Sixty Shades of Grey

As the above seems to be flying off the shelves or whatever books onto kindles fly like, I propose a "Sixty Shades of Pussers Grey" as a RumRat e book or ibook or whatever.

What about

"Oh I'll be walking like John Wayne for a week after that PO Writer" panted Wren Bonham- Carter, as she staggered out of the Ship's Office...",


Lantern Swinger
Book Reviewer
After an absolutely roaring Cocktail party the night before, Wren Piper was surprised to wake up with a sore fanny in the Officer's mess.


War Hero
Book Reviewer
50 shades of ghey more like. Women are fucking hypocrites. The ones i've bound and flogged go ballistic when you let them loose. Now they're getting moist reading about it. Make your fucking minds up.


Book Reviewer
The WreckerL licked his lips with excitement as he surveyed the sight before him. From his perch on the fin, he could watch the three new joiners as they clumsily traversed down the gangway. There was a white one, a black one, but what in the name of the RN was this one with bumps in the pussers jumper. WreckerL breathed a sigh of relief and cursed his failing eyesight when he realised it was only a fat one. Happy with his mate a drafty's choices, he decided to put operation 'Sitting Bull' on hold. He could finally begin campaign 'Liberace'.
As the first females to serve at sea on submarines walked nervously down 2 deck, making sure their new tattoo's were on display, they were shocked to look down the fridge flat hatch to see a naked Wits lying on his back with a tin of XG 294 rammed over his manhood, the fat lumpy ones thighs rippled with anticipation at the part 3 training she was soon to endure..


Book Reviewer
The Sixty Shady Adventures of WreckerL continued…………

The three young lads quivered at the sight before them. The WreckerL had faked a shit pump blowout and was standing before them naked as the day he was born. The rouse had been easy. He had shit his pants, which wasn’t hard these days, and smeared himself from head to toe. “Right lads” in a booming voice, “Your first task on a boat is too hose me down”. Immediately the fat one began to wretch. The WreckerL wasn’t sure if it was the sight or smell, but what did he care. He was struggling to prevent the blood reaching his member. Op ‘Libbers’ was going to plan.

WreckerL was sitting in his favourite armchair feeling content with a glass of port in his hand when the witch walked in. There was an unusual spring in her step which raised his suspicions. “What are you so happy about” he snapped. With a smile on her face which he hadn’t seen since he had moved out of the bedroom she replied, “I’m reading this great book”. She handed him the phone, “it’s for you”.

How could they do this to me, thought the WreckerL, as he watched the English countryside past by and they entered Scotland. He had asked the Coxswain if he could travel via Kings Cross, using a made-up sick relative as the excuse, but the Coxswain had simply raised his eyebrows before saying “Helensburgh one-way”. Worst of all sat across from him was the fat snivelling creature who had refused to scrub his back. They had both been crash drafted and were one day away from being officially classed as queens. How could he ever go for a pint in the RNA again? “Want something to eat”, asked fatboy. Is that an offer thought the WreckerL, before demanding “three tins of lager and they better be cold”. With all his plans thwarted, sat on a train in Scotland, across from a fatboy drinking a warm bottle of beer the WreckerL was feeling rather sorry for himself.

WreckerL was awoken by the shouts of “On your feet”. With a mouth like a badger’s tadger and tasting funny he sprung to his feet. “You’re adrift” screamed one of the two crushers. The WreckerL had a banging headache and was having trouble walking. It felt like he had been impaled by a four hundred pound Buffalo. The WreckerL was confused. The last thing he remembered was sipping a warm bottle of beer on a train just outside Gretna Green thinking how nice it would be to get married again, but not to a witch. “Fatboy!” shouted WreckerL. “Any more of that WreckerL and you’ll be trooped for using abusive language towards a Reggie” said the stout crusher. The WreckerL was released without charge from Stewart St police station and into the custody of the Royal Navy police. He was warned never to turn up drunk again in Glasgow. Fatboy, thought the WreckerL, had found his ditbook detailing operation ‘Sitting Bull’ when he had told him to wash his 8’s after he had shat himself.

