Thangaiku Theriyaamal Amma Magalai Oothen
- 1 year ago
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Here Come The Nice free porn video
This has sexual content but isn’t a fuck story. It tries to explore what can happen when people don’t communicate and have a conflict of priorities.
—————-
Here come the nice, lookin’ so cool
Everyone knows the nice is no fool
He’ll bring you up and show you around
He’s always there when your feet hit the ground
The Small Faces, 1967
—————–
‘The weekend at last, thank the fuck,’ Chas growled as took a sip at his expresso coffee.
Chas, Smudge and I were sat in Mario’s coffee bar, pondering the end of another week and the prospects for the weekend. You won’t find Mario’s today but in those days of 1965, Mario’s was a haven in Chingford high street where the young bloods from the area would meet to put the world to rights.
Maybe I had better introduce our little band of reprobates.
Chas, what can I say about Chas? A giant of a guy, maybe 6 foot 6 inches tall. Some might think he’s fat. Don’t be fooled, he’s hard as nails. He works as a milk man but his forte is football and rugby. His attitude towards women is offhand, almost ambivalent. He favourite chat-up line would make most people cringe:
‘Hi, I’m Chas, do you fuck?’
What’s surprising that it worked on most of the birds he chatted-up. I once asked one of the birds I knew what the secret was. She didn’t really know other than his size and strength was a turn on. Add to that the fact that Chas didn’t mince his words – girls knew exactly what they were getting – a good shag with no complications. Apparently his cock wasn’t long but pretty thick. He also had unbelievable staying power.
She explained that when they had stripped off he had laid on his back on the bed, his cock sticking in the air.
‘Sit on that and make yourself comfortable,’ he told her.
His cock fitted snugly and she had spent the next hour in cowgirl position having orgasm after orgasm. Chas just lay there, hands behind his head, grinning.
He once shagged a girl while watching the whole of the cup final, including extra time. Chas was and still is, a good mate. Always up for a heavy drinking session, always ready to help out if things got nasty.
Then there was Smudge. Don’t ask me why we called him that – it had been his nick name since primary school. Smudge was at art college. Not because he was a budding Rembrandt, although he wasn’t without skill as a painter. His motivation was that he wanted to emulate the pop-art gurus, such as Andy Warhole, and become famous. Smudge was the trendy of the group, spending as much money as he could on fashionable gear. He had a long term girl friend, the lovely Cyn. He had been going out with Cyn since they were 11 and they had been fucking like bunnies for quite a while. He also had a car, a mini Cooper in the classic green and white paint job.
Smudge’s dad was a wealthy property developer so he was never short for a few bob. Add to that his artistic talent and Smudge was well set up. His real talent lay in ‘pop art’, you know, psychedelic pictures with lots of colours and geometric shapes. His talent had been discovered by a number of concert promoters and Smudge was earning a nice little side line producing posters as well as developing a reputation. He kindly gave me a few originals during the sixties which are all, 40 years on, now worth serious cash – not that I would ever sell them.
Finally, we have my good self, Bernie Stevens. Like my mates, I was 18. I had no real skills except playing guitar. I had started learn guitar when I was 10, seeking to emulate the rockers of the 1950’s. I had a natural ability and easily mastered folk, rock, blues and jazz styles. When I left school at 16 I got a job in Sound City, in Shaftsbury Avenue. – one of the hippest music shops in the West End. It was great – I was able to play the best gear and rub shoulders with the pop stars who came into the shop.
Because of my playing skills my job in the shop was more than just a sales assistant. We had a handful of guys whose job was to serve the day to day customers. My job was to meet with the more significant customers, provide expert advice and to demo the gear. In all it was really cool work and I got to meet some seriously famous people. The high spot was probably meeting Jimi Hendrix early in his career, just after the formation of the Experience. What a nice guy he was. Polite almost to the extent of being deferential but when he wound up a strat through a Marshall amp ( never buy anything else if you’re into metal) he took on god like status. The king of rock and blues guitar, he’s probably only been surpassed by Stevie Ray Vaughan – another sadly missed giant.
I worked five and a half days a week with Saturday afternoon and Sunday off. That suited me nicely because I would spend Saturday afternoons in Imhof’s grooving to some sounds. You won’t find Imhof’s any more but in those days it was a kick-ass record shop near the corner of Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road, opposite where the Centre Point building is now. The shop had these listening booths where you could sit and enjoy records before you bought. I would grab five or six albums and spend the afternoon grooving.
