{{NSFW}}In the 1960s there was a man names Charles Wankton. He liked to stick his schlong where it didn't belong, yet he enjoyed long nights of choking his chicken. He lived up on a hill, away from prying eyes. Although, he would have preferred to do what he did in plain sight because he liked that sort of thing. Anyway, he discovered a most terrible evil one day. This is the story of the sex bomb gone wrong.
Charles was having his wanker's delight when he heard a knock on the door. Hoping to turn this into a danger wank, he shouted "Come in, the front door's open! I'm in the bedroom!" Furiously whacking off, to his dismay he got no reply. He grumbled as he finished then walked down the stairs, trousers in hitch because he loved doing his thing in an awkward sitting position. What he didn't know is that was what his great Grandfather's favourite position was and this would come back to haunt him. Literally.
As he reached the front door, Charles felt he could go again so he opened the door with one hand. "What do you want?" He was talking and fapping to thin air. Sighing, he went back indoors. Again, his favourite was an outdoor wank but after climaxing having seen old Mrs. Higgins' behind, she had told the police who then made sure that he was house bound for at least 246 years. There was a sniper hiding at the bottom of his garden and lest he decide to come outside to fap about bush he would doubtless be shot from his own bush, not to be confused with all the shooting this would cause him to have all over his bush.
Groaning twofold, he shut the door. Damn them for bothering him, but at least he felt that sweet open air over his bellend.
The next day Charels was having his breakfast wank in bed when the phone rang. The problem was that to get to it he would have to get up and he was already in his patented lying down-wank position. He decided to wait out the phone and call them back later, right after his second go for the day. But the phone would not stop ringing after climaxing. Irritated, he got out of bed to answer the phone, "What the hell do you want? I'm doing something extremely important" he said as he caressed his erect penis. There was a hissed, disjointed voice that sounded familiar, "I know when you're fapping..." Nearly dropping phone and wang, Charels gasped and asked, "Is that you Great Grampa Wank?" You see, in his vast and fruitful family lineage the point when the family name became Wankton was after his great Grandad royally fucked his great Grandmother so hard it broke the bed, giving the nickname of their newly invented romp style 'the Ton'. And this was such a romantic experience for them that they decided they would combine their last name with their creepy-arse sex style and forevermore the lineage would be cursed, I mean blessed, with the name Wankton.
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This is the intermission. Please feel free to touch yourself. Do not question why a Pasta has an intermission.
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The disjointed voice immediately responded, "I know when you're fapping, Charles, so you'd better remember that the trouser-hitch backwards chicken slam was invented by me. And I know full well you've never actually made contact with a woman sexually so I know you can't pull off 'the Ton'. This presents a problem, as my lineage needs to prove its worthy of its birthright by living up to its own name. If you can't slam dunk a bitch within the next thirteen weeks, I will swallow your soul... And seamen".
Charles gasped; he hated Grampa Wank's last swallowing so much it scarred him for life... Or maybe that was just the tattoo of the snap shot they took in the act. Either way, he needed to slam dunk a bitch and fast, lest he and his seamen be swallowed forever by his vengeful pervy Grampa's ghost.
There were no women nearby except for Mrs. Higgins and he'd wanked about her buttocks one too many times already. He would need to try a different tact. Charles looked through his phone book desperately for someone to chat-and-fuck. Picking a number, he dialled the phone; "Hi, I need to get laid, otherwise my Grandfather and his haunted bellend will fuck me instead". The woman answered, "I know who this is, you've called me over and over for the past two years and I know exactly what you do while phoning. For the last time, never call here again". Charles exclaimed, "At least tell me about your underwear!" But she had already hung up. Charles was desperate now, he didn't have any money but he would try another route, like dialling a number for a certain 'massage parlour'. After dialling, they picked up; "Hello! My pussy wet for you long time! What can we do for you?"
Charles said desperately, "I need a fuck and fast!" but she said, "No no, no money no fuck!" And suddenly, the phone clicked. It was his Grampa's phantom, "Hurry it up Charles; my ghostly dick is getting impatient and there's only so much ectoplasmic seamen I can shoot before getting desperate. You must appease me so I can rest or I must please myself through you."
Charles slammed the phone down, he would have to use his computer. Typing with his penis he searched for 'Dial-A-Ho'. But his IP was blocked after many payment bounces. Again, he needed a rethink. He got an idea. Yes, that would have to do.
Propping up a rubber blow up doll on his bed and putting the head on his pillow, he got to work trying to make it look more realistic. He used an old mop for the hair and some makeup he had stashed for his very freaky wank sessions he liked to have on special occasions. After he was satisfied, he got to business, trying to break the bed. But his work was in vain because he owned an Ikea Malm with storage, famous for being the most unbreakable bed in existence. Nothing less would do for his crazy fapping techniques yet here his greatest asset was his greatest weakness because the bed could not break. This attempt at 'the Ton’ would turn out to be his undoing because he'd forgotten he'd loaded the blow-up doll with explosives for the ultimate in danger wank other than the time he'd but his slong in his dog's chew toy and wrapped it in bacon. The detonation could come at any time whilst he wildly thrust his manhood into the lifeless blow up doll while Grampa Wank watched eagerly, hoping he could finally pass on to the next world and fuck some heavenly bitches. But the explosives detonated, sending bits of rubber and sinew everywhere. When the police came to investigate why his leg collar had stopped its signal it looked like someone had filled a balloon with black powder and popped it all over the room. Except that probably isn't what it would look like and it would have been enough for them to hurl their lunch juices all over the room where so much other body fluid had been lost. James the RMC sniper would need a new job.