I'm having a laff listening to this BBC Radio 4 comedy show and I thought you might like it.

If you get a chance you can 'listen again' to the current show by searching Armando Iannucci's Charm Offensive on the BBC Radio 4 web page.

There'll be UK current affairs references you won't get if you're not from here but there's some good stuff that will shine through.

In my opinion Iannucci is about the sharpest comedy writer in Britain at the moment. His humour is in different combinations playful, dark, absurd, intelligent, sharp, deft and devastating.

I'd say it was offensive but charming and if you have the time to take a punt on it I hope you agree.

Who knows how old this dry stone wall is? Two, three, four hundred years or more? Well up here on this round-headed, worn-down hill it doesn't really matter; anything made by man is relatively young.

It takes three-quarters of an hour to make the climb and she's been working for four, collecting smaller rocks which will once again make up the inside of the broken-down barrier, piling them alongside bigger would-be load bearing stones ready for reconstruction.

Even though she is two thousand feet above the road that winds so delicately around the toes of this awesome mound it is still a warm spring day. She wipes the perspiration from her face before taking a bite from her sandwich.

When she finishes eating she lies back on the ground in the shelter of the wall and enjoys the warmth of the sun, the feel of the lush grass and the ache in her muscles.

She is finding the physical work up here far more satisfying than anything she did during her so-called successful career in town. She is aware of her body like never before. Not mindfully as in the past when she was conscious of it's suit-shrouded impact on colleagues in the office but instead in a completely unobserved and sensual way.

Luxuriously she stretches her fingers and toes and legs and her back and her arms, growling as she does so. She contracts her stomach muscles, flattening her belly so that she can slip a hand beneath the waistband of her jeans. This is indeed the life. She hasn't shaved in a couple of months and as she curls the wiry hair around her fingertips she notices that near her lips it is moist with droplets of pleasure. She draws one finger along the length of her swollen groove and sighs.

Away across the valley a shepherd tends to his flock and on the road far below a car crawls, small specks against the landscape. Another universe.

She steps out of her jeans and panties and lies back on the hillside allowing the cooling Spring breeze to play with her. Then sitting upright, propped with the heels of her hands behind her, she arches her back, pushing her cunt skyward as if inviting the Sun to fuck it. Feeling this good, this wanton, this so-at-one with her environment is something entirely new for her.

She brings her arse back down and feels the grass tickle her anus which she pushes hard onto the ground. Gasping and moaning she grinds herself down so that her cheeks are spread wide by the Earth. Currents of ecstasy zing up and through her.

Now she's sitting forward so that her her pussy too is fucking the soil as she moves back and forth getting closer and closer and closer to the best fucking orgasm ever.

She hears a low long sound quite quiet and then louder and louder coming from inside her, escaping her lips then higher and higher.

It feels like the whole of fucking nature is about to shoot it's seed into her, as if the whole planet is swelling and growing and boiling and cumming and writhing.

Here on this hillside, completely fucked by the ground she cums and she cums and she cums and cums and afterwards as she lies exposed naked in the sun she laughs a laugh much older than the wall and almost as old as the hills themselves.

If NN had been around when I was a virgin I'd have worn myself down to a stump in no time. As it was I had to make do with my imagination and the lingerie section of my mother's mail order catalogue.

Ahhh the old days when the dark hint of bush beneath a pair of £1.99 briefs and the suggestion of nipple under an exotic basque was enough to sustain a lad from 12 through 17.

Well ok, there was that time we found a stash of nuddy mags (as we called them) in our 'den' which was really a ditch in a field but that was a rare delight.

The only other time I saw a naked woman represented was when this lad Mark came into school with a pencil sketch of his mum and dad engaged in what he explained was a 69. It was years before I realised he'd traced it from a copy of The Joy of Sex he'd somehow got hold of.

So when I finally got my hands on a real girl I felt like Neil Armstrong must've when he stepped on the moon, I kind of knew what it was gonna be like but my imagination could never have prepared me for how soft and bouncy it all was.

I wonder what it's like for those brought up on the internet now we're just a coupla clicks from group anal xxxxxxxxxx? Frustrating as it was I'm kind of glad I'm from the catalogue generation.

There is something chemical about a woman in heat and my interest is piqued immediately you enter the bar. Even though clothed in a business suit the stir you make in the air as you pass brings a tingle to my loins and when you perch at the bar exposing a long and lithe thigh my cock stirs reptile-like in my pants.

They make a wicked Martini here, easy on the vermouth and stirred with an olive. You order one. Your phone rings and from across the room I watch you hook a brunette lock behind your ear to take the call.

I make to powder my nose and as I walk by you I hear what sounds like the end of an argument.

