In the heady days of BAOR you couldn't go into the bogs in the block without hearing the rythmic "slap slap slap" of knackers and page turning of boxhead filth. I remember having to wake some chap up when i was on stag at 0530hrs on a Sunday and having to walk past the pit space of a fellow who clearly came in from town sozzled and thought it would be good to tug himself sober, only to fall asleep. I found him starkers on his pit, flaccid member in hand and a girl on girl scene paused on his VHS. A quick check of his top drawer and his camera was found and pictures were duly taken. I digress.

As a young chap i came home on my first leave from Deutschland with my bag loaded with porn (mags & vids) and Asbach. Being 1990, hardcore porn was not freely available in the good old UK. Anyway, i arrive home and go through the routine with the family and promptly go out to get trollied with my civvy chums. Many, many beers, shorts and fags later, i go home at silly o clock with the raging horn. Despite my many tales of derring do, the ladies of West London were not putting out and rohypnol was unheard of then. As the family Blackrat were all abed, my drunken mind informed me that it would be perfectly acceptable to stick a porn vid on in the front room and thrap myself into oblivion.

Making no more noise than a herd of elephants trapped in a greenhouse full of bear traps, i managed to locate a suitable film from the depths of my bag and sneak downstairs. With a trembling hand, i placed said video into the VHS and pressed play. Nothing. Blank screen. The TV was not on. Turning the TV on i was then subjected to a barrage of noise akin to the Krakatoa eruption. Casa Blackrat was treated to "Ja ja mit der klinker" (or something like that) at high volume. Shite!! I located the remote eventually (after several "Ja ja. Sehr schon"'s and one "Ich Spritze") and put the volume on very low. Good. Assembling my thrap kit of tissues, remotes and a pint of water, i settled down, placed my trousers and boxers around my ankles and began burping the worm at a sedate pace.

Five minutes later and close to arrival, i hear footsteps coming down the stairs. Shhhhhhhhhiiiitttttttt!! At this stage dear reader, imagine Yakkity Sax (from Benny Hill) playing.

At the speed of a million gazelles i had to:
1. Pull trousers & boxers up
2. Stop the video
3. Turn off the TV
4. Hide the tissues
5. Conceal a massive hardon

All from whoever was coming downstairs. Now, i think i had around 10 seconds to do this. Sounds logical. What i did was: (Cue Yakkity Sax)

1. Fall over trying to pull up trousers & kex
2. Spill water over the remotes
3. Smack head off the coffee table
4. Be sick over the carpet

I was then confronted by my elder brother (luckily not Mother Blackrat). He took in the scene of me on the deck, naked from the waist down, hardon, vomit on the floor and on the TV, a nice Frauline getting pummelled up Das Hoop by Rudi Voller, and said "What the fcuk is going on?" (Very observant is brother Blackrat). I bribed him a tenner to keep shtumm and told him i would cook him breakfast for a week. He agreed. Two nights later, all my mates knew. So much for brother love.

Come on ARRSER's, confess. Any similar situations?

PS. Brother Blackrat. If by chance you have stumbled on here and are reading this, i jacked in your scrambled eggs.

Just back from survival course at LRRPS Weingarten back in '80. Had a room of my own. Too knackered to check I'd locked the door. Close to vinegar when a guy barges into the room asking to borrow my iron.....

Within hours I had a course joining instruction made up for Regimental Butcher. The humorous fellow who made that CJI is now PSAO for a sig sqn in the midlands.

In civvy street, about ten years back a mate and his missus came back to the house for some post-pub-session afters.

He was suitably shitt-faced and being the most IT illiterate window-licker you've ever come across in your life he had not sampled the delights of internet porn which was available even then, if you trawled hard enough.

So I introduced him to the PC, showed him how to visit the various sites and retired to join the ladies.

A while later his absence was noted and I was despatched to retrieve him from the 'office'.

