Magic Wanda - Sex Stories

Magic Wanda

... seen anyone as cut up as that. I tried to imagine his hurt but I had nothing to compare it to. We called the stag weekend off and didn’t see Dave for about five days. We couldn’t get him out for a pint, he wouldn’t come to the phone, to the door or even look at the funny faces we pulled through his window. We were worried. On day six, we’d all but given up. Then, out of the blue, later that same day, he called me. “Rick?” he said sounding his normal self. “Dave?” I replied, surprised to hear him sounding so chipper. “Yeah, sorry about the last few days. Let’s go to Blackpool and let rip.” “You’re on!” I said, not hesitating. If that’s what Dave wanted, that’s what we were going to do. I was quickly on to the phone to Ringo and we decided it was probably best if it was just the three of us. We didn’t think he’d cope too well with constant questions, insensitive comments and piss-taking. The three musketeers boarded the 11.25 to Blackpool on Friday the 27th of July. It was a beautiful, hot, English summer’s day. Ringo and I had decided not to mention Nina at all. If Dave wanted to speak about it, that was different, but until he did, we were going to keep the conversations on music, football, the delights of Blackpool, basically whatever would keep his mind off the cheating bitch. We needn’t have worried, Dave brought it up as the train pulled away from the platform. “I know I’ve been a little out of it these last few days. Just my way of dealing with it, that’s all.” “How are ...

... you feeling now?” I asked. “Pretty good,” he said. “I’ve had a lucky escape and I’ve got the rest of my life and a world of possibilities to look forward to. Now let’s forget about what’s happened, have some fun and get bladdered.” With that, he pulled a six-pack of Tennants ‘f***e 10’ lager from his bag and handed them round. “A couple of these down us and we’ll be well on our way,” he added. He wasn’t wrong. At ten percent alcohol content per can, they soon started to have an effect. By the time we’d reached our destination a couple of hours later, our laughter was loud, the world was a little fuzzy and we entered Blackpool a collective mass of buzzing testosterone. “Come on, last one in the boozer’s a pussy!” shouted Dave looking over his shoulder, already five yards in front of us. Being the slowest runner and the most sensible, I tried to protest. “Let’s drop our bags off first, get changed and stuff.” “Pussy!” they both shouted in unison sprinting away from me. I slung my bag for all I was worth at Ringo in the hope of knocking him off his feet, but the bag landed a couple of feet behind him. He heard it and jumped out of the way as it sk**ded along the pavement and carried on into the road. Splat! An open-topped Blackpool bus was the first to run over it, closely followed by a white Ford Transit van. Dave and Ringo were bent double laughing at me, yards from the pub entrance. “Now then pussy boy!” screamed Ringo, snorting like a pig with laughter. “At least you won’t ...