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Post by salopstick on Oct 5, 2008 11:50:06 GMT
Akabusi scaled the walls of the £756,000 Sussex mansion with all the stealth of a gekko on a Mallorcan shower wall. AS luck would have it the window was open. He dropped in and slipped out of his dungerees and let the cool air caress his polished ebony skin.
The house was quiet. He looked into one room and saw the sleeping Peter Andre - without the wig and wax on his face he was rather beautiful. But Akabusi wasn't into arses. Not today.
He heard a noise coming from the bathroom. He ran along the landing, his giant cock swinging in the air like Saddam on Youtube. He looked into the bathroom and saw a mad little f**ker, big as a barrel and blind as a bat leaping up and down in some boiling water.
"Akabusi!" said a voice behind him. "Stop looking at my son with your cock out".
Akabusi slowly turned around and saw Katie Price in front of him - wearing nothing but a Juicy Couture camisole and the slightest glistening of her ample clunge.
As ever Akabusi's cock became harder than the Guardian cryptic and proceeded to bang her tits off as Harvey ate a bag of Prawn Cocktail crisps from the floor that Akabusi had brought just in case.
Before Akabusi left he wiped his now dying cock on Harvey's afro, bent down to the prone Jordan, who lay liked a painter's radio in the moonlight, and whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.
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Post by Zippy Moon Dust on Oct 5, 2008 12:48:15 GMT
??? or ;D think it's a ???
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Post by Pretty Little Boother on Oct 5, 2008 12:56:17 GMT
FACT! ;D
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Post by davemongisback on Oct 5, 2008 13:15:26 GMT
Very old story that one
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Post by salopstick on Oct 5, 2008 13:15:49 GMT
??? or ;D think it's a ??? aw c'mon we have not had the exploits of the akabusi in months ;D
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Post by mermaidsal on Oct 5, 2008 13:20:35 GMT
I just knew that's what he was really thinking about when they interviewed him after the Great North Run and he said he didn't fancy doing it again...
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Post by Zippy Moon Dust on Oct 5, 2008 13:26:10 GMT
??? or ;D think it's a ??? aw c'mon we have not had the exploits of the akabusi in months ;D Sorry. I'm a bit grumpy today ;D
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Post by salopstick on Oct 5, 2008 13:29:28 GMT
thats what i was thinking sal
Akabusi was uncomfortable unless he was wearing a pair of dungerees or stark bollock naked so he walked into the Jimmy Savile Row tailors with trepidation. He needed a new suit for a Tanni Gray Thompson testimonial he was speaking at.
"If you could slip out of your dungerees, Mr Akabluisi" entoned the fay tailor. "It's Akabusi" said Akabusi as his laugh filled the cluttered shop like an arsehole on creampie.com.
Kriss let the straps of his denim dungerees snap and the fabric rushed passed his polished espresso chassis leaving him standing naked. The rarefied air of the tailors brushed against his black and curlies like a fart in a tanga brief and for a moment he felt like a black Messiah.
"Miss. Portensa will measure you up" said the tailor as he disappeared out back for a tug and a weep.
Portensa strolled into the room and immediately Akabusi felt a twinge in his king size plonker. She was wearing a little black dress which he knew concealed a fantastic pair of tits and almost certainly a clunge so tight it shopped at Poundland.
"Just relax, Mr Abakuski, while I measure your inside leg" she said with a French accent richer than a Guinness sh*t. As Kriss felt the cold metal of the tape measure climb up his leg, he could feel his black boa fill with blood quicker than tampon on the first day.
Before he knew Miss Portensa was handling his growing concern like Pat Jennings. She pulled apart her dress to expose her smooth white skin, epic bristols and a fanny more hairy than Richard Keyes back.
He ploughed into her like a tighthead forward and plunged his now diamond hard cock into her like he was staking Dracula. Within hours it was over, Miss Portensa a useless pile of tit, minge and spunk and Akabusi panting and sweating like a multiple rapist.
Akabusi rolled up his mickey and pulled on his dungerees. "What about the suit Mr Abakusi?" breathed Portensa.
"f**k it. I'll wear me dungerees. It's only Tanni f**king Thompson" roared Akabusi as he bent down over her bloodless torso, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.
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Silvio
Youth Player
Posts: 461
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Post by Silvio on Oct 5, 2008 20:23:29 GMT
Akabusi sat back at his desk in his £127,000 mansion outside Luton as he sent off another lottery scam email to an unsuspecting victim. He had been keeping a low profile since the Tanni Gray Thompson Testimonial - there had been problems with access and Tanni had been left in the car park.
He'd spent most of his day walking around his study naked, the newly installed central heating allowing him free and easy nudity. After watching Working Lunch Akabusi positioned a full length mirror so he could have a w*nk as he flexed his biceps which were so black and shiny you wouldn't be embarrassed to upholster a Porsche 911 with.
He had to drive to Letchworth later to open a new JJB Sports with Roger Black so he turned off the computer and popped his dungerees on and headed to the kitchen to toast a blueberry Poptart.
Before he got to the bottom of his walnut finish stairs there was a loud knock at the door.