On entering office the porn was in full flow but mucker was sat in seat, head tilted down, fast asleep, with his manhood still grasped firmly in his right hand. Of course I couldn't resist getting the women up to witness the spectacle.

But just to spare his embarrassment we only told 3/4 of the pub!!

sorry no story's but reading the others has put a smile on my face!! funny as fook

Didn't happen to me however I shall relate a tale concerning a friend.

When Belize was still classed as an operational tour back in the early 80's one of the tasks was manning an OP overlooking a Guatemalan airfield. The whole thing was a little rustic and consisted of a small room accessed by some ladders and was in a compound guarded by a BDF soldier.

This mate of mine took over the OP in the early hours of the morning and after a quick look through the NOD decided that there was bugger all happening and decided to knock one out. So there he was porn spread out on the bench in front of him, torch in one hand and knob in the other. Just as he was on the vinegar strokes he heard a cough from the corner of the room and looked round to find the BDF guard sat in the corner with just his white teethed grin sparkling in the torch light!!

Doh!

Blackrat_scaleyback.

Thank you, you * *.

My newly painted study walls, mocha and pistachio at almost £100 from B&Q, are now sprayed with red wine and a stain that will never come out.

I MSNd your post to my fiance (she has a sicker soh than me!) and got a call five minutes later that sounded like Ian Huntley bathing two schoolgirls.

Can I please send you the bill for redecorating. And another girlfriend if you have one spare.

you fnucking wunker

It's a pleasure Chinooksdad. Send your bill to:

Blackrat_scaleyback
Behind the cistern
Last cubicle on the left
Gentlemans rest room
Victoria station.

When I was 15 my mum and stepdad (ex Bren gunner) moved from the little town we were living in to the wilds of Goole. As I was close to finishing my O-levels, there was no point in my moving, so I lodged with one of their mates, an ex-squaddie who after years serving in Germany had one of the largest filth stashes known to man.

He was a top lad, and when I first went to see my new house, he took me into his and his wife's room, opened the wardrobe and pointed to the stash and said help yourself whenever you want.

Although I had a bird, this glorious stash meant that I took whatever opportunity I could to knock on off to this premium pron (I had not been exposed to continental filth until this point).

One day I got back from school, and the house was empty. Quality - time for a pull!
I went to the stash, selected one of my favourites and set to work. Unbeknown to me, my landlord had come home and walked in on me frantically knocking one out. As I died, he took one look at me, said "I see you are in good hands", and walked out. To my eternal thanks, he never mentioned it ever again, and I swore I'd use the same line if I ever caught someone wakning....

Although not caught thrapping, a thrap story nonetheless.

Some of you who deployed on Granby may remember when vehicles had to be driven from Soest/Munster/Paderborn/Lippstadt etc to the fair German port of Emden. I was detailed to drive one of those wacky looking Land Rovers (can't remember exactly what they were called, big feckers though) on a 10 hour trip up to Emden, with no bloody co-driver. This was not cricket. To keep myself awake and therefore alive on this trip, i stocked up with a couple of 2 litre bottles of coke, mars bars ,crisps and a multitude of fags. All too soon, we set off in a splendid convoy. The first 4 hours of the trip were fine with me singing merrily away to myself in the cab, swigging coke and flicking fags out of the window at passing Mercedes. We had a brief stop where i jumped out and p1ssed like a racehorse and begged for a co-driver (i was losing it and had forgotten the words to "Michael Row the Boat Ashore"). There was no-one spare so i had to set off on my own again.