The WreckerL had been outfoxed by a Part 3. On the journey to Faslane he began plotting his next move. Could campaign 'Liberace' still go ahead?
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Spookily there are some accuracies in that second to last paragraph aka waking up in Glasgow station not knowing where the feck I was or how I got there.
Sam the Sailor had fallen hard for the foxy miad he had trapped in Emma's last Saturday night.

On the way home on summer evening takiing in the delights of the Pompey to Fratton bus Sam pressed his suit and decided to try to live out some of his baser fantasies............

Once again she tempted him by crossing her eyes and breathing heavily she sighed 'oh yes, take me now. Spin me up to the never before known delights of ecstacy'

It was at this point that the bus conductor asked them if they would very kindly leave the bus as Mrs Smith an elderly doyen of the public transport system had fainted.
"50 Spades of Gay"=============An erotic *Wipe-clean* (Patents pending) paperback set in North Carolina, USA in 1810. Graphically portraying a dungaree-lifting slaves life on the Rimjob cotton plantation and what happens when a slave gets all smeared up with racoon grease for a night of fun with the "Massa". Master Beauregard Noshcock,collects only the finest gay slaves from all over America. From Noshville, Tennessee, Texarse, Alabumma,Penisylvania, Louisianal, and Arkansawarse.....he has filled his slave huts with only the best-buttocked oiled-up-and-gagging-for-it cotton pickers that money can buy. A sexually explicit novel that'll have the gay community slavvering for a sequel.(Out in September, Hodder and Hodder £10.99)* * * * * *
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As Wits rubbed his body in what he hoped was an exotic enough posture up the pole, his mind spun in turmoil as he wondered how it had come to this.
There he was one day lord and master of his domain in a pleasant enough billet in Scotland, and now....
He felt the flush of shame overcome him him as he thought how last night had ended in total humiliation. There in front of him as he gyrated on his pole in his sexiest manner were three of his old ship mates.
WTF are you doing asked his until recent oppo, his mouth agape as he watched Wits slip around the pole scantily dressed in fishnet tights and a body stocking.
Jesus said the other two as Wits becoming aware of their presence tried desperately to cover his exposed crotch, how the held did you end up here.
Overcome by the complete surreal situation, he began to sob uncontrollably as he tried his best to relate the circumstances that had brought him down to this.
"I came outside he wailed, and despite all that I thought, its a living night mare. No work, the new regulations governing self termination of employment caught me out and unable to get benefit it was this or starve."
"But pole dancing with your figure and at your age" they cried in unison.
It was either this or clean the toilets at RR head quarters he sobbed and you know I have this terrible aversion to piss. I had enough when my family did it on me, I just can't take any more.
"Fuckin hell" they replied, "you sure theres fuck all else"?
"Well that cunt Rumrat did offer to let me clean his caravan a couple of times a week and wrecker had a bit of washing for me but to be honest I always used the Laundry so I wouldn't know where to start".
"As I'm an old "bomber Queen i thought I would give this a go"
"You look like a fuckin drag artist", said his oppo.
"These are my street clothes you bastard" replied Wits.
"OMG they wailed in triplicate, did you not bring your iron out the mob with you"
"I did said Wits"
"What type is it" said his ex bezzy friend who was at present trying to distance himself from Wits.
"A murphy Richards steam iron, wanna buy it? I'll do you a good price on it" he said.
"If you have a suit case to put it in" said his oppo.
"Shit I never brought one that twat ginga ninga said not to bring one".
"You don't listen to that bastard do you"? they replied.
"Good luck" they chorteled over their shoulders as they legged it back to Faslane.
"Fuckin civvy street" sobbed Wits, I hate it already.
Never mind in a couple of years time when my piss smell has attaind full strength, I go back on RR and spin a few dits about "the day".^_~
. Judging by your barnet, I'd say there are quite a lot of shades of grey, SPB.......bit like me, really,... except you got more than me. :scratch:


Lantern Swinger
"50 Shades of Geordie"Afta what seemed like 10 minutes of humping the arse off her, and riding her like a Blackpool Donkey, I pulled oot, and emptied the vast contents of me overflowin nutsack all ower her fayce, leaving her looking like a plasterers radio .................
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