As he opened the door Akabusi knew he was going to f**k something this rainy afternoon. There before him we two young women both in smart pencil line skirts and green blousons that he knew concealed at least four epic bristols.
"We're Scientologists!" chimed the duo with accents sweeter than Midnight Hot on FTV when the missus is out. "Would you like to take a stress test?"
Before he knew it Akabusi was serving blueberry Poptarts to the girls in his second living room. Akabusi could feel a spasm in his veiny colossus every time the girls said Dianetics and before long he "accidently" let his denim dungerees drop to the shagpile revealing his toned form that was as black and scary as a balcalva in Derry.
The girls didn't flinch and attached the cold metal of the E - Meter to his now throbbing ebony hose. "Do you like Tanni Gray Thompson?" was the first of many questions asked by the two blondes. Throughout the dials made no movement.
"Would you like to f**k us both on your pleatherette settee?" asked one of the girls. Immediately the E-Meter exploded and Akabusi's cock became so hard he knew he could drill to Calais if they needed him.
He pulled the girls blousons apart with his newly cleaned teeth as they slipped out of their tight skirts exposing four pert and peachy tits and two clunges with so little hair he thought he was looking at Right Said Fred as kids.
He barged into the two of them like a stock car and before long he was plunging his Super Tennants can of a cock into one girl's arsehole as he used his famous tongue on another's clunge that was wetter than a 21st on the Marchioness.
Within hours it was all over, the Scientologists strewn across the plastic sheeting Akabusi had put down moments before copulating. In his head he was humming Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings as he had never seen such twisted naked flesh, cum and blood since Hazel Irvine cam over. His battered cock weeped the last remnants of his powerful seed as he wound it up and slipped into his dungerees.
"Would you like to meet Tom Cruise, Mr Abukusbi?" said one of the girls as she coughed up a short and curly hairball.
"f**k off, I know Fatima Whitbread!" roared Akabusi with a laugh that filled the spacious two bedroom semi like Fern Britton in a thong. He bent down, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear, patted the other on the fanny.
And walked out of the house, slamming the door. Then remembering it was his house. And he was wearing his indoor dungerees. He had no car keys. And he was late for the JJB Sports opening in Letchworth.
The End.
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Post by jonesinamillion on Oct 5, 2008 23:20:39 GMT
;D
Regail me further with the tribulations of the well hung akabussi!
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WATN
Spectator
Where are they now?
Posts: 42
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Post by WATN on Oct 6, 2008 14:55:25 GMT
Akabusi sat in his Vauxhall Corsa as it passed through the car wash humming the theme tune from Record Breakers. All the windows were soaped up and no one could see in so, for the briefest moments, he thought about having a w*nk. But his two kids were in the back so he decided against it.
After dropping them off at school, Akabusi was at a loss as to how to fill his day. He was delivering a motivational speech to a bunch of spastics tonight in Stevenage so he didn't want to over do it. He felt a twinge in his back. It had been aching since him and John Fashanu had wrestled naked in front of a roaring fire at Fash's £128,700 mansion in Hemel Hempstead. Akabusi had smashed a porcelain bust of Justin and he had had to leave.
Before he knew it he was at a massage parlour and had paid his £10 entry. Before he could get to the changing rooms he slipped out of his pin stripe dungerees and could feel the fragrant steam of the sauna tickle his massive balls like a poacher under a trout.
He applied a towel to his lower torso, barely able to conceal his pulsating ebony fire hydrant. He stepped into the room and lay down on the pleather massage table pushing his face through the hole and letting his cock hang over the side.
Behind him the door opened and Akabusi's pussy senses were raised to Severe. The aroma of chicken and sweetcorn soup and Morecambe Bay cockles hit him like a steam train and he knew right then that he would sire another child.
Small hands covered in oil began to explore his muscular, Nigerian coffee coloured bodywork. As the girl's hands reached his proud buttocks he tried everything in his power to conceal a huge fart he had been brewing since he'd parked in the multi storey car park.
When the girl slipped a greasy little finger up his April he let out a yelp and nearly roared "Awooga" but he stopped himself. The hands of the girl motioned him to turn over, which he duly did.
His eyes found a young Chinese girl wearing a little white tunic which he knew concealed a pair of juicy little bristols and almost certainly a clunge as ripe and yellow as a week old banana. As he lay on his back, blood rushed into his veiny Tower of Pisa quicker than Asians into a Cash And Carry at 8.59am. He lay there looking like a chocolate drawing pin as the girl starting applying more and more oil. He was so hard and tall that he worried slightly that the price of oil may be affected by his erection.
Her tiny hands kneeded his giant oak and at one point Akabusi half thought she was an Ewok trying to climb a Giant Red on Endor. He leapt up and ripped open her tunic revealing, as he had suspected, a gorgeous set of two tits, nipples as dark as Green and Black 70% and a pussy so wet and hairless he was reminded of Duncan Goodhew.
He dived into her like a released rapist and set about plunging into every orifice that was available and some that were not. Within hours he was on his vinegars and let rip with such a gush of spunk that the poor girl tried in vein to make a call to the Morecambe Bay coastguard.