Other than work, my life revolved around meeting my friends in the pub and going to gigs and clubs. I wasn’t seriously into drugs or free love – to be honest the people who did that all seemed to be people with more money than sense. I didn’t earn a fortune but I was comfortable and had cash in the bank.
I was tall, thin, not too ugly and I had had a few girl friends but surprisingly for the era was still a virgin. I’ll explain why a little later.
When I hit 18 my first action was to leave home. Mum wasn’t too keen but my dad explained how a young man about town needed his own pied a terre. The lascivious grin that accompanied his comment made mum blush but she realised that her little boy wasn’t so little any more. I rented a small, two bedroom flat, in the centre of Chingford and with a little financial help from dad, I soon turned it into a comfortable pad. Apart from the bedrooms, the flat had a large lounge, kitchen and bathroom. What more could a guy ask for? I like a lot of space when sleeping and I had bought a double bed. Add to that a good stereo and couch in the lounge and I was as happy as a pig in shit.
Our little band had been friends for 7 years and spent all our spare time together.
Life in those days was pretty cool with lots of good music, parties and birds in mini skirts. You know, whoever invented the mini skirt should get a medal. Our favourite pastime was to sit on the seats near the doors downstairs on double deck buses. You got a lovely view of anyone going up the stairs, which meant a nice up-skirt view of dolly birds in their short skirts. Excellent!
—————
‘You guys look as tired as I feel,’ came a female voice as Cathy put her coffee cup on the table and sat down with a sigh.
‘At last someone decent to look at,’ I told her. ‘Instead of these two ugly bastards.’
‘I love you too,’ Cathy replied with an ‘I could use a good shag’ look.
There was no doubt about it, Cathy was a total cutie. We had all lusted after her since the first day we saw her at school when we were eleven. Cathy knew exactly how we felt but had made it clear that there was no way she was going to sleep with any of the three of us. Once she had explained why to me.
‘I love you guys to death, you’re my best friends ever. There’s no way on earth that I would shag any of you and spoil things. Although if the truth be known, under different circumstances you would be the one I would chose Bernie.’
The last comment was followed by a kiss which made my hair stand on end. Having said that, Cathy wasn’t the sort of girl who gave it away – in fact she once told me that she planned to remain a virgin until she met that special guy who deserved to be her first.
Cat
hy had it all. A cute elfin face framed by black hair cut to a Mary Quant bob. She was short with a trim body and full tits which had to be a D cup. Her legs were perfection and were always shown to their best by her mini skirts. Cathy hated jeans or trousers.
‘It wouldn’t be the same without you guys trying to see what colour knickers I have on,’ she once told me.
Cathy had a brain too, she was brighter than the three of us put together, and she worked as a librarian in Chingford. She brought a level of intellect to our debates as well a sharp and distinctly lascivious humour.
To be honest, I had had a serious crush on Cathy for years. None of the girls I had met so far in my life measured up to her in any way and this was the reason why I remained a virgin. I held a quiet hope that one day Cathy would be my first.
I glanced at Cathy as she sat down. God she looked good! She wore her working gear, a plain white blouse a blue mini skirt and white tights – all showing her body off to a maximum effect. I could just seen the outline of the white lacy bra she wore. She noticed I was staring at her and our eyes met. Unlike most girls Cathy didn’t mind guys eyeballing her. She gave me a broad ‘like what you see, big boy?’ smile. I gave a slight nod of satisfaction. Sexual telepathy, I loved it!
‘So what’s the plan for the weekend?’ Cathy asked.
‘The Yardbirds are at the Marquee but tickets are impossible to get,’ Smudge replied with a sigh. ‘It’ll be the hottest gig for years.’
I grinned and casually tossed five tickets onto the table.
‘You mean like these?’ I asked.
‘Fucking hell, Bern, where did you get those?’ Smudge gasped.
‘Jeff Beck called in the shop the other day to try out a nice Les Paul ‘black beauty’ we just got in. We got chatting and he slipped me the tickets,’ I replied.
‘Name dropper,’ Chas grinned.
‘No-ones forcing you to go,’ I replied, a fraction of a second before he grabbed a ticket from the table.
I had to work the following day, not that I saw it as work. It was so much fun doing what I loved most and being paid for it. What was all the more sweet was that a couple of guys from a well known band – I won’t drop their name – called in for some gear. We ended up jamming for an hour. What was great was that my boss encouraged it – it is a sure fire way to bring in customers if they hear cool sounds coming from the shop.
