On your bike, Kimye

It is truly admirable that Kimye have taken time out of their hectic careers to teach little North how to ride her first bike. However, they probably should have thought about the following safety hazards:

1)      Bareback Biking – it may look great but is it really safe to ride topless IN FRONT of the driver… NO! The answer is NO! Unless, of course, said driver happens to be ‘God’s vessel’, as Kanye has so modestly referred to himself in the past.

Bareback Biking! It’s all the rage in the Casualty waiting room!
(Image via http://www.dailymail.co.uk)

2)      Harley Humping – we get it, you’re both very sexual beings and we do enjoy a little raunchy humping but perhaps not on a moving vehicle. Keep it for the Kardashians uncut. Also for someone who has spent their entire career attempting to counteract the damaging effects of a public sex tape, it’s probably not the best idea to partake in a topless, sexually-driven music video (we mean you, Kim)

We couldn’t agree more Kimmy!
(Image via rebloggy.com)

3)      No Headgear – you’re BOUND 2 receive a concussion! We know it can be pretty tough to give head while wearing a helmet, but it still doesn’t excuse a lack of protective clothing. You may have the most enviable hair in showbiz Kim, but what would happen if one of the magical horses in the shoot suddenly galloped into the bike? It would be a CarCrashian catastrophe.

No headgear and you’ll be seeing real stars love!
(Image via http://www.dailymail.co.uk)

As well as the blatant disregard for safety in this video, there are few other things which we find slightly disturbing, not least being Kim’s emotionless expression. Is she channeling a vibrating mannequin? Ah, Mannequin, now that was a good film. Maybe she should rename herself Mannekim.

We don’t dig women portraying themselves as passive sex objects – gals should always be in control of any vehicle they’re riding. Also, what’s with Kanye’s abundance of clothing? Us tarts need some eye candy too and, frankly, Kim’s oddly nipple-less boobs just don’t make the cut.

Are my nipples showing? (Image via http://www.virtual-history.com)

Needless to say this strange display of intimacy has caused some media and fan backlash. However, you have to hand it to Kimye – they certainly know how to create attention and any couple who can hump on a moving bike deserves recognition. It would only be right to end this with a quote from the YEEZUS genius himself which may shed some light on this bizarre video… or maybe not!

‘Taste, culture, art, just the quality of life. This is what I’m here to do. So when I compare myself toSteve Jobs, Walt Disney, Howard Hughes, David Stern, Michelangelo, Da Vinci, Jesus…these are my heroes. This is the type of impact I want to make on the earth.’


How Spencer Matthews should spend his next 500K

We need to talk about Spencer Matthews. You know, the slick-haired Ultradouche from Made in Chelsea who fancies himself as a bit of a Lothario? Wait, that doesn’t really narrow it down. Let’s try again. We need to talk about Spencer Matthews. You know, the not-so-loveable, pug-like rah whose vocabulary mainly consists of ‘bro’, ‘totalleh’ and ‘Caggeh’? YAH, that’s the one, guys.

YAH I have a pocket square!

Well, it transpires that the Sloane Ranger has recently blown £488,706.08 on a bar tab at Mortons private members club in Mayfair, London. The world (aka Daily Mail readers) became privy to this information thanks to Spenny-a-Penny himself, who posted a picture of the receipt for said bar tab on Twitter.

DAHLING ever heard of hand cream??

Ohhh, rah-dee-RAH. Needless to say this story has disappointed us, mainly because we weren’t in Mortons at the time to wangle a few free drinky-poos. Seriously though, aside from tarts like us who need wining and dining, there are a host of charities, appeals and causes that could do with such a hefty sum of money.

And so, as you can imagine, the reaction from the British public has been less than favourable towards the gajillionaire. ‘What about those poor people in the Philippines!, ‘What about all those kids on Children in Need!’, asked the outraged, left-leaning members of society – humanitarian issues weighing heavily on their recession-clad shoulders.

Spencer always had excellent guidance from his Daddy!

But will Spencah listen to their cries for social justice? Seriousleh doubt it, dahlings. Sure, he may apologise, claim the receipt was printed incorrectly, blame his heavy drinking on a bad break-up, or donate a one-off lump sum to charity to make up for his behaviour / improve his public image which, as a reality TV star, he’s clearly quite concerned with.