After and hour and a half, i felt a stirring down below. I wasn't thinking of anything sexual, but little Blackrat had awoken. As he had stirred, i started re-playing previous conquests in my head from my spank bank. This was most welcome as i was trying my hardest to stay awake. The age old tricks of sticking my head out of the window, rubbing spit in my eye and shouting at the top of my voice were failing. Convoy c0ck had now set in so i decided to have a convoy thrap. As we were travelling at a speed of about 50mph, i deemed it safe to do so. One handed, i released little Blackrat out of his pants prison and started to have a wee chug. Thing is, i had no tissues to spaff into. Reaching behind the seat to see if there was one of the convoy flags there, i located a set of coveralls. Good find. Shoving little Blackrat up one of the sleeves, i pulled the head clean off him until i spilt my beans up the sleeve. I should add that on climax, i swerved into the hard shoulder and hit a fence. After wiping, the covvies were shoved behind the seat.

So the story ends. As a footnote though, i was present when the owner of the covvies went to put them on when we were in Al Jubail. He had the bottom half over his combats with the sleeves wrapped around his waist. He went to fit some new batteries into the back of his rover, so decided to put the covvies on properly. The left arm went in a treat but on trying to put his right arm in, it met some resistance. "Some fcukers glued my sleeves together. What kind of jack would do that?"

Laugh? I had wee dribbling down my leg.

Potential good thread looming, please refrain from posting one line pants posts.

Depot Queen's Div, circa1976.

Wednesday (sports afternoon - ironically).

Heard strains of Ian Dury and the Blockheads' album 'New Boots and Panties' (more irony) froma Queen's Regiment subby's room on the ground floor and barged in trhough his unlocked door to ask for a loan of his steam iron.

To my vast amusement, there he was (all hairy-arrsed 6 feet of him) on his bed, rugby shorts round his ankles, Mayfair Magazine in his left hand and in his right (in a curious overhanded, fingertips-only grip, as I remember it) - his manhood, as stiff and proud as Academy Sar'nt Major Huggins on any commissioning parade.

P.S. I'm having a senior moment - his name slips my mind - BUT YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE

Whilst not exactly a thrapping tale it's still one of being caught out with a limp member.........'a friend of mine' was on adventure training in Jersey back in the late 80's and all round him the blokes were scoring like 20 men due to the fact that they had jumped in on St Ouens beach and all the local strumpets were well aware that the maroon machine was in town.
Anyhow, our disgruntled none scorer was getting desperate by now and it had come to the attention of the rest of the motley crew that there had been no action for this chap.

Towards the end of the second week there was a party laid on for the locals (they were stopping in that place where the bodies were recently found!) and the chap in question went for the safe option....the fat ugly one...he managed to get her back up to the room and on arrival she saw all the jump paraphernalia and asked if she could wear his smock whilst she was getting nailed...our 'hero' at this point was leathered and agreed to this, she then said that he had to wear his P helmet during the action.

He agreed to this, got a raging hard on only to collapse on top of the fatty and it was at this point that the rest of the room burst in to find the fatty squashed under a naked fella who was out cold with a hard on and in the process of chukking up on the fatty who was now trapped in a baggy smock under an army camp bed with a face full of sick.

Oh, and he never did score! He just had a * when he found his mate banging a bird on the mixing table in the BBC studios (they filmed Bergerac there!)


*Names and places have not been altered to allow ridicule of the guilty party*

Whilst adventure training, I was out in the pub busy trying to trap off having recently been dumped. For whatever reason (and I'm going assume that desperation and a "I hate women" look was mostly to blame), I failed and decided to call it a night as my muckers carried on drinking.

Back in the shared room, little Drop Short decided to make an appearance and, since noone else was about, it seemed only fair and proper to lavish a little attention on him. After a certain amount of time, the vinegar strokes were reached and thrap tissues duly bought in to use.

At EXACTLY this time, my colleague returned from the pub and burst into the room. Duvet on the floor and pants warming my shins, I was not in much of a position to cover anything.

"FCUK ME, GET IN HERE BOYS, DROP SHORT'S KNOCKING ONE OUT! BUSTED!" came the cry.

