Elsie was almost giddy as she unzipped her gym bag and delved inside for her towel. She rocked back in the tight cubical, no longer frustrated by its mean dimensions, and rested against it's cold plastic shell. How ironic a lady of her proportions picking up a man in a swimming pool, the very place where all her sins were on display. Her fingers teased the straps of her costume as she readied herself for the reunion in the foyer of the pool. Springing to action she reached up to pull off her compulsory swimming cap, then froze. Hell! Really? A small yelp slipped out of her left nostril. She hastily drew in a breath to control this flood of anxiety, as last nights rash tailoring of her fringe flashed before her eyes. She glanced up at the ribbed ceiling spanning all the cubicals, if only her scissor action had been quite as linear. She recounted the scraggy edge she had calved and how it framed her head so violently.  A less jubilant Elsie slid off her swimming costume, her head whirring beneath the prime blue swimming cap.

found - caps for girls

Martin corrected his cock before abandoning his trunks, it always sat a little dinky after activity but he didn't foresee it's involvement in today's proceedings. A simple number exchange and maybe a coffee with his new found companion was as much as he could hope for. Slowly rotating a coarse towel over his chest Martin recounted the image of Elsie. She was a large lady, well proportioned for a man of his bulk, but her eyes, although for the better part avoided contact, were so pearly that with any prolonged attention could single handedly pad out his trunks. Martin flung his towel excitedly onto the over used carrier bag perched on the changing room bench. He then puffed out his chest and with one finger lodged  under his swimming cap hastily halted. She knew of his bulk but not his baldness! Heavens his monk like edging had all too often been a turn off for many a prospect. Worried, Martin dropped heavily down next to the plastic bag and brittle towel.

The foyer was quiet as the pool lights flickered off through the large viewing window. Reluctantly the female changing room door opened and Elsie, wearing a whippy styled towel about her head stepped forward. Martin's eyes from under his scooter helmut met with hers and in an instant he rose from a nest of seats and hastily presented her with his number scribbled out on the reverse of his pool ticket. Elsie returned the favour offering hers, prepared on a tatty but unused tissue. The couple took each others offering and then made for the exit not a word spoken.



A kettle boiled as Mr Tom sat at his small kitchen table weaving a packet of Polo Mints between his fingers. His fingers were long, thin and despite their seventy years service for the stubborn old bastard, surprisingly youthful. The skin had remained taught and bore not a single mark, other than a curious dry cracking where the right index finger met the palm. As the kettle clicked off and the squeak and pop of its bubbling began to wane, Mr Tom stood and made himself a coffee. As he stirred the granules into the circling water, the sound of traffic suddenly bolted in through the open door next to him. London's traffic was yet again notching up a gear for another day of labours. 

Mr Tom returned to the table with his coffee and took his seat as an old wrist watch, that laid next to the abandoned mints, struck six o'clock. Mr Tom raised out his chin and listened in the direction of the balcony, that protruded out from the open door and floated three floors above a small courtyard. Nothing. Mr Tom slowly yet with haste, as only he could conjure, opened the mints and one by one placed four into his mouth. He paused, listened, then

champed the sweets before taking a gulp of his coffee. This methodical consumption continued until all the mints were finished and the last mouthful of coffee was drunk. As the congealed matter of peppermint and caffeine worked their way into his tired old gut, he sat motionless waiting. 

The solitude of the courtyard below was suddenly disturbed by the pacing of feet. Mr Tom reacted and manoeuvred towards the door, silently and with ease raising phlegm from his lower airways. Mr Tom had found with the hasty consumption of Polo Mints, phlegm didn't take as much drawing and always induced a good thick substance. He stepped out onto the balcony phlegm in mouth and with a quick glance over the metal railing located the courtyards occupant. Silently Mr Tom stepped out of sight and arching his body back, tilting his head to the heavens, drew a large breath and then like a discharging catapult, flung forward releasing the phlegm into the morning air. It rolled, expanded and catching the breeze momentarily hovered, then contorted and plummeted. 


SLAP! The phlegm found its way onto the scalp of a young man. At first the man cowered and then raising his hand as though to seek out the gunk, faltered, he withdrew his hand from entertaining the phlegm and turned to quiz the overhanging apartments. Prepared, he pulled out a fresh tissue from his pocket and masterfully gathered the goo from his tightly trimmed head of hair. He smirked to himself and scrunching the tissue into a ball threw it into a neighbouring bush. The tissue bobbed its way through the flowering branches and came to rest at the foot, alongside a host of other soiled tissues. 

'Every fucking day' The footsteps headed out of the courtyard. Mr Tom stood back on his balcony and waited for them to disappear and for the clank of the courtyards security gate. As the gate clung too, Mr Tom stepped out onto the balcony and satisfied. He stood tall over the courtyard and imaging himself like Clint Eastward, set a gaze across what little of London he could see.


Morris was assured that if Pat sat next to him and he could slacken his throat enough to squeak out a word or two, the night could end prosperous. Pat stood for a moment scouring the remaining unoccupied seats at the children's party. She knew that the seat next to Morris came without baggage and was the best option, she hadn't slept with him. So she wobbled over on two blisters and a corn plaster...

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A heavy lump of musty laundry clumsily paced down the train. As it reached the narrowing gap between Melissa and her opposing commuter it awkwardly rotated its mass and haphazardly brushed past. With a strong whiff of sullied detergent the last pork scratching was knocked from Melissa's hand and onto the carriage floor. Melissa was distraught,  stranded with her prize-less fingers still poised agonisingly close to her mouth. She could still smell the pungent morsel of fat on her digits and a lusting deluge of saliva gathered beneath her tongue. She searched her mouth for a morsel of pig to feed this pool of anticipation and finding nothing, turned to the blob of wool and polyester. The mixture of damp linen was now sat two seats down from her and smiled as she eyed his face. Melissa scoured his

features, looking for the evil that lurked beneath all that fabric, wanting to expose the ignorant beast that had stolen her piglet. The man was fat but pleasant looking, she turned back despondent and looked down at her empty hand as the train jarred along its tracks. She had been holding the nugget of gristle for some time and was still in shock that it had escaped her. She always enjoyed the last nibble, the last snack, more than the others. From a young age it had been her habit to consume it with great care and method. A method that with pork scratchings was informed by the scratchings proceeding the last as the quality of the bag would have a most definite impact on her decision. For this particular scratching, she had been torn between gnawing the fat from the hard crackle then champing down ceremoniously, or

sucking it in its entirety until the fat disintegrated and the rind went soft. She believed she would have gone with the sucking option as the power of her mouth's acids always fascinated her and the packet had proved worthy of testing their resolve. The blob of cotton suddenly leant forward with determination, it hankered over its gut, peering at the filthy lino floor. Melissa leant forward peering to where the mass leered. THERE IT WAS! The pork scratching sat tall on the speckled rubber flooring, stood up like a rugby ball waiting to be drilled through the posts. OH NO, NOT THOSE POSTS! The conglomeration of threads stooped and in a graceful motion plucked up the little peace of pig and devoured. Melissa's mouth dropped heavily, the saliva flowing over her dumfounded bottom lip. YOU FUCKER!


Lenny stood looking down at his miserable naked legs. The changing room appeared smaller than when he had entered and the curtain less concealing. Pinned in the corner of the cubicle he watched the thin pleated material billow open and closed at the faintest whiff of air. The cloth was so light it barley needed an excuse to part down the centre or seep at the edges. Transfixed Lenny traced the movement catching glimpses out onto the shop floor, where he could see his companion patiently waiting...

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