But the chances of him putting a stop to his self-indulgent spending altogether are lower than his latest shirt neckline. After all, he’s an extremely wealthy, Eton-educated creature with a penchant for partying and a vested interest in himself – so why would he start going for bottles of Vino Cheapo at the local pub now? He wouldn’t, is the answer.

That’s why we’ve come up with five alternative ways Spencer Matthews could spend almost half a million pounds. Not only will they help improve the world in which we live, but they’ll also benefit Spencer himself. And as a self-serving egotist, we’re guessing he’ll like the sound of that…

How Spencer Matthews should spend his next £500,000

1.      A trip on his private jet to a remote island or Buddhist monastery, where he can sit, reflect on his thoughts and actions, learn to enjoy the humble life and acquire a real tan. Or, even better, a one-way space mission to Uranus – we reckon he’d make a great ASStronaut.

2.      A personality transplant. As a broker who spends the same amount of money on a night out as many people do on a house, he must have some sort of access to the type of medical technology which can facilitate this. Might we recommend getting rid of the smarmy, selfish and obnoxious genes first, sweeteh.

3.      A lifetime supply of birth control – for him and every woman he ever comes into contact with. After making his way around most of the female cast, it’s only a matter of time before he spawns a junior Matthews. And do we really want a mini Spenny posting pictures of Toys R Us receipts on Twitter?


Put a lid on it, love.

4. Cryogenic freezing. So that, in years to come, society can unfreeze him and hold him up as an example of the kind of specimen that could bring about the demise of mankind.

5. Create a travelling circus, join it, and fuck off.

Cirque de Chelsea is coming to town! YEA BUDDY.

Five things a gold-digger should ask a man before agreeing to go on a date

1. What EXACTLY is your job title? This is imperative if you are to figure out his annual income (and also his Christmas bonus). If he tells you that he works for a bank, don’t get carried away. For all you know he could be a customer service assistant for Lloyds TSB. Ask for specifics. If he tells you he is the CEO of a private equity fund or the partner of a multi-national bank, then you know he’s in the money. Major no-no’s include, but are not limited to: ‘I’m in between jobs’, ‘I’m an artist’ and ‘I work in the media‘. None of these will yield rewards, bear fruit, get you Jimmy Choos etc. etc.

2. Where do you live? If his answer is somewhere which one could only describe as a shit hole, this will determine one of two things: 1. He’s broke, or 2. He’s STINGY, which is far worse. If, however, he lives alone in a large penthouse in Mayfair then he has at least three things working in his favour: 1. A large wage packet, 2. Good taste (well, he is chasing you after all), and 3. A frivolous attitude towards money. The latter will definitely work in your favour. “What do you want for Christmas, my sweet?” “Oh, nothing much really…” “Diamond earrings and a private yacht it is, then.”

3. How old are you? From this you can examine his career progress. A man who has already reached his maximum earning potential in his late twenties is just not worth it. If on the other hand he’s just been made partner but is middle-aged, that’s not much good either. What you really want to be looking for is a successful yet still-progressing stockbroker in his late 30s / early 40s with little to no baggage. An octogenerian can be acceptable, but only if he’s a billionaire with a weak heart.

4. Where are you hoping to take me? If he has passed all of the above, then he is definitely worth considering for a date. However, one must probe into his plans for the evening. Asking what food you would prefer is always a plus, (it shows a caring side, a side which is easily exploited when you want that Gucci bag for your birthday). Taking the time to consider restaurant options and booking a table shows that he wants to impress you, and booking the most exclusive restaurant in the city shows power. All of the above are valuable attributes. What are you waiting for? GET IN THERE.

5. How are we getting there? If he is a real man and has the cash to flash, then he will firmly suggest that his driver escort you – or at the very least he will order a cab to pick you up. Requesting that he meet you there at a certain time shows a lack of chivalry, and most importantly, a lack of cashflow… NEXT.

old guys young women, what a golddigger should ask a guy before going on a date

Bambi always made time for the elderly, as long as they had a yacht (image: businessinsider.com)

How to Survive a Hangover at Work

1. If you haven’t got time for a shower, give your pits and tuppence a swill, and spray your hair with liberal amounts of Batiste Dry Shampoo. It’ll help air out the stench of sticky tequila and Malboro Lights, while at the same time giving your hair a fabulous boost. Be sure to check your mane in the right light, though – otherwise you might end up with a Cruella Deville inspired stripe.