It was at this time that I believe that I defied the known laws of science. In the space of seconds, I managed to lose the lob on whilst simultaneously pumping out the remaining baby batter. Somehow there were no marks around the bed space to indicate my guilt. Underwear was ripped back up to its rightful place and tissues hidden from view. By the time the others assembled at the door, nothing would ever had indicated that I had previously been bashing away in a blind fury. Potential piss-taking having been lost, they staggered back to switch the TV on. The mate who had busted me was busy saying "you fcuking were, too..." but was so poleaxed that he had completely forgotten about it the following morning.

I learnt something that day. 1) It is possible to climax and die at exactly the same time. And 2) check, double-check and triple-check that the fcuking door is locked.

In Afghanistan a few years back, I was sleeping in a room next to a huge US Marine. The wall was simply a pane of glass that had been whitewashed. With the bedside light on, the whole room turned into one of those Thai shadow theatre shows.

Anyway, said Marine puts on the light, dumps his weapon and kit and proceeds to whip out his Tony Blair and start to beat it; slowly at first and then with all the enthusiasm that the USMC had instilled in him. He marched around the room whacking himself off and I fully expected to hear him sing highlights from Wagner or a chorus from "The Yanks Are Coming!" as he lost all sense of control, kicking the furniture over and tearing his Blair to pieces in a frenzy.

I pulled my blanket over my head and went to a happy place.

Saw him next morning at breakfast, but decided not to sit with him.

Grot mags and internet p0rn.. so last century.

here's the wave of the future.. 3-D , fully posable miniatures..

fashionism.ca/Fashion/...date=False

hide a little Heidi in your shorts....

ooh.. I think I need to find a corner...

Two man tent Snowdonia.

I woke up to the sounds of a willy hampton being soundly thrashed, willy had obviously been bad because he was getting the spanking of his life.

thrap, thrap, thrap - wait, wait, dum de dum - thrap, thrap

"Hey Mickey whatya doin"


"get fcuked you cnut, you coudda let me finish"


Breakfast was eaten in silence.

Brill!!!

I just remembered -

HEY SIMON - if you don't want the rest of your name published on here - PM me

Germany, '92. Good mate of mine, who shall obviously remain nameless, came back from town with me in a taxi on a real high. Both of us were very drunk and i was feeling rather ill.

"Did you score tonight you jammy bugger?" says i.
"No man" says he. "I did persuade her to give me her kex though like"

He then proceeded to pull out an alarmingly sized pair of Bridget Jones hand me downs from his pockets. Thrusting them in my face, he urged me to "Have a sniff, gan on. They smell of her reet enough". If "She" smelt of urine and cack, then he had the correct undercrackers. I politely declined a more detailed inspection stating that if they came within a foot of me, i would chuck up the pizza i had recently consumed.

Back at the block, we retired to our respective rooms and i lay on my pit. Closing my eyes, i had a feeling not unlike that of being on the black hole at Alton Towers. Deciding that a chat with Hughie and Ralph down the big white telephone was in order, i set off hot foot to the karzee to razz. Making it just in time, i ejected vomit at a speed that would have impressed Werner Braun and could hear moaning from the trap next to me. On exiting, i noticed the next door trap was slightly ajar. Being the good samaritan that i am, i had a shufti, thinking someone else was being sick as well. I wish i hadn't bothered. My northern friend was on the throne, hampton in hand, tugging furious away wearing only the aforementioned gunts over his entire head. The vision was enough to make me dry retch while laughing furiously. Sadly for him, he fell asleep where he was and was found a couple of times during the night by others who were luckily so drunk, they thought they were hallucinating.

I caught my son just before he joined up so would make him 17.

I nearly died,he just said he had a itchy leg and being a mum i said do you want a cup of tea.

well, if we're going to talk about walking in on a thrap..I should say that, while he wasn't self abusing... I did walk in on my son [17] putting it to his girlfiend..

got a right nice look at her perky norks before she managed to cover up and the two, all flustered crashed about..

Think she was giving him a nosh..funny, since she's an avowed vegetarian...