Hammond and Clarkson are at it in the back of a Renault Twingo and the Stig reveals that under the helmet he's, well, all helmet...
The deepest, darkest recesses of the internet are where the strangest things lie. It’s a bit like the bottom of the ocean. Before it vanished, the site www.tgff.com featured romantic tales, sexual dalliances and sweaty friction fiction concerning Jeremy Clarkson and the rest of the Top Gear gang produced by a mysterious gaggle of dedicated fans. It’s hard to find even the faintest trace of this stuff online now; all but a few cached fragments remain. Here, for the strong stomached, are some selected highlights…
He entered the empty studio and saw a figure bent over the bonnet of the brand new Alfa Romeo Giulietta 1.4 TB 170 HP which featured on that evening’s episode. At first he thought the taut muscles and slender hips belonged to a girl. But, aroused, he strode closer and recognised the unmistakable frame of his friend Jeremy.
“Hey,” Hammond said into the darkness.
“Jesus!” Clarkson shouted. “You scared the pants off me!”
“What are you doing here? Thought everyone had gone home?”
“Just had to take another peek at this beautiful piece of work. Feel the contours of this bodywork…”
Clarkson placed a hand over Hammond’s wrist. He released an automatic shiver of pleasure.
“Cold?” Clarkson asked with a twinkle.
“Something like that,” his diminutive friend said with a smile. “What’s the interior like? I’m eager to size up the upholstery.”
“Oh, I think you’ll really enjoy this,” Clarkson growled, opening the door featuring attractive waistline ridge detailing and running a manly calloused hand over the intricate horseshoe switches “Feel the softness, feel the sensuality. Feel the…”
Clarkson slid inside. Hammond followed but suddenly caught the heel of his ostrich leather cowboy boots on the sweet Cloverleaf trim and stumbled into the vehicle. He fell heavily against Jeremy, his face pressing against his full mane of bushy hair, recognised the world over. As he tried to right himself, Hammond pressed his palm against the great man’s thigh. Their eyes met.
“Quite a squeeze in here, isn’t it?” Clarkson placed his muscular hand over that of his co-presenter. “That’s the problem with these supercars. They’re so tight…”
“Be tricky to have some fun with a girl in here,” the Hamster almost whispered.
“Yes,” Clarkson grunted, moving the fringe from Richard’s eyes with a rigid finger. “Tricky for girls.”
There was a momentary pause of frisson, then both famous men began to furiously rain passionate, tongue-filled kisses on the other, as Clarkson battled to remove his Ralph Lauren dress shirt and trademark tight jeans.
“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” Hammond panted as a firm hand navigated the Woven leather upholstered seat, placing him a position that could only be described as reclined…
-Posted by Jonty_211
A pool of sweat of filled the recessed luxury leg well of the Renault Twingo sport 133 Cup Gordini.
“You have completed me,” Hammond gasped to his co-host, his previously well-rendered hairstyle matted against his sweaty forehead.
“Come on mate,” Clarkson snapped back. “You sound like a girl. Just larks right? Like at school? That’s what these foreign jaunts are all about. What happens on tour, stays on tour.”
Jeremy fished his Calvin Kleins from around his colleague’s neck and began to whistle the opening bars to ‘You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet.’
“But Jeremy…” a plainly pained Hammond began, then stared forlornly through the tinted driver-side window and out to the Namibian desert beyond. He suddenly felt alone, vulnerable, like his namesake small rodent. Trapped in a cage. A cage of passion. He opened his pert mouth again, only to have his words curtailed by the sound of a car horn somewhere on the sandy road.
“Hello.” Boomed the unmistakable voice of James May, as he pulled up in his battered Pagani Zonda 760RS, that he’d personally selected for the challenge. “Someone been taking an unscheduled road test?”
Clarkson and Hammond began to feverishly dress, but all too soon May was upon them.
“I see the lateral windows might be good for noise reduction but aren’t too effective against excessive steam.” He uttered, moving a finger sensually down the moisture gathered on the grab handle.
“It’s not how it seems, May” Clarkson barked.
“That’s a shame,” James said casually, removing his trademark floral patterned shirt to the consternation of his co-hosts. “I wanted to show you why they call me Captain Slow.”
He released a sound of undeniable sexuality then plunged into the interior of Renault like a frenzied buck. Soon bodies were intertwining, the grown men not knowing where May ended and Hammond began. A blur of flesh filled the windscreen, as, from nowhere, Clarkson produced a Ferrari branded bicycle tyre pump. Hammond’s eyes widened.
“What are you going to do with that?” the Hamster squeaked.
“I think we both know the answer to that,” he practically growled, the lust painting his eyes with unmistakable vigour.
“Let’s hope the suspension is a good as you said in your report,” May said, moving over to express his love physically.