2. If you’ve woken up in somebody else’s bed (you filthy tart, you), and you haven’t got a change of clothes, blast your existing outfit with Febreeze. If you’ve woken up alone in your own bed, take a long hard look in the mirror and ask yourself why.

3. If you do have the option of picking out your own clothes, avoid: tight trousers (a booze-bloated belly will spend all day attempting to escape), wool (alcohol sweats are bad enough without adding wool to the mix), high heels (you’re probably still drunk and may take a tumble) and light colours (you don’t want to look like the walking beige). Add a pop of colour! A bright scarf is a good choice, it’ll warm up your ghostly complexion and most importantly cover lovebites.

4. Be wary of what you eat for breakfast. You know those buttery croissants from Tesco’s? Mmmmm. DON’T DO IT. Or next time you definitely will wake up alone. As our mothers said; a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips! Avoid a fry up at all costs, too. If you don’t, you’ll crash, fall into a carb coma, and die at your desk. Eat a banana, potassium helps hangovers. If you can’t stomach that, we suggest Banana Nesquik AKA nectar of the Gods. It’s basically breastfeeding for the hungover. The rabbit’s furry face will cheer you up, too. Just remember to swallow a couple of painkillers while you’re at it.

Nesquik: like breastfeeding for the hungover (image: mysupermarket.co.uk)

5. Be clever with your makeup. Firstly, opt for Airbase Perfecting Primer to restore moisture – right now we’re guessing you’re about as hydrated as The Mummy when he first bursts out of that sarcophagus. However, while your insides may be rotting, the right cosmetics can hide all that. It’s called concealer for a reason, USE IT.

Wake Me Up by Rimmel will also give your skin a deceptive glow. Rouge your cheeks a little to make you look like you still have a pulse, and apply Benefit They’re Real mascara to make your eyes look wide awake. Although it’s very tempting to throw your hair up using the sorry-looking bobble that’s been around on your wrist for the past year, DON’T. A ponytail is not the perfect partner to an alcohol-inflated face.

6. Brush your teeth and tongue vigorously. And use mouthwash. Chewing gum is also good for preventing tequila reflux.

Jet wasn’t feeling particularly fresh that day (image: alicia-logic.com)

7. Wear sunglasses on your journey to work, even if it’s raining. This will help block out the outside world, as will wearing headphones on public transport. We suggest something uplifting, else alcohol blues may dominate the rest of your day. Think Spice Girls not James Blunt.

8. Be overly friendly when you first walk into the office.  Do some actual work for the first 30 minutes so that you have proof that you did something, then spend the rest of your day e-mailing equally hungover friends with whom you can share the pain. Do not, under any circumstances, speak to anyone who’s ‘not feeling that bad actually’ because they ‘didn’t drink that much last night’ and who is ‘even going to pilates with Jaja this evening’. Those people must burn. Only socialise with individuals who are equally as dysfunctional and disgusting as yourself.

9. While browsing the web at work, ensure that your internet windows are as small as possible. That way it’s far harder for your colleagues to see what you’re actually doing. And if you’re e-mailing your friends, write the content in a Word doc, do a quick copy and paste, then hit send. Just like we’re doing right now. How the hell else are we meant to write and upload this post while hungover at work? Seriously though, sit there on Hotmail for hours on end at your own peril.

10. Browse the following websites at regular intervals to keep you going: Daily Mail (TV & Showbiz section, obvz), Buzzfeed, Cracked, Jezebel, Zergnet and Sincerely Jules. All the above will provide apt escapism.

11. Pop out to get some milk for the office. What will appear to be a generous act is in fact a fantastic opportunity to get some fresh air / go for a cigarette / buy some much-needed snacks. Make savvy purchases on that front, such as Beef Hula Hoops, McCoys Steak Crinkle Cuts and Lucozade Caribbean Crush. The latter is an absolute must.

12. Go for an alcoplop. A beeriod is a great way of getting the toxins out of your system.
 However, as you well know, it’s sod’s law that whenever you decide to curl one out at work, somebody ALWAYS WALKS IN. Mid-shit. Do you know what that is? That’s the Toilet Gods smiting you. Be prepared for their wrath and invest in some poo-pourit.