Spent, sweating and panting Akabusi untangled his yawning plonker and slipped on his dungerees. The girl, who later from police reports he found was called Hi Tide Run, lay on the floor, a shredded mess of manfat, baby oil, matted hair and rice. Akabusi looked at his Casio watch/calculator and saw that the spastic thing started in 20 minutes. He bent down over the Chinese meal he had just demolished, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.
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Post by mermaidsal on Oct 6, 2008 15:35:57 GMT
I love this ;D (in a totally platonic way of course) and it just wouldn't be the same without those dungarees (where the hell did those come from???). But nick I think you'll find he was actually giving a speech to people with cerebral palsy in Stevenage...
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Post by salopstick on Oct 6, 2008 19:41:01 GMT
www.facebook.com/home.php#/group.php?sid=038477a1ff934b5e71df932c1e933d5a&refurl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2Fs.php%3Fref%3Dsearch%26init%3Dq%26q%3Dkris%2Bakabusi%26sid%3D038477a1ff934b5e71df932c1e933d5a&gid=2364807742found this on facebook Originally posted by Simon Woolfson: Just got back from a holiday in Palma. Met a woman there who worked for London 2012 or something and was friends with Kris (and Duncan Goodhew) !!! I showed her some of the Sex stories on a laptop and she pissed herself. She then called Kris, and he is well aware of them - apparently loves them - they are on another website too. He is the loudest bloke ever. You could hear him laughing down the phone from across the pool. The woman - Nicola - who my friend tried to bang, said that it was annoying to go out with him socially cos he is so loud and draws so much attention wherever they go! Kris, however, did confirm that Fashanu started the "Awooga" phenomenon. More interestingly, Nicola confirmed that the stories are in line with his insatiable appetite for the ladies. He once "forgot" to book a hotel as she had told him to and tried to stay at her house the night before he was due to give a motivational speech nearby. So, he truely is a loud, sex-crazed nutter!!
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Post by salopstick on Jan 30, 2009 14:34:21 GMT
ttt
needed a laugh
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Post by vestanpance on Jan 30, 2009 14:37:10 GMT
It's brilliant, this.
Toptastic effort.
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Post by salopstick on Jan 30, 2009 14:44:50 GMT
Richard Blackwood's Funeral:
Akabusi tightened his black tie around his bare neck as he wiped down the splashback from 3 Muller Rices he'd demolished from his jet black dungerees. He stood in front of the mirror and examined himself. He felt so sexy he was sure that it was only a matter of time before Lynx named a spray after him. Ebony? Clunge buster? Fanny Patt? Or just simply Akabusi. He made a note in his Psion to call his manager when he got back.
Kriss heard John Regis downstairs checking all of the window locks and counting the pixels on Akabusi's new 14" plasma. The OCD had gotten pretty bad after the "incident" and to help daft Regis through it Akabusi had bought him the first of the "Build your own Bismarck" collection. Only the first one mind, the rest were too expensive. This had kept Regis occupied for about a minute before he'd crushed the fourth rear engine with his mighty hands and eaten it. War is hell.
Akabusi jogged down the stairs of his £126,970 mansion, cleaned up Regis' face with a wet wipe and they left the house and waited for Roger Black to pick them up in his Corsa.
Akabusi could feel the fresh air of the cul de sac racing around the base of his sleeping sliver of pork and encircling his giant hanging balls like dipping a hot hot dog and two cum filled scotch eggs into a pint of Stella. He really wanted to let slip the confines of his dungs and let his hymen hurter find a wet place to live. But in the distance he could see Black cutting corners like the architect in the Towering Inferno. It was time to hit this funeral harder than Boycott on Moore.
There was an awkward silence in the motor on the way. Black had been f**king decent enough to provide sausage rolls, mini kievs, little pizzas, cherryade Panda Pop and a pack of bourbons for the 5 minute journey. Akabusi hated funerals, they made his angry cock wilt and retreat within his bristling ebony frame and it could often only be coaxed out by the prospect of surprise sex or w*nking on religious iconography. What made this funeral even harder was he hated the c**t so much.
Richard Blackwood had been killed during Operation Trident last week in Clapham. The Operation had been introduced several years ago to murder Blackwood with a piece of gladiatorial weaponary after Richard claimed he was ready for a comeback. Attmepts with iaculum and manicae in various parts of South London has proved fruitless until an increasingly unhinged Derek Redmond had cornered Blackwood in a "Cummin' Up" kebab house with a trident and skewered the b*stard until he was deadened. Redmond was likely to serve the rest of his life in a maximum security prison or be made a Mayor of London - it was that close.
As the rain started pelting off the collection of sportsmen, minor celebrities and Richard Blackwood fan at graveside, Akabusi could feel a stirring within his dark loins that felt like the beginnings of a beautiful and fulfilling erection. His sagging testes tightened like two fists being formed by a market trader on his one night out. Akabusi was confused. Although it was Richard Blackwood's funeral, people were still pretty depressed and there was certainly no pussy worth abusing. Or was there?
No. Turned out there wasn't. He'd spotted June Sarpong MBE leaving the funeral just before Vaz Blackwood (no relation) stepped up to rap a eulogy. She was a c**t of the highest order - Akabusi had described her as a black bin bag stretched over a skeleton on his blog - but he would have loved to slip his meat python down her throat and then pull his own cock out of her sealed up arsehole. Maybe at the TV Quick Awards.