Posted by Hammondaddict
The boys realised a figure in white was standing over them, witnessing the whole sordid scene. Never had the pits at Silverstone been used for such frenzied sexual activity. The smell of petrol and burnt rubber merged with the unmistakable odour of passion and sweat. The three men froze for a second, as May activated the power windows of the Mitsuoka Orochi they had parked there, the road test abandoned in favour of lovemaking. There was silence, until an unmistakable trademark helmet nodded almost imperceptibly for an instant, indicating his approval.
“Stig…” Hammond began to say, until a dampened gloved finger was pressed against his lips. As the men returned to their congress, the sound of a zip was heard. He revealed a taut, haired chest with pronounced muscles.
“The helmet,” Jeremy almost growled, turning to the test driver, his words partly obscured by the mouth full of man flesh.
“I want to see under the helmet.”
The man in white paused for a second, then released the strap beneath his chin. There was an audible gasp as The Stig revealed his true form.
“No, it’s impossible” May exclaimed.
“But you’re all…. You’re all cock,” Jeremy finally managed to say.
The Stig nodded his enormous phallus head. He was indeed one massive shaft of glorious throbbing masculinity.
“No wonder he never spoke,”Hammond remarked. “Who wants first go?”
Posted by Benji
“Wow, I can’t believe it, our first road test in space,” Hammondsqueaked with excitement, as he floated near to the ceiling of the capsule. “Isn’t this amazing Clarkson?”
“That’s Commander Clarkson,” he barked. “You will show me the proper respect.”
“Sorry Commander,” The Hamster simpered, with the slightest trace of a smile on his lips and an urgency now in his groins.
“These spacesuits are very binding aren’t they?” Jeremy released with a glint in his eye. He pulled at the zip on his one-piece leather astronaut outfit. “Look how much sweat is glistening on my body.”
Hammond marvelled at his commander’s taut haired chest with pronounced muscles.
“Why don’t you taste it,” Jeremy Clarkson said.
“I…I don’t think I should.”
“Are you disobeying orders?” He snapped.
Hammond blinked his enormous, bushbaby type eyes, then approached his great mate.
“Uh-oh,” Said May as he drifted into the pod. “Remember these are very delicate instruments. And liquids have a tendency to float and clog in zero gravity.”
“Turn off the Lunar Communicator,” Clarkson shouted.
“Has the lack of atmosphere instilled in you some kind of space madness?” May demanded.
“NASA Control was very clear about…”
“Do it!” Jeremy shrieked, his anger rebounding around the sleek white walls of the module. He produced the windscreen wiper ripped from a Volkswagen T30 TDI 174 Sportline and brandished it like some kind of makeshift riding crop. He brought it sharply against the naked flank of Richard Hammond.
“Agh!” He yelped, partly in pain but mainly in pleasure.
“I guess in space, some people can hear you scream,” May quipped, revelling in the pain of his cohort and loosening his astronaut costume.
Posted by Benji
Late Night Call
He pulled open the heavy door of his stately mansion.
“Glad you could pop by,” Jeremy said. “”I think we should go over the script notes in the bedroom. The… light is better there.”
“Ok,” Hammond said nervously.
He followed the broad shoulders and hips of his presenting colleague up the grand staircase and onto the exquisite landing.
“This way…” Clarkson held open the door to his boudoir.
“Wow!” Hammond bleated. “Is that a…?”
“Yes. It’s a perfect representation of a Nissan 300ZX turbocharged dual over head cam 2.0L straight six. In bed form.”
“Even down to the seat belts!” Hammond said, excited.
“Yes. I chose the cross-chest rigid harness variety as an optional extra. For resistance. Don’t want anyone to get hurt during the ride. There might be some quite hefty jerks on this journey.”
“Bet this baby really throbs,” Hammond licked his lips and ran a small, girl-like hand over the expensive duvet cover.
“Why don’t you come over here and find out,” said Clarkson, spilling some of the fine wine he was holding, his hands jittering with glee.
Posted by Glenno
Hammond’s Darkest Hour
The two men stood grimly over the hospital bed and looked down at their battered, broken presenter friend. The beep, beep of the heart machine was the only sound that could be heard, until Clarkson spoke.
“What was he doing in that bloody rocket car?” He said, almost in anger.
“He was reckless. A maverick,” May said. “I tried to stop him. No one could stop him.”
“Well his fast driving days might be over,” Jeremy said tenderly, brushing the back of his wrist along the heavily bandaged brow of his pal.
“Tragedy,” May sighed. “He loved to drive fast. All we can do now is wait. Hopefully this coma will wear off soon. There’s nothing we can do.”
A glint of daring entered Clarkson’s eyes.
“There’s one thing we haven’t tried,” He said, approaching the bed and loosening the waistband on his jogging bottoms. “To cure a maverick, we have to think like a maverick. A sexual maverick.”
Posted by Ferrari_Fan