Erotic Fan Fiction | Countdown

'Jeff Stelling knows my power'

"... consonant please Rachel ... a vowel please ... another consonant please Rachel"

I finish my request for the letters in this round of Countdown. The clock ticks and silence falls over the studio. After 30 seconds, I look up and see Rachel Riley in her tiny black cocktail dress. Her thighs like tender Tasty Bake sausage meat.

"Well, my word. I've never seen anything like this before!" said Rachel.

There it was, on the Countdown board, 'A R S E G A M E S'. I didn't even notice. I had been transfixed by Rachel Riley, Countdown's one and only perky princess - no, no one likes Susie Dent. And I had never been a fan of Carol Vorderman. I never achieved full tumescence when admiring Carol. No, she was not the erotic algebraist for me. Rachel is my girl.

"Never before ... " Rachel repeated. "Not even that time 'C U N T F L A P S' came up and it might have been a vicar who picked the letters ... Would you like to see something else, that we've never seen on Countdown before?"

I can't take my eyes off of her as she pulls her dress down, revealing her pert pale bosom, in front of the whole studio. No one complains. Not even Jeff, in fact he seems to be enjoying himself. He is arched forward, panting, and staring intensely at Rachel, beads of sweat on his forehead, one hand clenching the desk, the other hand rummaging for his keys .

Rachel then turns around, revealing her dusty pert buttocks. Jeff then stands up, his junk hard in his hand, proud in the hot studio. He looks ready to run over and treat Rachel to particularly hard 'ANAL-gram'.

"No Jeff ... she's mine" I punch Jeff Stelling, and stride over to Rachel. With one motion I am inside her, asking for more 'cuntsonants'. I am fully tumescent. She knows this and she feels me.

The producers must be very impressed by my power, because they turn on the famous Countdown clock. As it ticks down I am jackhammering into Rachel Riley. Rachel Riley likes this, I tell her to say her favourite dirty words,

"Coitus ... fornicate ... engorged". She goes on, "boff ... "

I tell her "Boff is not a word, it is a colloquialism". She knows my power.

She is moaning hard. I tell her to get on her knees. I will now deliver the final score, all up Rachel Riley.

My cum is a torrent, all over Rachel ... and the letters board. I know they will make me pay to have this cleaned, but I don't care.

Rachel looks up at me and says,

"Your cum made me cum"

Then I look down at her and say,

"Why cum ... when you can ejaculate ... for 9 letters"

Rachel sighs. She knows she will always be mine. The crowd give me a round of applause. Jeff Stelling is vanquished. Susie Dent is probably a lesbian.

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The Big Men

Matt Damon has managed to smash his way to the top of the Big Man list, one fist to the face at a time. He jumps and rolls and explodes, body riddled with bullets for our viewing pleasure.
It was a touching moment, at the 2008 Oscars, when Bruce Willis placed his rough hands on Damon’s shoulders and handed him a white vest, torn, dirty and splattered with the blood of a hundred terrorists,
‘Go on my son, do us proud,’ he said before blasting a shotgun into Damon’s stomach. Laughing Willis jumped onto the hood of a passing juggernaut and exploded in the dazzling Hollywood sunset. Meanwhile Damon rocks backwards smashing the glass bookshelf behind him and tipping over a fish tank, writhing around in a pool of piranhas he looks at the camera, ‘This isn’t realistic enough!’ he screams, his voice cracking with emotion, and BANG! Wins another Oscar. No one takes any notice though because Vinnie Jones walks in.
‘I really liked him, after watching BB Celebrity.’ Julia Roberts said.

Happy Birthday

The mixture is soft. I whisked it for longer than was suggested in A Good Housekeeping Guide. I folded in the flour with neat twists of my wrists, so as not to knock out the air. I even added a pinch extra of baking soda, just to make sure. This cake will rise. It was some trouble finding a tin large enough, for this will be a large cake; a big cake, but also a big surprise. The house is quiet, now that the beating is done. There is a hum from the oven, though I also hum. A thin tune, just a hum-hum. After I have poured the mix into the large tin, I take off my shoes and socks. The kitchen tiles are cold and tickle the soles of my feet. I remove my dress, knickers and socks and lay them on the chair. I am not so stupid as to forget to make arrangements for breathing. I have a straw that is long enough. Carefully I lower myself into the cake batter. It is pleasant, as it moulds itself to my skin, oozing carefully between my toes and then around my knees like a good sock, it squelches as I move into its embrace. There is a smell of vanilla as it creeps up nostrils. I must do this right and so I firmly pinch them closed, and breath deeply through the straw. I kneel here, somewhat awkwardly, though the thick mixture holds some of my weight. It is warming, a reaction between egg, flour, sugar, fat, binding and rising. I have time to think about the surprise, and what a surprise it shall be; me, emerging naked and beautiful from the golden glow of sponge. What a feast. A sprinkling of icing sugar, and I expect we shall laugh. Hands will be clapped over mouths in surprise, eyes wide with delight. What a delicious cake! Look how high it was risen! How long it must have taken you! What a surprise!

And I will say ‘Happy Birthday my dear. I love you.’

How Now You Have Bears