13. Think positive. As Woody Allen once said, “Eighty percent of success is showing up”. You showed up. Give yourself a pat on the back.

14. Stop Janning Out. Whatever you’ve done, or whatever you think you’ve done, it isn’t that bad. It only seems bad because the beer monkey is currently perched on your shoulder. The hangxiety will subside, and by tomorrow morning you really won’t understand why you were so worried. Unless you have a two-day hangover, then you still might be Janning Out. Whatever. Unless you’ve killed someone, you’re not that terrible a person, and everything will be fine – as the saying goes, you’re not the first, and you certainly won’t be the last.

What the fuck happened last night.

15. Focus on when you’ll be getting your next drink. We suggest having a nice big glass of red when you get home. It seems only right to reward surviving a day spent in hangover hell with sweet, precious booze. So quit your whinging, get on with it, and get ready once again to embrace the HAIR OF THE DOG THAT BIT YOU IN THE ASS!

An Open Letter to Miley Cyrus and Sinead O’Connor

Dear Miley and Sinead,

We think it’s about time somebody had a word with the pair of you. So calm down, take a seat, listen up and sip some gin. Well maybe not you Sinead, given your aversion to alcohol. Nor you actually Miley, given that you’re underage. Let us rephrase: We’re going to sip some gin, and you two tarts are going to listen.

First of all, we think you should become pen pals. Yes, pen pals. It’s this great concept which gained popularity during the 90s among children. The idea is that you PICK UP A PEN, WRITE A LETTER, and SEND IT IN THE POST. Frankly we’re sick of you taking over our Twitter feed with your incessant broadcasts.

Secondly, Miley, please know that being a TART does not equal ART. So stop trying to pass off swinging on a metal demolition ball in the nude as artistic expression. It ain’t. It’s vanity  in its most shameless form, so have the proverbial balls (or indeed vagina) to admit it. Also, don’t diss mental illness, that type of behaviour is lower than your latest bodysuit.

Thirdly, Sinead O Connor, you are an icon, you’re hugely talented, and we have massive amounts of respect for you. While your first letter to Miley was at times slightly patronising, we believe it came from a caring place in your tarty heart, and that you made some pertinent points about the relationship between women and the music industry.

Having said that, do you see Mick Jagger contacting Justin Timberlake, criticising him for going topless and warning him that the music industry is exploiting his body? Eh, nope. So in some respects, we think your point about how only women are exploited is something of a double standard in itself. Men are exploited all the time! How else do you think we gals reach our weekly drinking quota!

Fourthly (is that a word? Fourthly? We’re pretty drunk by now) it’s FINE to be a tart. It’s FINE to be proud of your hot bod, to flirt, to have sex with whoever you want, however you want, whenever you want (ya know, as long as it’s legal and consensual and all). We don’t agree that you have to view yourself as a ‘precious lady’ to be a respected woman. Be strong, be happy with your choices, just stay safe. We tarts have had plenty of dodgy experiences to know that by now.

It’s also FINE to wear whatever sexy garments you want without having to worry that whichever industry you’re working in will exploit your sex appeal, or that every creepy fucker in the vicinity will automatically assume that you want it (we’re looking at you, Robin Thicke. And yes, we do want it. But only because you’re hot and we’re bored.)

If the Slut Walks taught us tarts anything, it’s that a tart should be able to tart it up as much as she tarting-well-wants without having to be subjected to sexual harassment, or indeed acerbic comments and judgement from other women. Which leads us to our fifth and final point, the main lesson of this whole Miley/Sinead shitstorm: women need to stop having a bloody go at each other. Indeed, we gals should UNITE. Forget Team Miley or Team Sinead, think: TEAM WOMEN. No, scrap that, think TEAM TARTS.

Here’s hoping you two gals twerk it out.

Tartiest regards,

Bambi and Jet

Cocktails and Swiss Stockbrokers

It was Thursday. Which basically meant it was Friday. Which basically meant it was an acceptable day to go for afterwork drinks. Jet had £20 to her name, Bambi had much the same, and so they hatched a plan; to frequent an upmarket venue which had cheap drinks and rich clientele. Where would they find such a place? Jet had pondered. But, as always when it came to these situations, Bambi had the answer.