As Kriss, Roger and John kicked dirt onto the coffin the crowds dispersed and the pimped out Corsas started collecting the guests to bring them to the afterparty at the ice rink in Streatham. Akabusi peeled off from the gang and returned to the grave. He was busting for a crap and he knew this was a great opportunity to finish the day.
Before he positioned his big toned arse over the edge of Blackwood's grave he let the shackles of his funeneral dungereess slip and exposed his naked onyx chassis to the dead people who lay all around. He felt like a Titan - more vital and alive than anyone around. Who were all dead. As he felt the turtle rising he roared with a laugh so loud, dark and evil corpses turned in their graves ever so slightly.
As his giant man size plop hit the walnut casket, the impact smashed the coffin to pieces. As Akabusi check wiped he looked down at the twisted form of Richard Blackwood entwined with excrement, splintered wood and copies of his "single" which he had demamded be buried with him - "for the ferryman, man". Akabusi was so aroused his plonker filled with so much powerful, dangerous liquid he knew what it was to be George Best's liver. The erection was so intense it had drawn all the colour and life out of his body so he looked like Mr Bean impaled on fresh lumber.
"Mr Abbakumi, what the f**k are you doing sh*tting onto the coffin of my deadened cousin?" said a voice from behind him. The accent was as rich and as false as Lady Madonna of Gloucestershire. As Busi turned slowly around his Malteser eyes rested on the skeletal form of supermodel and nut job Naomi Campbell. Akabusi knew that this was about to become the biggest black on black crime he'd ever witnessed.
He knew that beneath the impeccable styling, giant sunglasses and lady like demeanor were a pair of cracking black bristols and a clunge as filthy, dangerous and inviting as an inner city canal. Akasbui wanted to throw his shopping trolley of love into her as quickly as humanely possible. And it seemed Campbell agreed as before he could tear the Gucci from her back, Naomi had a PA carefully remove her garments and fold them up.
Akabusi plunged into her like a caretaker into a bombing campaign. It wasn't long before he was so far into the mouthy bitch that his balls slipped into her leg cavities. His hands were all over her and the friction caused by these two jet black specimums would surely burn this graveyard to the ground.
Within hours Busi was on his big vinegars and pulled out a diamond encrusted mobile phone which he repeatedly hit Campbell around the head whilst he came so hard he thought he was in a pussy car wash. "See how you like it, you jumped up f**king clothes horse" Kriss roared as Naomi's PA returned with twelve mochas and a Wispa bar with all the bubbles taken out for Campbell.
"Run free you stupid c**t" shouted Kriss to the PA as he pulled out his Andre cock out of the shattered floppy torso and slipped his dungs on. He better get to that after party before Regis sunk his Bismarck into the punch.
He looked down on the twisted pile of giant spermazota, magazine covers, shiny tits, a copy of her "novel" swan and clunge suds, bent over and whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.
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Post by salopstick on Jan 30, 2009 14:45:20 GMT
Akabusi sat in the park throwing bits of sausage roll at a one legged pigeon as the winter sun beat down on his ebony dome like Ike on his first wife. He'd picked up two sausage rolls and a Steak Bake from Gregg's at the station and found a quiet spot in the park. The Steak Bake had given him serious heart burn which only a bottle of Tango could put out. He'd bought a bottle of Lilt instead. All in all it had been a sh*t day for Akabusi.
His accountant Harvey Goldenblum had called him earlier and confirmed that his �117,980 mansion in Brickhills had been repossessed by the National Lottery. Akabusi had become addicted to online scratchcards and things had got so bad he sold all his medals and naked pictures he had of Norris McWhirter. The ten quid he had got on eBay for the lot hadn�t made a big difference.
On the upside the cool air of the wind brushed against his expresso chassis like Rolf Harris on canvas. He felt his tremondous length growl like a waking tiger - it wanted feeding and he knew it only ate pussy. He popped his hand inside his grey dungerees and pinched the increasingly engorged helmut to quell it's mounting excitement. He brushed pastry flakes into a pile and then necked the lot of it. It made him feel good. Like a man again.
He made a little pooh behind a tree and headed over the road to the Palace.
Akabusi had been to Buckingham Palace before - he picked up some mickey mouse MBE back in the day. He hadn't disgraced himself and poor old dead Diana had welcomed a fanny patting. Today Akabusi and Roger Black were receiving a little badge to thank them for not killing any spastics on a outward bound trip to the Brecon Beacons. The Palace didn't know that a little window slurper had fallen off a cliff and Akabusi and Black had buried the body in a shallow grave. Hopefully feral cats and foxes would do the rest.
Akabusi mingled with the crowds of Lords, Ladies and f**king Tanni Gray Thompson. Tanni managed to get invited to all these things and the Palace had excellent access due to the Queen Mother. Akabusi didn't need any encouragement from Jim Davidson, who was receiving a knighthood for services to race relations, and pushed Tanni into a broom cupboard and jammed the door. Hopefully the feral cats and foxes would do the rest.
