked each other out. Then I'd length the other blonde and blow in the bush pig's face. Oh yeah. Those birds are gonna remember this holiday for a long time. I gave them my card so their friends back home might one day share the BYB experience.
I headed over to that long, wet stretch of snatch, Bondi, and spied some juicy-titted young flirts who, as soon as they glimpsed me, began desperately trying to get my attention by taking photos of each other's damp butts and cleavage with a digicam. As I turned my head in their direction, the posing and pouting became more frantic, until they were obviously so charged they had to take each other, then and there on the beach. Without inhibition, without shame. They pushed sand into their bikini bottoms, smeared each other with lotion, and then, tentatively, they started to kiss, peeling off sandy, skimpy cossies as they went. Naked skin, rubbing together, loving it, breaking social taboos - but they didn't care, it felt right to them. They were obviously girls who lived to fuck, and I thought it only fair that they sample the best. So when they were a little way out to sea, touching each other where neither had ever been touched, becoming women when they'd been girls only minutes before, I followed them out. They screamed at the top of their voices, clearly with pleasure and delight, as I took a fist to each of them, and triumphantly escorted them out of the water on my hard maleness.
After all my pleasuring ways I was starting to feel like eating something other than pussy. I went over to Oxford Street (I know - it's full of bufties - but the smell of hard hetero sex that oozes from my every pore was bound to put them off). I found myself in Betty's Soup Kitchen. I thought - if anyone can make this 'Betty' character soupy in the downstairs department, it's me. She sashayed closer to me, black hair daintily knotted up and tight black jeans. But as she approached, I thought, hell, there's meat in those there jeans, and it ain't halal, know what I'm saying!? It was a weazelly little Hispanic lady man, who was under the spell of my hard dicked manliness. He wanted some too. I fought my way out of the place, bufties accosting me from all angles, wising up to the smell of my potent semen. It was a close one.... but I emerged with my arse virginity intact.
posted by barred young buck at 9:43 PM
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