‘The Marylebone Bar does 2-4-1 cocktails between 8–9pm, we should definitely go there.’

The Marylebone Bar (image: themarylebonelondon.com)

The Marylebone Bar

An exquisite idea, thought Jet. The two aimed to meet at Baker Street station at 8pm, but unfortunately both were running late due to vanity (tweaking their makeup and washing their hair was taking longer than anticipated).

Jet emerged from the underground station with freshly painted nails (she’d just done them on the tube), and clocked a petite, expensive-looking blonde with a cigarette in her hand and a fur scarf around her neck. Bambi looks incredible, I’m so fortunate to have such a good-looking friend. Thought Jet. Equally, Bambi was admiring her long limbed lover. Jet stood tall in her black heels, her height elongated by a flowing mane of dark, glossy hair. Jet looks amazing, which is just as well, because ugly people really annoy me. Thought Bambi.

Image: Pinterest

Both ladies were sporting scarlet lipstick – a seductive edge to any outfit. As they greeted eachother, Bambi quickly informed Jet that they had 9 minutes left to reach their destination before the 2-4-1 deal expired. The petite blonde set a brisk pace and led the way, sipping quickly from her plastic bottle of cider as she walked. Jet frantically tottered behind in her heels, her boobs and pompom-clad scarf bouncing up and down, up an down, up and down. Red faced, gasping and sweating like beefcakes (Jet vowed never to sprint in a leather jacket again) they finally reached the bar.

‘Is the 2 4 1 deal still on?!’ Jet asked the relatively good-looking but clearly novice barman. He rolled back his sleeve and looked at his watch. 8:58pm.

‘Yep, you’ve got 2 minutes,’ he responded with a grin. The two girls sighed heavily, sighs which conveyed their sense of relief but betrayed their penchant for Malboro Lights and an aversion to doing exercise. Given they had a limited amount of time to get the drinks in at a reduced rate, the girls knew they’d have to stock up, and so they ordered six delicious cocktails.

The Marylebone Bar Cocktails

Getting our 5 a day, and an OAP on the way (image: @Bambijet)

As they sat outside, they soon attracted the attention of some Female Rahs, one of which spilled her drink on Bambi, and one of which wore a fur-lined cape. For some reason, Cape Woman took the fact that Bambi and Jet were also wearing fur scarves as a sign that they were all destined to be fake furry friends.

‘DARLINGS, I LOVE your scarves!’ She howled in her privileged English accent. Jet shuddered internally. The lady then started to examine Jet’s leopard-print scarf and the two furry balls attached to each end. They were Jet’s idea of trendy testicles.

‘Sweetie,’ giggled Cape Woman, whose actual name turned out to be Penelope. ‘You should say to the next man that annoys you: “See this scarf? This is what happened to the LAST guy who pissed me off”‘ She screamed and hooted at her own joke. Although disturbing, Jet and Bambi did find the comment somewhat amusing, and so they decided to indulge the Sloane ranger for a little while longer.

Image: Pinterest
As Penelope bragged about her worldly travels, and failed to discern the difference between two major European cities, two of her friends started walking over; an eerily beautiful woman who looked oddly spaced, and a young guy who looked like something Donald Trump had shat out that morning. His sharp suit, boyish face and slicked-back mane made Jet feel queasy.’What the hell is that?’ he asked Jet, looking at her scarf. ‘It’s awful!”How strange, I was just thinking the EXACT same thing about your hair!’ She retorted. Unexpectedly, the gel factory took her insult in good spirits.

slimy businessman greasy banker

Hi, I sell slime for a living (image: googleusercontent.com)

‘You’re sassy, I like that,’ He smirked.

‘You’re slimy, I hate that,’ She quipped. ‘So, seriously. Why the hair?’

‘I’m trying to look older so my clients take me seriously.’

‘Fair enough, you do look about 10. What do you do for a living?’ Enquired Jet.

‘I’m a banker,’ said babyface, his words drenched with an overwhelming air of arrogance.

‘Of course you are,’ Jet rolled her eyes.

‘Hey, listen, I need to look good in my game.’