I slipped home after work to shower and change and by six thirty we were stood in our local boozer enjoying a pint. The Marquee had a no alcohol policy so we always had a few in the pub before a gig.
‘How about a game or two of table football?’ Smudge suggested.
Table football was our favourite pub time entertainment and we all fancied our skills at the game.
‘Mine’s a rum and coke,’ Cathy shouted over the noise of the jukebox as she joined our group.
Cathy didn’t often meet us in the pub and it made a change to see her.
‘We were just going to have play table football,’ Smudge told her.
‘Ooh, that sounds fun, can I try it?’ Cathy asked.
‘Sure, it’s easy,’ Smudge replied, giving me a ‘watch me beat the pants off her’ wink.
Smudge put a coin in the machine and the two of them squared up. The game was short and bloody with Cathy winning 10 – nil. Smudge blamed beginners luck and there followed three more games with Cathy winning them all. Smudge slumped in his chair, deflated.
‘Didn’t I mention that my brother taught me how to play?’ Cathy asked him sweetly.
‘Funny, I don’t think you did,’ Smudge muttered darkly. ‘Come on Chas, lets have a game.’
The two of them walked off leaving me with Cathy. I sipped my drink, taking the opportunity to check young Cathy out. She looked stunning. She wore a maroon mini skirt, a white lacy blouse and matching tights, round blue tinted sun glasses and had a red feather boa around her neck. Her erect nipples were visible through her blouse, I couldn’t see the outline of a bra.
‘Penny for them,’ she interrupted my thoughts, jerking me back to reality.
‘Sorry, what did you say?’ I asked.
‘I asked what you were thinking.’
‘I was thinking how gorgeous you looked and I was wondering whether you had a bra on,’ I told her, smiling.
Cathy’s face flushed, answering my question.
‘Do you think I’m being too naughty?’ she asked, suddenly uncertain.
‘Not from where I’m sitting,’ I told her.
‘Hey you guys, room for another?’ came the sweet sound of Cyn’s voice.
Cyn had to be one of the foxiest birds in London. A slim, firm figure, legs that went on for ever and tits which made grown men weep. Add to that long natural blonde hair which stretched down her back to her backside and wickedly cute face and you had the finest package of womanhood anywhere, except for Cathy. I remember the first time I met Cyn when we were eleven.
‘My name’s Cynthia,’ she told me, ‘but if you ever call me that I’ll tear your balls off.’
I would have been shocked hearing an eleven year old say such a thing if I had understood what she meant. Nevertheless, I never called her Cynthia – something in her voice warned me off.
The queue at the Marquee was long, stretching around the block. We took our place contenting ourselves with watching the groovers walking by.
‘Cop a load of them,’ Chas whispered to me.
Just behind us were the sharpest pair of birds I had seen for months. Mini skirts, tight blouses, cute faces and great tits – they were seriously foxy.
‘Lets make a play for them when we get inside,’ I told Chas. ‘He grinned in agreement.’
‘Behave yourselves, you perverts,’ Cyn scolded us.
‘Talking of perverts, what’s a foxy bird like you doing with an ugly bastard like Smudge?’ I asked her.
Cyn leaned forward and whispered in my ear. ‘You haven’t seen his cock!’
There’s something about a gig in a small club which is so much better than a large arena. The Marquee comprised of a single main room with a low ceiling. The stage was a platform about a foot tall at one end. There were no barriers to stop you going near the band, you could literally touch them if you wanted. The intimacy of the atmosphere was amazing – friends from the north told me that the Cavern club in Liverpool was just the same.
The club was packed and there was an atmosphere of anticipation. There was a drum kit and a handful of small amps on the stage. When a roadie threw a cable reel with some joss sticks taped to it onto the stage we knew things were about to kick off. After a couple of minutes the band walked onto the stage, plugged in and launched into their first number, ‘Hello Little Schoolgirl.’
The sound of Keith Relf’s harmonica and Jeff Beck’s guitar were magical and we began to groove.
After half an hour Smudge and I headed to the bar for a coke when who should we see but the two foxy birds huddled in the corner.
‘Shit, what a waste,’ Smudge sighed.
I had to agree as I saw they two girls kissing deeply, groping each other’s tits.
I headed back to give Chas the bad news only to find him dancing with two birds. Well dancing is perhaps overstating it, cos Chas didn’t dance. He sort of stood between the birds with a huge grin clicking his fingers to the beat. The birds were giving it some, obviously enjoying being with the guy – it looked like he was in for a nice threesome that night.
