Kriss Akabusi Sex Stories
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Akabusi sat in his Vauxhall Corsa eating a corn beef and horseradish bloomer from Greggs with all the gusto of an Ethiopian at a Harvester salad bar. He looked out the dirty window at some pigeons fighting and f**king in the strong beams of the low winter sun. He roared with a laugh as loud, dark and hollow as a Lenny Henry comeback tour. What did these animals know of the art of f**king love making?
The thought sent a quiver down Akabusi's ebony frame to his purring pussy pounder. It hadn't tasted the sweet suds of a clunge for at least eight hours and it was getting restless and hungry. Kriss considered inducing a wet day dream - or a "lunchtime geyser" as Geoff Capes had once called it. But no. His throbbing hulk of brown greasy gristle needed kneeding and it had to be from the wettest, reddest lips since Jilly Goolden on a tour of the Bordeaux region.
And anyway, John Regis was sitting in the back of the Corsa nursing a Cheese and Onion pastie and feverishly counting the rain drops on the window. Since the Manchester Casino debacle Regis's OCD had become 456 times worse. Akabusi and Black had tried to f**k the casino over with Regis counting cards but the daft window slurper had gone nuts and pushed the table over and flopped his monster cock in the face of the croupier. Regis insisted there were 39 steps out of the casino but the boy's feet barely touched the ground.
To cheer himself up Akabusi had entered a Pro Celebrity Golf Tournament at Wentworth and as he licked his big brown finger and dabbed the crumbs from his tweed dungerees he looked out on the assembled Z list clebs at the first tee. He knew he was going to get some hole today and he prayed to his Nigerian gods that it was deep and didn't have a flag in it. Yet.
Akabusi wiped Regis down with a wet wipe and headed over to registration. In the distance he spotted that c**t Tanni Grey Thompson rolling over to the first tee with her electronic caddy in tow - it looked like a convoy of sh*t Transformers. Akabusi growled and snarled like an Muslim's belly on the penultimate day of Ramadam. If he was playing against her he was sure he would lose his considerable rag and bury her up to her head in a bunker. He tried to remain calm as he was introduced to his caddy.
Clunge Sunesson was the smoking hot daughter of Fanny, Faldo's old stick holder, and Akabusi's interest in this good walk spoilt was heightened when his greedy eyes focused on the svelte Swedish sexpot that stood before him polishing his wood. The cool air of the early morning breeze slide into his dungerees like Sidney Cooke into a nephew's bunk and licked at his black short and curlys like lesbians at the annual muff divers stamp collectors blow out. He wanted to sink his rapidly engorging brown Mizuno into her fairway as soon as. But he had a game to play and some spastics to buy a bus for or some sh*t like that.
"What's your handicap Abakumi?" hurled Bruce Forsyth as he passed by in his golf buggy which doubled as a hearse. "By big cock, you old c**t" roared Kriss with a sharpness and panache not seen since that bender Wilde complained about the wallpaper. Akabusi knew he had a powerful swing but knew more often than not his balls ended up in the rough. She worked in the clubhouse on Saturdays.
As was Akabusi's custom he let the brass buckles of his tweed dungerees loose and felt the coarse fabric rush past his ebony carcass like a rocket launch. All the celebs knew the score with Kriss and no one said a f**king word as he stood at the first tee looking like a large chocolate "K". Akabusi always played erect- it improved his game and left him ever ready to plunge his black post box into a fan or PR girl. As he shifted his giant onyx rugby balls and pulled his bat or club or whatever the f**k it was called the CTU tone of his mobile started ringing.
Clunge picked up the huge bloody thing and the battery attached and slung it over to Akabusi. It was Derek Redmond. They hated Redmond. Him, Blackie and poor Regis had never forgiven him for plonking Suzanne Davies and not letting them watch and he had a small willy so he never really fit in. As Akabusi held up the whole tournament with his call viewers could see his veiny colussas begin to fall to the ground like Beckett in the cathedral. Apparently Redmond had been sending parcel bombs to various offices across the country. He'd got a parking ticket whilst he was dogging with Collymore and McFadden in Penge and it had driven him nuts. And he had a small willy.
Deflated, Akabusi told Redmond that the lads would be over to his £117,560 mansion near Watford as soon as the tournament was over. They'd have to kill him of course. He knew too much. But at least the madness would be over and the good people of the parking and traffic enforcement community could sleep easy. Black liked murder and killing so he would garoutte the micro cocked loon whilst he poured the others a Kestrel.
Clunge Sunesson came over and told him the tourny was off. Darren Clarke had waterlogged the second hole with his tears and automatically both won the tournament and managed to f**k loads of mothering birds. Akabusi wished he had a dead wife. Oh well, he thought as his attention returned to Clunge.
He knew beneath the pink Pringle top and flourescent tabard lay a pair of epic blonde bristols with all the promise and weight of Frank Lampard as a teenager. And as sure as Regis was mad as a closed box of c**ts, Akabusi knew that tucked into those khaki shorts was a pussy as hairless and had a powerful grip as a Professor Xavier action figure. He felt the blood rush into his brown campanile quicker than a train delay at the hint of snow.
He picked up Clunge and threw over his shoulder and headed to the tranquility of the nearest bunker. He torn her gear off and flung her into the bunker. She lay helpless in the sand like an unturned beetle - with a pair of itty bitty tits and a fanny as wet as a Zeebrugge purser. He plunged into her like a Johnny Vegas dive bombing a kiddie's pool and before long he was up to his crackers in this blonde spunk wagon.
Within hours he was approaching his vinegars and let out a roar of pain, pleasure and passion as he let fly such a stream of hot man scum over her battered torso that people in the next town thought someone had struck white oil. He had.
As he strapped his dying dong to his toned calves and slipped on his tweed dungs he looked over to the Corsa. Regis was all excited - there were 8796 rain drops on the rear window and couldn't wait to tell Redmond. Black was at the boot loading up some tools and cheese wire. This was going to get messy.
He looked down on the shagpile of giant spermazota, matted Scandic hair, Slazenger Number 1s and a Clunge that looked like a regurgitated steak, bent down, whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.
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