“...your loss,” you are saying. “I shall have a good time without you.” The way you hold the phone at arms length for a while in order to capture the funky sounds of the bar and then press firmly on the handset thus ending the call prematurely almost makes me feel sorry for the guy at the other end. But then you shift in your seat tensing your sexy tanned calves, I smell your perfume our eyes lock momentarily and any sympathy for him evaporates as I carry on toward the gents.

I'm almost embarrassed to admit but as I stand unzipped at the urinal I cannot help but give my cock a stroke. Semi-erect it is difficult to pee and I should be nervous in case anyone comes in and gets the wrong idea but all I can think of is those legs of yours parted before me and me ejaculating over your cunt.

Thankfully I come to my senses, finish peeing and go to the mirror to wash my hands and wait for my erection to subside. I splash cold water to my face.

People tend to over or underestimate my age but seldom get it right. They are either confused by my 'distinguished' grey hair or by my 'youthful' skin. The ones who do guess correctly are the ones who look directly into my grey/green eyes and see a man with more than 36 years of life experience and less than 38.

I compose myself and re-enter the room in time to see you drain the last of your drink. Instead of returning to my seat I walk straight over to the bar.

“Best Martini's in London,” I say. “Can I get you another?”

Well that is my move and I hold my breath as I watch an initial how-dare-you-be-so-forward expression dissolve into a smiling and ever so teasing well-come-one-then-let's-see-what-you're-made-of look. It's a yes.

We snigger together and after a couple more drinks there is undoubtedly a sexual frisson. I move my stool closer to yours so that your knees are encompassed within mine. Instead of moving away you place a reassuring hand on my leg and carry on with your story. Every time our legs brush my heart pounds.

We talk and I can see that behind the thin material of your blouse your small firm tits are naked and your nipples tight and hard; in the spirit of openness I must admit my penis is heavy with acknowledgement. You catch me looking.

“You were right about one thing,” you laugh. “These Martinis do seem to have a certain aphrodisiac quality.”

I don't say anything but keeping my eyes fixed on yours I take take the olive from your drink and lift it tantalisingly close to your mouth. Like a new chick in the nest you strain towards it and when I pull away there is a flash of resentment in your eyes.

“Now, now,” I chide and hold the olive steady for you. “Go on...”

I watch you part your ripe lips and take it in, savouring the salty tang; sucking the juices and swallowing them down.

“Good?”

“Yes,” you reply.

Well this time I don't care what you see and I stand up in front of you so that my erection is clearly visible in my pants not three foot from your face.

“We're going,” I say. “My place is just around the corner.”

London's Soho already so steeped in sexual scandal seems the perfect setting for our escapade. We walk a block or so, past the the sex shops, gay bars and peep shows.

“Would you like a girl to join you Sir? Miss?” a hawker enquires as we pass him by. “Boy?” he adds when he gets no response.

Our hands are all over each other as we reach the entrance to my block. As I turn the key in the lock and we push inside your hand is inside my clothes gripping my rock hard shaft but when the door closes behind us I turn the tables push you back and pin your wrists against the wall. Although you are tall I have a good six inches on you and look down into your eyes.

Slowly I release my grip and sink to my knees so that your cunt, which I had fantasised about all night is just inches from my lips. Sliding my palms up the outside of your thighs I push your short skirt up around your waist. I hook my fingers around the band of your panties and savouring the moment I pull them down fraction by fraction until I hear you groan and your sex is naked and quivering in front of me.

Trimmed, dark hair surrounds your pink and juicy hole. I put my right palm flat against your pubic bone with my fingers reaching up to your navel and apply enough pressure so that your lips part slightly in front of me.

“But the security camera...it's getting everything...”

Ah, I wondered if you would notice that. This is a communal building with hi-tech security and the footage is watched apparently, somewhere in Swindon by a man in front of a bank of screens. Well good luck to him if he's watching now.

I plunge my mouth into you sucking and licking and probing with my tongue until your protests stop. You bear down on my face so that your sweet honey smears my chin, my cheek bones and my nose . Your juddering orgasm drips juices down my neck.

We stay motionless for a few seconds. If I were to flick your clit with my tongue right now your pleasure would be painful.

“Mmmm, how do I taste?”

“Kiss me and find out,” I reply standing. And as the slow osmosis of love's spittle occurs between our mouths I unbutton your blouse and caress your tits, fingering your nipples.

“Now it's your turn,” you say, breaking our embrace. I shrug off my jacket and shirt suddenly pleased that I've been doing all that cycling and swimming and I'm flattered by your lustful intake of breath when I slip from my pants.

The head of my circumcised cock pounds like a beef heart as you look up at me, your chocolate eyes almost too much to bear. Instinctively I try to find your mouth but you pull away. A flash of resentment goes through my mind.

“Now, now,” you smile impishly. Then and only then do you take it in, savouring the salty tang.

“I knew you would be good at this,” I manage to stammer. “When I saw you enjoying that olive.”