The Queen appeared. Akabusi couldn't help but feel a sudden rush of blood and cum rush into his empty brown wheely bin and his giant testes twitch like a black body builders pectorals. His proud onyx majesty rose to attention as everyone stood. He looked like a brown flag pole and his flag of spunk and a little p*ss was attempting to unfurl. As Her Majesty went by his erection fell to it's knees quicker than a Romford secretary. She was minging.
Akabusi was f**king confused. He was expecting Helen Mirren - that glorious old milf that he'd seen on a pirate dvd the night before. The reality was some old bird who he suspected had bristols like burst balloons and a clunge as crusty and useless as a Conservative Peer. His sword sheathed and his balls bowed Akabusi went off looking for pussy elsewhere.
Akabusi headed down to the stables. He liked horses, they knew what it was like to carry such a dead weight betwixt ones's thighs and he often used to train with Desert Orchid at the Linford Christie Track. The sessions would often end with mutual masturbation from which Akabusi would keep Orchid's horsefat and sell it to Arabs. He didn't know what Orchid did with his though.
Kriss let the buckles of his smart dungerees slip to the sh*t covered hay and let the fetid air of the stables circle him scum round buy one get one free deals. "Do you ride Mr Abakumisi?" said a female voice from behind Akabusi. He froze. The lady was so full of plums he felt like he felt when he'd teabagged Janet Street Porter.
He slowly turned around looking like a chocolate Challenger tank heading into battle. Before him was a brunette dressed in tight cream jodhpurs, white blouson and a pair of patent leather riding boots that would bring a tear of cum to any man's c*** eye. He knew that beneath the riding gear were at the most two sparking bristols and a clunge as smart and as bald as Helen Rollinson. But not as dead.
"Do I ride? What do you f**king think!" he roared with a laugh so loud the horses bolted into the yard and killed two OBEs and a bloke in an electronic wheelchair. His sceptre rose to knight the girl whose tight jodphurs were becoming wetter than a child at an Art Malik birthday party. He was going to get royally laid.
"My name's Kate. Kate Middleton" she said with a voice as silky and hot as a balti fart in tight jockeys. Akabusi became so hard he thought some c**t was going to put Excalibur into it. The future Queen let loose rivlets of brown hair and loosened the buttons of her blouson. Akabusi wasn't one ot stand on ceremony so he tore her top off like a Zulu at Rourke's Drift. A pair of epic creamy white bristols store at him like Paul McKenna's eyes. Kate ripped off her jods and stood before Akabusi naked - her glistening axe wound beckoning him to bow at her feet.
Akabusi tore into her like Henry VIII at a Toby Carvery. His hands were all over her like the old Empire and some of the acts they were committing were just as horrific. He plunged deep into her like a jousting event and felt her cold regal body rub against his hot black tribal like years of oppression. She was greedy for c*** and Akabusi wasn't one to disappoint. He thought later that she might make a career as a sword swallower if this Queen sh*te didn't work out.
Within hours it was over, Kate lay a mangled mess of white flesh, medals, horse sh*t, cum and vol au vents. Akabusi pulled out of her like Hong Kong, letting his weeping willow of brown muscle to roll around in the hay. Akabusi was sure that his rampant manslush had reached the inner sanctum and he broke into a wide sh*t eating Akabusi grin as he thought of a brown baby being born to the royal household in nine months times. "Try explaining that you bitch!" he roared.
He could hear the constant banging of Tanni Grey Thompson somewhere in the Palace so he bent down over the sated, upper middle class spunk vessel, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.
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Post by salopstick on Jan 30, 2009 14:46:02 GMT
Akabusi sat in a multistorey car park in Borehamwood. He was savaging a Sweet Onion Chicken Teriyaki Subway sandwich on Hearty Italian like a Rottweiler on a scouser. He had picked it up from a drive thru Sub on the A1 earlier. The spotty c**t who served him, had asked whether he wanted 6 inch or a foot long. Akabusi had laughed at the prepostrous question so loud the gherkins and pickles had curled. People just didn't understand Akabusi.
Kriss liked Chicken Teriyaki - it made his seed taste funny. And he knew that because today ended in a "y" he was going to get some f**king action and some poor bitch was going to be choking on more white stuff than Prince Charles best mate in Klosters. So he liked to prepare.
Hot Chipolte Southwest Sauce slipped onto his denim dungerees and ran down his glistening ebony carcass finding the tight, black hairs that slept at the base of his onyx titan like Sherpas at basecamp. He felt his chocolate post box twinge with anticipation, his giant balls rising like landing gear on a jumbo. He washed himself down with a Easy4men.com wet wipe and used a pencil to pick the crap from between his gigantic white tombstone like teeth. He headed for the lift and the short walk to the studios.
Akabusi had been persuaded by his agent Harvey Goldenblum to do Celebrity Big Brother. Akabusi was boracic. He had invested in an Egyptian pyramid scheme and it a had gone tits up. It was clear that he wasn't going to get a pyramid for the �127,000 he'd invested so he pulled out and lost everything. Endemol were prepared to pay him �300 for his late entrance into the house and an extra �40.07 for every money shot on camera. Akabusi knew he could take Endemol to the cleaners with this rate - he was looking to make �100,000 a day.
