Shauna, or The Worst Shag I Ever Had

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I was camping in Wales with a few mates, on a shocking excuse for a holiday.  We went out in Tenby, and got back in the threes.  I hadn’t got laid in three months.

Across the other side of the unlit campsite I heard muffled voices, one shrilling well above the rest; if I hadn’t been on the hunt I would have shouted at her to pipe down.

Rolling up to where voices were coming from, me and my friend found not the bevy of drunk impressionable Welsh playboy bunnies I was hoping for, but instead a single round silhouette wobbling in front of the light of a lantern, unsteadily dancing and doing the windmill whilst singing; “listen to the sound of the underground, the beat of the drum goes round and r-ah-round.”

“Fuck this,” said my mate, “you’re on your own.”

I went over and introduced myself.   She was called Shauna and was pleased for the company.  I asked her if she wanted a Strongbow, she thanked me with her lips and asked me what I did, so I told her some half-truths.  She was there with her friends, who were camped in a semi-circle, and wasted little time in laying into them all. I felt a bit awkward. She wasn’t being very quiet, as proved by one of her mates shouting: ”Shauna, will you shut the fuck up?  I don’t like you much either.”

I suggested we went to her tent, she said her friend was in there with a guy and mine had my tent-mate Mark sleeping in it.  I figured we’d sit in the porch of mine and cross the sex bridge when we came to it.  As it transpired, we came to it pretty quick but I was very aware Mark was not even a metre away, pretending to sleep under a damp sleeping bag, separated from us by a flimsy piece of canvas.

“We can’t do this here,” I said.
“Well what about behind that?”

She pointed his parked car, two metres away.

“If we do it there we will wake up tomorrow with pictures of us on the internet.”

We went to the field next door and I exposed my averagely sized soldier to the chilly Welsh wind. She did the honours with her bra and as I was pawing at her skirt I heard a gurgle coming from her chest, like water trying to escape from a hairy bathplug.

“Sorry about that, just ignore it.  I always get it when I drink.”

We moved through the bases. ‘Hmmm,” she moaned, licking her lips whilst I entered her, willing myself on to the moment of climax so I could go back to my tent and suffocate myself in my sleeping bag.

Gurgle, gurgle, gurgle

“Seriously,” I spat, briefly pulling out of her, “what the fuck is that?”
“It’s something-something-itis.  It’s not a problem at all. It’s caused by a build of gas in my chest when I’ve been drinking. It’s fine the doctor says it’s nothing to worry about. Stick it back in.”

I did as I was told, pummelled away as fast as possible before she put her hand on my chest.  “Sorry, hold on a sec.” She turned her head to the side, covered her mouth and let out a round, rich powitzer of a belch that reverberated round the field and the nether regions of my soul. The only person I was more horrified by than her was myself.  It was a builder’s burp, an after dinner excavation.  She took a big swig of Strongbow, wiped her mouth and kissed me deeply.  It tasted like chips.

“I’ve got an idea,” she whispered.

I somehow stayed vaguely hard and I started to feel her hands going down my back, tickling the spine.  It felt like bugs were crawling over me. Gradually they found their way to my arse cheeks, and she started rooting around in the fetid hedgehog that is my arsehole.  I carried on, hoping she wasn’t going  to do what I was pretty sure she was going to do.   I gave her the don’t-do-that wiggle but she carried on probing, prodding me like a calculator.  Soon enough she’d slipped a digit inside me, and was wiggling it around with an absence of anything approaching rhythm. It was as this point that I had a moment of clarity, realised I was being messily fingered in a field in Wales by a girl who disgusted me, and let out a snigger.

“You like that, don’t you? Dirty tiger.”

Laughter nearly turned to tears as she gnawed on my ear and I hammered away as if the fate of the planet depended on me reaching a quick climax and, mercifully, I did so a minute or two later.  I rolled off and immediately started dressing.

“Where are you going?”
“Back to my tent.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to.”
“Well can I come?”
“No.”

She was noticeably taken back by this so leaned forward, grabbed me by the neck and whispered in my ear: “I can make you cum again.”

The gurgle in her chest and pain in my mine told me I had to remove myself from this girl’s company as soon as possible.  I walked her back to hers, ignored her pleas for a shag in the showers and went back to mine.  As I clambered in Mark rolled over.

“Did you shag her?” He asked.
“No,” I lied, “she was on”

It was better than the truth.

This is published over on Sabotage Times

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