Inch by inch you take it and take it again. It won't be long now. Then you wank me slow and fast using the time honoured lubricant of pre-cum and saliva. I can feel a torrent rising from my tightening balls held like precious stones in your other hand. I hold off while the pressure and pleasure builds. You are holding a steady stroke, urging me on and licking your lips. I can't hold any longer.

“I'm coming, I'm coming,” I gasp as an arc of jizz shoots, without a word of a lie, eight foot in the air and splats against the ceiling. The next jerk throws a rope around your neck and the third and fourth spatter your face. You suck and drink the rest like your life depends on it.

Thoroughly spent I slump beside you on the floor and we laugh the endorphine-enhanced laugh of the recently orgasmic.

“You fancy another Martini?” I ask. “I have all the ingredients.”

“Okay,” you reply sucking cum from your fingers. As as we gather our clothes together you turn and smile at me. Gravity takes this moment to play a funny joke.

Although my jizz is thick, creamy and sticky it is still essentially a liquid. And you've guessed it. Stunned, I wipe the globule from my eye and stare up at the ceiling from whence it came.

“Serves you right,” you laugh and then crooking your finger in a beckoning and immediately arousing motion: “Care to join me in the shower?”

So I'm going back a few years now to the days when I delivered flowers to the cafes and houses of Paris.

One fine summer's day I set off on my trusty bicycle, along the boulevards and avenues and on up the steep streets of Montmartre, with the afternoon order in my basket.

Let me tell you those cobblestones were no laughing matter.

As I neared my destination a dog, startled by the beret of an over enthusiastic onion seller, ran yapping into the road and head first into the front wheel of my Motobecane fixed gear. There was nothing I could do. Even today I flinch and am compelled to cross the road at the sight of a poodle.

Now that I'm a rich man I can laugh about it but in those days (when I worked in need of the occasional franc tipped casually from the purse of a satisfied customer) I had no option but to push my buckled bike the rest of the way, blood beading on my poor grazed chin, and complete the delivery.

I must have been concussed by my fall as it was only once I'd rung the bell that I noticed the sorry state of the merchandise.

I attempted to straighten the stalks but to no avail, most of the petals had been left behind amongst the shit, blood and guts of that unfortunate mutt. I would be relying on the sympathy of the person whose footsteps I could now hear approaching from the other side of the door.

It was a strange sensation being caught in the contemptuous glare of the small but powerful man who faced me across the threshold. It was if his stern blue eyes saw straight into my heart.

'Imbecile! Imbecile!' I heard him shout as he struck me repeatedly about the head with the sickly sunflowers, his bald pate glistening with the sweat of righteous indignation.

At the time it was awful and I thought I would never recover. I lost my job and sweet Annelise left me for the dustman. But it is true when they say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

As I'm sure you've guessed it was this very experience, horrific as it was, that led me to develop the bicycle braking system from which I made my first million.

And as I sit here now, contemplating the original artwork on my walls, I raise a cognac to 'Sunflowers' in pride of place over the mantelpiece and make the usual toast:

'Well met, Picasso! Bon chance delivers inspiration.'

My bike has broken so I get the tube into central London instead.

It's one of those underground journeys which take an age with the driver stopping and starting between stations so I reach for the newspaper on the seat beside me. There's always one hanging around, isn't there?

There are a couple of blokes in the carriage and a woman using a small mirror to apply lipstick, a skilful trick and such a private thing to do in public. It's like you're getting a glimpse into the bedroom, I think.

The sight of her lips moving beneath the deep red stick and the motion of the train conspire and give my dick a pleasant weightiness as it rubs against my button fly. I try and distract myself by reading yesterday's news.

We pull into a stop and the carriage empties leaving me alone for a moment so I take the chance to adjust my penis in my jeans.

I hear a polite cough, look up and see you sitting down opposite me; all short skirt and legs. I catch your eyes and blush as a smile kinks your mouth.

'It's hot in here,' I mumble.

My cock is twitching now so I hold the paper in front of me to hide my growing embarrassment. The train pulls off but jerks to a halt as soon as it enters the tunnel. We roll our eyes at each other.

'Has it been doing this the whole way?' you ask and seem to smile at my nod.

I try to read again but there's something about you which demands some attention. It's that short skirt of yours and those legs which, now that I look more closely, I see are parted slightly.

Christ, if I were to sink down into my seat a little then I might even get a glimpse.

I'm aware suddenly that I'm staring and I move my eyes to your face to make sure you haven't noticed. So it's a jolt when I see you looking directly back at me, your cheeks flushed and lips moist.

The unblinking eye of the security camera gazes on the scene and then something incredible happens.

Without taking your eyes from mine you lift and spread your legs and place a heel onto the edge of the seat next to you so your mons pushes wetly against the stretched fabric of your panties. With one hand you grab and pull your knickers aside.