Akabusi burst through the doors of the house dead on 11.37. He didn't want any fanfare or **** screaming "Awooga" or Davinia mugging to camera - he was here to get some money together to buy a Wonder of the World and get his slobbering doberman of a c*** as sodden and as ravaged as a New Orleans resident.
Everyone turned to look at Akabusi who stood in the harsh light of the house like a black, denim Superman. Akabusi let out such a roar that the live feed was disrupted momentarily and Cleo's milky white bazukkas shoke like Cassius Clay blowing out the 65th candle. They were all there - the melted raisin that called himself Jermaine, the faded B-Movie has been called Dick, two streaks of p*ss called H and Jock and then a parade of pussy so varied Akabusi thought he was in the RSPCA rehoming centre. But Kriss had been contracted to do only one thing and that was called Shipla or Shipman or something.
He let slip the straps of his dungerees and let the dank air of the Big Brother house caress his sexualised, ebony opus like a cheap Thai suit massage. His eyes descended on Shiplman and his plonker filled with more engorged muscle than a club in Vauxhall. His pulsating veins looked like a busy road system near Birmingham and his hairy heavyweight testes were sparring with each other like East End kids done good. He knew that beneath the Shilling's face bleach and impeccable manners were a pair of epic Bollywood bristols and at a pussy so fragrant Jade would release it as a perfume called "Indian Bitch".
He stalked Shipma like a Bengal tiger around the garden. His diamond hard erection accidently pierced the bodies of f**kpig Goody, scouse skank Daniel and Pat Butcher from S Club. For the briefest of moments he stood there looking like a mahogany scum kebab and could feel the pre cum rising covering his kevlar helmut like early morning dew. He wrestled off the bodies and set upon Shillpin.
Shipmate was defenseless. Seeing Akabusi looking like a Zulu massacre carrying his herculean, black pillar like a Greek God architect she decided to get stuck in. She let her sari fall to the ground exposing a pair of mocha tits like two Taj Mahals and a clunge so neat and tidy that Capability Brown was involved. Akabusi knew that from the gushing Ganges surrounding her tight Khyber Pass he was going to have an epic Mahabharat session.
He skewered Shilpan and rode her like a jet black whale on tip of a Tuk Tuk. His hands were busier than Ganesh at a call centre. Within hours he shot his mango chutney all over her battered naan bread like torso. He flopped out of her like a horse being born and watched the last of his army of spermazota crawl away from his dying helmut into the shadows.
"Thanks Shipmate. That was a quality bunk up." he roared at her and the others who had fallen to the ground to pray to any God who was listening. He rolled up his king dong like a Persian carpet and slipped into his dungerees. He couldn't stand it in the House anymore and had decided to leave. He'd get his Pyramid somehow, but not in this c**t soup of a place.
He bent over the pile of giant *, matted brown hair, uncooked chicken and bleached facial hair and whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.
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Post by Pretty Little Boother on Jan 30, 2009 15:10:00 GMT
"He flopped out of her like a horse being born" ;D
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Post by salopstick on Nov 28, 2009 20:31:48 GMT
any new ones
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Post by truckerged on Nov 28, 2009 22:59:50 GMT
bump
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Post by jonesinamillion on Nov 29, 2009 0:31:22 GMT
Best thread ever, what a gem!
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Silvio
Youth Player
Posts: 461
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Post by Silvio on Nov 29, 2009 13:57:04 GMT
BUSI GOES TO PARIS
Busi and the gang were on the Eurostar on their way to Paris to open four JJB sports. Well that was the excuse, Busi had an over whelming desire: “to get as far away from that c*nt Tanni Grey Thompson as possible”, she was giving retired “athletes” (if you could call her that), a bad name. When asked for comment by the Observer he boomed with a voice as loud as Mr Motivators’ unitard and bum bag combo:
“When I first retired I sat on my arse all day, what the f*ck is she going to do to kill time….. the high jump,”
Busi thought he could nail three birds with one stone and further his on going negotiations with Kappa- those Italian c*nts could meet him half way. “Nailing three birds with one stone” reminded him of the time he had met the Corrs, Busi still hadn’t forgiven Jim Corr for trying to get in on the action and what the f*ck did he care if Jim’s pelvis was broken in 47 different places and that he’d had to have 211 rectal stitches, Busi wasn’t in to boys arses, not today not ever, even when he had spied Peter Andre all vulnerable and sleek at Price’s £756,000 Sussex gaff.
Naturally Busi had been the first and only choice of the esteemed management team at JJB tasked with the job of promoting the brand in France. Centuries of domination by the British had instilled a certain awe in the French for anything British and no one could deny that Busi was the most awe inspiring Brit to have donned the red, white and blue lycra. Regis was entertaining himself by counting the sleepers on the adjacent track whilst simultaneously licking the condensation on the window. Black could barely contain his excitement at the prospect of purchasing flick knives and bangers. Busi, meanwhile was tucking into the stash of ginsters peppered steaks the boys had brought with them. A healthy distrust of foreign grub had forced the gang to stock pile- big time. For love nor money you couldn’t pick up a ginsters pastry within a three mile radius of Waterloo.
