My Portuguese Holiday - How I became a Sex Offender

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My Portuguese Holiday - How I became a Sex Offender

Postby musashi » Sat Dec 15, 2018 2:29 pm

My Portuguese Holiday - How I became a Sex Offender

I sat on the outside seat and my old mate Mike had a window seat. The middle seat between us on the Airbus to Lisbon awaited its passenger. Down the aisle waddled a big old Italian-looking type. Maybe Portuguese, but the accent I heard as she huffed her way along suggested Italian. I glanced at the empty seat beside me and thought – Oh no. Oh please no. She stopped beside me, muttered breathlessly with the effort of waddling and pointed at her seat. I rose to my feet and stepped into the aisle to allow her to pass. Several minutes later she managed to squeeze in and jam herself between the now deformed armrests. I reseated myself as best I could and refastened my seat belt. Moments later as she adjusted her twenty two stones of pasta and sardines she let rip a beauty. I turned my head away to avoid embarrassing her then turned it away even further as the smell hit me. She cursed aloud and I glanced at Mike's face. He looked decidedly unhappy. The smell drifted further and I groped for the seat belt release to get the hell out of the impact area, but as I groped I saw Mike's look of growing desperation as he was trapped by the window with no escape. He tried to get past her but she had to rise to let him pass which meant that I had to get up to let her pass. Alas, her movement had shifted her bulk and trapped my hand. A shock of pain drove through me and I struggled to free myself. All thought of belt releases fled my red-misted mind. She felt my hand jiggling on her ample bottom, sat back down – trapping me further – punched me in the eye and gave vent to her Italian mama outrage as only a genuine pasta-fed mama can do. All heads turned. My head turned back and I saw a now bulging-eyed and frantic mate scrabbling desperately at the window, seeking any means of escape he could. Pasta mama continued to vent at both ends and a truly desperate Mike began clambering over seat tops – not easy when you're six four, choking and stinging-eyed. He gave up when he got jammed up and a soy boy lib-tard in front pushed him back down. He returned to scrabbling at his window. I tried to free my hand again. She punched me again and as I went over I saw hostesses running towards us. Thank God, I thought. They assessed the situation very quickly – too fucking quickly, I'd say - tasered the obvious loony attacking the fabric of the plane and dragged the equally obvious sex offender out of his seat, damaged hand and all, and hand-cuffed me face down on the floor. Jason, our friendly homosexual flight attendant helpfully sat his own chubby bulk on me while pasta mama howled continuously. I watched agonisingly, and now also breathlessly, while a semi-conscious Mike was carted off with occasional jolts to control him and a hypo was introduced into his gluteus. A look of calm serenity came over him and I remember thinking 'Lucky bastard' as Jason wriggled deeper into by kidneys and pasta mama stooped occasionally to slap me vigorously and at length. My unconscious friend went to the asylum for assessment and I went to the magistrates court where I was bailed to return for trial and warned not to contact my crazy co-accused in the meantime or they'd jail me for certain. Repeated phone calls from the asylum and increasingly desperate pleas by text I have had to ignore. So sorry Mike, but you're gonna have to tough it out for a while. It's no fun in the jail when you're a nonce.
It's still fucked, isn't it?
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