I also noticed Cathy dancing with a sharply dressed bloke.
‘Do you know who the face is?’ I asked Smudge.
‘Yeah, its Pete Storey,’ he replied. ‘You know, the Walthamstowe Storeys, he’s the youngest brother.’
The Storey family were a well know villains and hard cases. The old man and the two eldest sons all had serious form for a wide range of naughtiness.
‘So what’s Pete’s sideline?’ I asked Smudge
‘He’s at art college with me,’ Smudge replied. ‘Pre
tty good artist but he can be a bit of a cunt. Deals in pills and other crap as a side line. Cathy needs to watch out.’
I resolved to have a word with Cathy at the earliest opportunity and give her a ‘heads up’ about the guy.
As luck will have it I didn’t have a chance to see Cathy that week. I called in at the library the following Saturday after work only to discover that she hadn’t been in work all that week. I called at her house that evening.
‘She hasn’t been home all week,’ he mother told me with marked indifference.
Cathy’s home life had never been easy. Her parents were divorced and her mother had shacked up with a series of boyfriends, all of them losers. Cathy hadn’t got on with her mother for many years and the presence of the boyfriends had aggravated the situation.
I was worried, very worried. Where the hell had she gone? Given Pete Storey’s ‘form’ I was getting concerned that Cathy was in trouble. I contacted Chas and Smudge and we put the word around to all our contacts to keep an eye out for Cathy. I went out every evening to all our haunts to see if I could find Cathy, I even started walking the streets looking – but no sign of her. People told me not to worry, that Cathy was a sensible big girl who could look after herself but it didn’t help.
—————
After a month of no news I was at the end of my tether and decided that maybe I should have a word with Pete Storey. I caught the bus to the art college and with perfect timing saw Pete sat on a wall outside, smoking.
‘Can I have a word?’ I asked him.
‘Do I know you?’ he asked with a smirk.
‘No but you know my friend Cathy,’ I replied, fighting to keep my temper.
He made a pretence of thinking before giving a broad grin.
‘Cathy? No I don’t think so.’
‘I saw you with her in the Marquee a couple of months ago,’ I told him.
‘Nah, not me mate.’
He was beginning to piss me off and I decided to take more direct action. I smacked him hard in the face with my fist. He gave a squawk of pain and blood jetted from his nose over his shirt. Then he burst into tears.
‘Please don’t hit me again,’ he blubbed.
‘I won’t if you tell me where Cathy is,’ I snapped back.
‘I don’t know,’ he whimpered.
‘Do you want another smack?’ I asked him.
‘No, honestly, I don’t know where she is. She left my flat a week ago and I haven’t seen her since.’
‘Did you give her any of your pills?’ I asked, dearly tempted to kick the shit out of him.
‘She’s a big girl,’ he sobbed. ‘Yeah she had some uppers and downers and a few lines. But I tell you she was up for it, she’s a real party girl who knows how to give a guy a good time.’
‘How do you mean?’ I asked, suddenly suspicious.
‘You know, she’s a real goer.’
‘Do you mean you fucked her?’
‘Yeah but not in her cunt. She gave head and took it up the arse. She loved every minute of it.’
I felt a surge of anger, this didn’t sound like Cathy.
‘Listen you shit, you’re within a hair’s breadth of getting a kicking. You stay away from Cathy and if by any chance you find out where she is you’ll let me know, got it?’
He nodded in pathetic acquiescence.
—————
It was all very depressing. I was no nearer to finding Cathy and I really had no idea where to start. I went down to my local pub for a few quiet pints and to think. After a couple of hours I had made no progress other than beginning to get drunk. I decided to drag myself home and get to bed.
I noticed a black Jaguar by the curb as I approached my flat. Two large men got out the car as I drew up beside it.
‘Bernie Stevens?’ one of them asked.
I nodded only to be grabbed and bundled into the car.
‘What the fuck!’ I involuntarily gasped.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ one of the men snarled.
We drove a couple of miles into London and pulled up outside a scrap yard. My escorts manhandled me into a portacabin. Inside were three men. Two who I recognised as being the Storey brothers were stood either side of a an older man sat at a desk. They all looked rock hard.
‘Do you know who I am?’ the older man asked.
‘No I don’t although I recognise these two blokes,’ I replied pointing at the standing men.
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