As Busi nonchalantly brushed the crumbs from his velvet dungs (when going to the couture capital of the world Busi knew he had to look the part) he casually mused on where his next taste of clunge would come from. He had heard that French snatch wasn’t half bad – a little over grown perhaps but Busi had seen the Renault Clio advert – he knew the situation and at the end of the day “pussy’s pussy man”
The mere thought sent a spasm through his mighty mahogany truncheon and it immediately began to dribble like Rik Waller in the queue for burger king. Busi knew he had to wait for the train to stop before he could quench the fire in his oh, so soft velvet dungs, trains had been derailed by far less than the violent vinegars of Busi and he knew it.
The arrival in to the “ gare du nord “ could not come soon enough as far as Kris was concerned, he had toyed with the idea of releasing the phenomenal tension in his under carriage with Vanessa Feltz who was two tables away, he knew her cheese pocket was as deep and wet as Loch Ness but the fat bitch didn’t deserve the honour of providing habitation for Busi’s not so mythical monster. The sight of her was a god send as it happened, as the fire in Busi’s loins was temporarily vanquished.
However as Busi stepped down off the Eurostar dragging Regis by the scruff of the neck (all that counting hadn’t done him any good- he was in a bad way) He saw Kate Moss a sobbing screeching mess yell into her diamond encrusted nokia :
“I don’t give a f*ck you useless w*nker quite frankly you can shag all the South African slags you like, you make Jamie Theakston look like a rhino.”
Now this was a woman that put lead in Akabusi’s giant pencil. He silently slipped out of his velvet dungs leaving Regis to shout random numbers to himself whilst lying on platform Nombre Trois. Black was nowhere to be seen, he was already in the nearest tabac getting tooled up!
Busi grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her into the first class carriage of a nearby train and within seconds she was naked he noticed her bristols were as small and firm as Peggy Mitchell in a rage and her clunge was so tight it stole from Oxfam. Busi noticed the slightest glistening of clunge custard on her pink labia. His brown elephants trunk became instantly rigid. Within hours he was on his violent vinegars. Busi knew he had been wise to withhold his clunge lust, the carriage was rocking something chronic. As Kris blasted his man fat deep into Moss’s pussy he gave a howl of satisfaction- his work was done. Busi looked down on the satisfied Moss as he pulled on his dungs, she was a sprawling mass pubic hair, make up and cocaine, her battered snatch resembling Christopher Weston’s face after a particularly successful night of ramraiding on his Honda 50cc scooter. He bent down on his powerful black knee, whispered awooga into her ear and patted her on the fanny.
The End
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Post by salopstick on Nov 29, 2009 19:59:22 GMT
pisser
Black could barely contain his excitement at the prospect of purchasing flick knives and bangers.
exavtly what i did on a school trip to boulogne
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Post by robdog on Nov 30, 2009 10:32:43 GMT
I love these little 'stories'
Its given me a nice warm chuckle on a cold Monday morning
'a clunge so tight it shopped at Poundland'
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Post by salopstick on Jul 28, 2014 22:26:41 GMT
Akabusi was in the shower. Crying. And wanking. In fact there was liquid coming from every orifice. He hadn't felt this bad since he'd watched an hour and a half of Britain's Got Talent. It was that bad. He had travelled to Los Angeles for the funeral of international businessman Vincent MacMahon who had tragically and spectacularly exploded on an episode of some wrestling show.
Busi had done a lot of work for the WWF back in the day - once arranging a fight in a skip near Luton between Hulk Hogan, Sir William Regal and an endangered panda. The panda had shit moves and had taken a severe beating from Regal leaving it with two black eyes. Busi had withdrawn his support of the wrestling/animal charity not long after.
The funeral had been a sombre affair. Live on cable. Many of the wrestling world's best wrestlers had carried MacMahon's walnut effect coffin and then chucked it into the grave. Mourners then ceremoniously smashed a metal chair or bin onto the coffin as Journey played soft rock classic Don't Stop Belie-
Whilst eating a Powerade vol au vent at the wake at a titty bar Busi's agent had called him with the news that "Lotions 13" had been creating quite a buzz. Mainly because it was a big steaming pile of shit but also due to the fantastic tax dodging opportunities it offered. The producers of Hulk II were interested in speaking to Kriss about greening up to play Dr Krisstopher Banner. If the money and tax breaks were right Busi was in but he wanted to play it black and not green so the production company told him to stick it up his arsehole and offered it to John Regis or failing that Jonathan Edwards.
Black and Regis were out in LA with Busi and the entourage had been tearing up LA like Portugese coppers in brush land. Regis' rampant OCD was exactly 873 times better and out here in LA LA land Regis was considered a balanced individual. But a black one. Black had been hooking up with his crew from the Rollin 60 Neighbourhood Crips, although out here they called them chips Busi had learned. Black had put more caps in arses than George Michael on tour and the heat had forced the Busi posse to take refuge in the Mondrian.
So here Busi was in the hot stream of a Hans Grohe struggling to get blood into his ebony pussy pestle as his massive hands moved quicker than an Albanian at a Presidential walkabout. To make matters much much worse, his onyx boa inflictor hadn't felt the sweet touch of a lady's tight white clunge piece since he'd surprise sexed the Virgin Atlantic stewardess as she given him Reiki over Newfoundland. Busi had it all. But he wanted more. More pussy.