‘Your game? Nobody says game. Say office, work, whatever, but don’t say your ‘game’, you sound ridiculous.’ Jet had delivered what was colloquially known as a bitch smackdown. ‘You do know your hair makes you look like Michael Douglas, right? Genuinely, I’m trying to help you here.’

‘I don’t know what to do with it!’ prattled on the manchild. ‘I said to my CEO today: “Hey, man, seriously, like, the other night, I had a NIGHTMARE about my hair.”‘

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Jet. ‘I’m guessing a lot of people have.’

Nice slicked back hair, said no one, ever. (image: menshairblog.com)

‘Listen, I am stylish, I chose this lining myself, look,’ he opened his suit jacket, revealing a horrible, personalised silk lining.  The busty brunette was growing bored of the boy’s overbearing narcissism.

‘Anyway, less about you, more about us,’ said Jet, turning towards slick Rick’s pretty female friend, who looked back at her blankly. No chat there, then A few awkward moments passed as Jet tried to think of something to say.

‘Once,’ suddenly the quiet, model-esque girl was speaking. ‘Once… I was mugged. Outside my house. In Primrose Hill.’ Oh Christ, here we go, Prada Problems. Thought Jet.

‘They…  they tried to grab my Miu Miu bag… but I held on. I held on tight.’ A glimmer of emotion entered her vacant eyes. ‘I would never let them take my Miu Miu.’ Jet took this as her cue to leave.

pretty women who are dead behind the eyes

My Miu Miu bag is my life. (image: port-magazine.com)

‘I’m so sorry to hear that, but I appear to have lost my small blonde friend and I really need to find her. So if you’ll excuse me….’

Jet wondered out and found Bambi smoking with Cape Woman. Thankfully, the roaring rah and her buddies soon left, allowing Jet and Bambi to return to the bar.

‘I don’t think I have enough money for another drink,’ said Jet, her voice filled with woe and defeat.

‘That’s okay Jet, it’s on me,’ replied Bambi. Overhearing this, the barman asked what the ladies wanted to drink.

‘Two gin and tonics please,’ asked Bambi.

‘Single or double?’ he enquired.

‘Single, please,’ asked Bambi, keeping her bank balance in mind.

‘Double it is,’ Responded the barman. And with that he generously poured them two large G&Ts, and donated a couple of coffee shots to boot. Ah, the benefits of having breasts. Thought Jet.

inner beauty doesn't buy you drinks

‘I’ll have another round of those, and get yourself one too,’ a voice suddenly said to the barman. Jet detected an European accent. She turned around and saw, standing behind her, a dark haired man with a strong chin, medium build and olive skin. She guessed he was in his early 30s, though she couldn’t quite tell – he may have been older.

‘Hi, this is my friend, Boring,’ he signalled towards his slimmer, less good looking chum. ‘And I’m Really Boring. Seriously, I am actually the most boring guy you will ever meet. Let me prove it to you right now. Have you heard about Nick Clegg’s new proposal? Isn’t it just AWFUL?’

Bambi and Jet couldn’t help but laugh. This man had charm and humour in equal measure. He was cocky, too, which was always a bonus in their eyes – so long as he had the intelligence and success to back it up. It would appear he did.

‘Where are you from? And what do you do?’ Bambi asked him.

‘Switzerland, and I’m a stockbroker.’ He replied.

CERRRRRRCHINNNNNNNNG. Thought Jet. I’ve always wanted to raid the Swiss bank. Thought Bambi.

As the four drank and spake, laughed and flirted, and generally LIVED LIFE, the barman piped up:

‘Bar’s closing! Everyone out in ten minutes,’ Damn, thought the girls.

However, Mr. Really Boring (who was actually turning out to be quite interesting) quickly suggested:

‘How about we go somewhere else?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Bambi.

‘Let’s go to Sketch,’ he said, before adding: ‘I hear that place is REALLY dull, so it should be perfect.’

The dark-haired Swiss remained deadpan, but his eyes twinkled. Jet giggled and placed a friendly hand on his shoulder. At that precise moment, her long-term lover, Alberto, walked through the bar door. He clocked Jet and the mysterious man, and stormed towards her. Shit, how did he know I was here???