And there it is: your naked pussy, exposed, trimmed and pink.

I stiffen immediately, straining against my jeans. My mouth is too dry for me to say anything and you don't say a word either.

Instead you take your index finger and draw it from your arse to your clit in one slow slide along your slick slit. I can't take my eyes from you as you slip it inside still staring intently at me.

Nothing like this has ever happened before and I've never been this hard in my life. It's painful and I have to do something about it so I pop my button fly and release my cock behind the newspaper.

With a jerk, the train starts to move.

You let out a low moan, rubbing yourself.

I grip my shaft. This isn't going to take very long.

We pick up speed, you so wet, me so hard and the train hurtling towards the next stop.

'You dirty bitch.'

'Just cum, you bastard,' you reply.

So I do, with a hard splatter against the newspaper.

A moan escapes your lips.

We've done it. We're done.

The train slows towards the station and you straighten your skirt as you stand. You look at my penis which is softer now but pulsing and dribbling spunk onto my hand. You smile, I sweat.

The train stops, the doors open and you get off...

RULES FOR HIDE AND SEEK


1.The boys must close their eyes and count to one hundred.

2.The girls must use this period (see Rule 1.) to vacate the room and find a hidey-hole.

3.Upon completion of the count (see Rule 1.) the boys must split up and search the mansion until they find a girl.

4.All of the above (see Rules 1, 2 and 3) must be carried out in underwear only.

5.Everyone's a winner, baby (see Rule 4)


The rules were simple but the tactics bore some thinking about.

It was a fair bet that most of the blokes would be hunting for Daisy and it was odds on that most girls would prefer to be 'discovered' by Ian (I saw the way Kitten quivered when he boasted about planting his flag for her when next at the Pole).

The question which would take up all of the space in my one track mind over the next 100 seconds was: which of the myriad rooms should I search first?

(onetwothreefour)

...One of the bedrooms?..

(eightnineteneleven)

...Too obvious, sex might be boring...What about the wine cellar?..

(thirtyonethirtytwothirtythree)

...Could do, but do I risk ending up with the girl who only wants a drink?.. Come on, come on, think harder man. Visualise!..

(sixtysevensixtyeightsixtynine)

...Sixty-nine? Fuck, I've lost my train of thought...

(eightyeighteightynineninety)

...The library! I've always liked librarians ever since Miss Applebum went up those little steps to fetch that book when I was boy...

(ninetyfourninetyfiveninetysix)

...It's a kinky idea but not as kinky as...

(ninetyeightninetynine)

...the dungeon!..

(onehundred)

“Coming ready or not!”

I set out on my quest stopping only to pick up Ian's ski goggles and a scarf. I just hoped this did not put me in breach of Rule 4.

Daisy ended up asleep with her legs akimbo in the wide open toilet cubicle of a smart London pub the last time she was out with us. Only the stretched fabric of her Sunday-best panties held her ankles together into some sort of semblance of almost decency.

That was according to the women who went to rescue her after complaints from customers.

She's a real wild child, the kind of girl who would have been pictured handcuffed with a couple of Rolling Stones all wrapped in towels being led to a police van after a marijuana bust, had she been born 40 years earlier.

But the toilet incident was twelve months or more ago now. She was at the party with her fiancee Dom, the bassist with a popular beat combo currently charting in the UK Top 40.

The drinks were flowing and the usual 2am order was phoned and everything was going with a swing, so to speak. Six foot seven Ian was regaling Kitten with tales of his latest polar expedition. But even as he conjured the image of the Aurora Borealis shimmering playfully over the Arctic tundra Kitten was being distracted by the image of his infamous pole slipping playfully over her areola.

Janine and Kathy were squeezed together on the leather sofa, talking about their boyfriends and stroking each others thighs and the boys were talking distractedly about football as they waited for things to kick off.

That was when our hosts Tommy and Rebecca, turned down the music and announced that it was time for the game to begin.

It's the evening after the night before and here I am in the recovery position, tapping away at my laptop with a nice long cigarette in my hand and cup of tea by my side.

The party was good.

Somebody brought a wiry dog with them and he spent the night snuffling around and raising eyebrows at the humans. What strange animals we must have seemed to Rover although as a perceptive dog he would, I'm sure have recognised some of our traits.

The way in which a preening circle formed around the female in heat for instance. That must be a universal trait among mammal communities. And certainly with the way several of us animals kept on sniffing the coffee table, he must have felt quite at home.

I choose to call him Rover because it's a generic dog name but Rover is not his real name. I could have called him Spike or Butch, too.

All names in this blog will be changed to preserve anonymity.

I'm still wired from a party I was at earlier and I think, I know, I'll start a blog on Newbie Nudes. And here it is.

I wonder if anyone will read it or if I'll keep it up? Probably not.