To cheer himself up and get Regis out of the wardrobe, Roger Black had arranged for Busi to deliver one of his magnificent and hugely expensive motivational speeches at a local prison. A woman's prison. As Regis towelled down the sleek, jet black chassis of Mr Krisstopher Akabusi, the thought of pumping his fist and shouting slogans at a room full of caged heat was too much to take and he had hit John in his eye with his inflated helmet. Just like Barcelona in 92. Maybe he would get some LA gear after all, Busi mused as he slipped into his Armani dungerees he snagged from TK Maxx.
As Busi, Black and poor demented Regis pulled up to the Century Regional Detention Centre in Lynwood in there hired convertible Corsa they could all smell the accrid stench of unpounded pussy and the sweet aroma of women slipping more fingers and tongues than a professional stamp sticker. Busi wanted to high ten but choose a five to appear cool.
They checked in, received some prison issue mirrored shades and waited in the back stage area whilst Busi ran through an arm pump, an Awooga and a Awwwwwiggght in front of Black's sunglasses. Regis had totally covered himself in a map of the prison but he was too scared to get a Schofield so he had transfers. In the LA heat he now looked like a panther who had rolled in a Hello Kitty collection.
The crowd were baying for Busi and when he emerged in his ermine dungs wearing his Olympic medal the place erupted like Palestine. He hadn't seen this many women with tats, piercings and buzzcuts since he went to the Melanie C comeback concert. There were "women" here rougher than Barrymore's chair leg and just as dangerous. Regis was sweating so much he was now standing in a pool of ink and Black kept his hand firmly on his ivory handled Glock.
Many of the deep C divers were touching themselves and others whilst Busi spun out his usual brand of David Coleman anecdotes and lispy bullshit. By the end of the 5 minute speech the gang of tail didn't even clap, they squelched. And that was enough for Busi. He let slip his dungs and felt the fabric slide past his smooth toned thighs. He stood there for a moment looking like a beautiful chocolate elephant with it's back legs and torso chopped off. Then the riot started.
With two women dead and fourteen guards severely raped the posse took refuge with the prison padre Father Ignatious O'Reilly. "Mr Akabumbum. Despite your naked torso causing the biggest riot since that Ikea opened in Edmonton I would like you to visit one of our poor prisoners on Death Row. I think she would appreciate your kind words...and your giant cock".
Prisoner 9818783 or Paris Hilton as she was know around here, cowered in her cell as the riot took off. Busi stood at the bars his grumbling fire hose twitching like Lubbock after a belly flop. Busi knew that beneath that Gucci orange jump suit was a pair of tits so small that her cell walls were jealous and a clunge as well thumbed as the lingerie section of a Freemans. Her stylist and PR let Busi into the cell and Paris dried her eyes with a silk do-rag. Kriss knew that The Hilt had seen more mileage than the McCann European Tour but he still wanted in. Up to his ginormous nuts.
Paris knew the drill. She peeled off her Gitmos and exposed a tanned torso that had seen more action on the internet than Pete Townsend and Leslie Grantham put together. Apart from the golden mane that topped her pin like head there wasn't a hair on her body. Busi thought he was looking at a shaved kitten and in a way he was.
Blood filled his plonker quicker than Simon Weston turning on the cold tap. He leapt on her like Hamas on Gazza and thrust his penal colony right up to her stapled stomach. Busi thought he heard a "prison break" somewhere down below but he liked a bit of blood with his pudding. Hilton was open for business and all her rooms were kingsize.
Within hours Krisstopher was on his violent vinegars and let fly with such a stream of knacker lava that Paris's spray tan was stripped from her boney body and for a brief moment the prison riot was quelled - a little in awe and a little in disgust.
Busi rolled up his heiress aerator and watched as the last of his giant spunks flipped and flapped around on the cold stone floor of Lynwood. Regis and Black had gotten a call from Robbie Williams to play football against Rod Stewart up in the Hills. Busi knew that the buffet at these things was always quality so they had no time to lose. And the prison was on fire.
"Good luck Hilt. You fucking idiot. Do your time with some dignity and don't bend over in the showers. Or the internet. Peace out" roared Akabusi with all the might of Brian Blessed with his nuts caught in the Complete Works of Shakespeare.
Busi looked down on the twisted pile of matted blonde hair, hotel reservations, dying tadpoles, rice and tiny tits, bent down on his powerful Olympian knee, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.
The End.
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Post by Deleted on Jul 29, 2014 7:45:12 GMT
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Post by pickins on Jul 30, 2014 17:47:40 GMT
Wasn't there a rumour of a Akabusi/Sol Campbell night out involving traffic cones, a Job Centre receptionist, 12 bottles of salad cream and a horse chestnut tree?
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Post by starkiller on Jul 30, 2014 18:39:01 GMT
Akabussi - that's evangelical Christians for you.
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Post by redstriper on Jul 30, 2014 19:05:40 GMT
I'd forgotten about this stuff - Quality :0
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