– To be continued –

Sketch bar weird egg toilets

Would the girls ever make it to Sketch bar? (image: sketch.uk.com)


How to Seduce a Priest

How to Seduce a Priest

Bambi had always been such a good Catholic girl. And now her prayers had been answered. Her dear Father in Heaven had sent her a rich young suitor with a palatial abode and a fat income. And by suitor I mean Priest. And by palatial abode I mean church. And by fat income I mean the church collection basket.

Today, for the first time, Bambi had stayed behind after mass to pursue her new romantic interest, Priest Pablo. Unbeknownst to him, Bambi had set her sights on the innocent Italian. He had never been lustful before – indeed, his mind was purer than a shot of neat Vodka – but Bambi was determined that she would bed him before the day was out.

Catholic erotica, hot young priest, religious erotica, sexy Catholic priest, how to seduce a priest

Bambi was a glutton for punishment

‘Brother, I need to speak with you,’ she whispered, the glimmer of fake tears appearing at the corners of her big doe eyes. ‘I… I’m in trouble’. Bambi was a master of fake confessions; she’d been doing it since the ripe age of seven. Now she was a grown woman, and knew exactly how to spin a white lie to get what she wanted.

‘Why, Bambi,’ the hunky little do-gooder responded. ‘Please, come here my child. Unload your troubles onto me.’ She walked towards him with a modest air of seduction. Bambi knew it would take a lot to turn a priest, a man devoted to faith and chastity, but she loved a challenge – and it didn’t get more exciting than this.

‘Well,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve been a very naughty girl and I need to be punished’.

‘Go on,’ Pablo replied. ‘I’m listening.’

Bambi knew she had to raise the stakes. She leant across the altar to grab a glistening chalice of freshly poured wine. ‘Oh my Sweet Jesus,’ she yelped. ‘Are you smuggling a votive candle in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?’.

Is that a votive candle in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me, Brother? (image: zimbio.com)

‘Well they don’t call me Brother Bulge for nothing,’ Priest Pablo whispered. As soon as the words escaped his heavenly lips, he immediately looked ashamed of himself. ‘I…. I’m so sorry, dear child. I have no idea where that came from. Evil forces must be working within me!’

‘Oh brother, aren’t you a naughty boy,’ Bambi responded, her eyes dancing with pleasure. ‘You should wash your mouth out with holy water’. He looked at her, his chocolate brown eyes grew dark with a mixture of guilt and desire. Bambi gently rested her creepy little hand on his muscular thigh. His mouth became drier than Holy Communion bread.

‘Oh come on, brother,’ urged Bambi. ‘NUN of this frigid behaviour please. A night with me is worth a lifetime in confession’. Bambi’s nipples were more erect than a chapel’s steeple.

(image: flickr.com)

Pablo slowly began to loosen his dog collar. ‘Feeling hot under the collar are we, brother’, Bambi sniggered. Slowly, she began to take off her fur coat, beneath which she was wearing, well, not much at all actually. Pablo eyeballed her skimpy underwear, her petite frame, her toned body. As he looked at her scarlet red pout, he couldn’t resist a moment longer.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘You know what they say: no pray, no lay’. And with that, he grabbed Bambi, threw her onto the altar, and ripped her pants off with speed and precision. Thankfully they were from Primark and tore easily.

Bambi was enamoured by Brother Bulge’s passion. She clocked the bulge beneath his thick, unsightly vestments. Jesus, he really is blessed. He removed his respectable robe and revealed a divinely muscular body which Bambi could only assume had been created in the image of God himself. Wide shoulders, tanned olive skin, rippling abs… Bambi’s holy hole grew wetter than a baptist’s hands.

Priest Pablo stared into Bambi’s abyss (image: resources1.news.com.au)

As Pablo slowly spread Bambi’s thighs apart, he resembled Moses parting the Red Sea; petrified but determined to enter the promised land. Before she knew it, Pablo’s snake had entered Bambi’s secret garden; her sacred jungle; her blessed bush. The priest drank heavily from the chalice of temptation, and devoured her fruitful assets as if it was the last supper.

Bambi wasn’t expecting Priest Pablo to last long – he was a virgin after all – but his performance surpassed all her evangelical expectations. After what felt like an eternity of sinful pleasures, she felt the holy sperm enter her body. In that moment a strange calm passed over her body. It was official: she was now a Holy Slut, and this was one hell of a Good Friday.