Gillian McKeith

wizened triangles

‘It’s no good, Gillian!’ I exclaimed. ‘There’s something about your repugnant skeletal form that just isn’t doing anything for me!’

I pointed down at my flaccid winkwonk as if to illustrate the point.

McKeith sat drooping over her own bones like a knackered rubber glove draped on an electric fence, her entire form apparently covered in scrotal skin, like an aged Freddy Krueger. It was impossible to discern whether she was frowning or not – her wrinkles gave nothing away – a constant Sctoch scowl reverberated over her raw, Caledonian puckerface.

‘Och – ye’ve nae e’en tooowk a looowk at ma vaginus yit, ya feckin sasenach!’ she squawked like some horrific Glaswegian banshee.

Like a skeleton from a Harryhausen epic, McKeith bounced to her nimble feet, her naked figure a collection of wizened triangles and slowly she spread her clothes-peg pins. My jaw fell to the floor as a pungent ammonia filled the mixed sauna and my grandmother, God rest her soul, was forced to flee the steam-room.

‘Christ, Gillian! What on earth are you doing?! You’ve frightened Nan!’

‘Shut yer wee hole and stick yer wang in ma bucket!’ she wailed, as though her life depended on it.

I studied the gape in her enormous, foot long welly-top and couldn’t help but allow an urgent pebble-dash of diorrhea to spurt from my bumhole as I watched three fully formed, ripe avocados flop listlessly, one by one, from her gigantic, rancid flaps. They lay beneath her crouching belly, on the floor like recently laid eggs – each one covered in its own ectoplasmic gloop.

‘Aaaaah!’ she squealed, as a cabbage began to plip out of her arsehole.

‘EAT YER GREENS! EAT YER GREENS’ she screamed, forcing my soft mouth into her window-box.

Within a split-second I had submitted, and was ear-deep in an assault of piss-reeking, overgrown lady-garden, hopelessly thrashing away at my own poppet – the whole venture a thoroughly fruitless exercise.

Richard Attenborough

Right dirty

‘Ooh, luvvie, ooh, ducks. Oooh’ said Dear Dickie as he opened his shirt, grabbing one of his moobs.

I’d been drinking pink champagne since six and was well up for some octogenarian cock from one of the greatest actors, ever. He’d pulled me into to his dressing room at The Garrick and kissed me forcefully on my lips…

‘Seen 10 Rillington Place?’ asked Dickie. ‘In that film I play John Reginald Christie… right bastard he was, right dirty’.

I felt myself getting hard; I didn’t shy away from the compunction to play with myself. I pulled up my skirt pushed my panties aside and got my hairy cock out, my bobble-end wet from piddle.

‘Oooh luvvie-ducks, darling’ said Dear Dickie. ‘I’m going to give you some Brown Brighton Rock with my Pinkie’.

Still pulling at myself like a bloody ape, Dickie spun me around and shoved my face through his dressing mirror, ‘kiss the fucking pain (pane)’ he squeaked. I felt him enter my botty and a little bit of sick came out of my broken nose.

‘Ooof,’ I said.

‘Aahh,’ said Sir Richard Attenborough.

After what seemed like 1 minute and 38 seconds, Dickie suddenly withdrew with a sad sigh. I felt a thin dribble of cold liquid run down the inside of my quivering thigh.

‘Have you seen Jurassic Park? ‘ he enquired, forlornly. ‘Jeff Goldblum has a tattoo of that very penis on his chest’. He pointed down at his shrinking member. ‘Dear Johnnie, dear Larry. All gone now, all gone. Gone.’

Not wasting a second I turned to face him and after farting an arc of watery issue over his BAFTA I pushed Dick to his knees.

‘What are you doing fucknuts?’ asked Dickie, his face contorted like he’d just licked lemon juice off dogshit.

‘I’m going to sex you up!’ I hissed, ‘right in your face, Dick, all night!’

One of Dickie’s balls gently dropped onto my toe. Grabbing Dickie’s chops, I thrust my contentious winky into his beard and pulled the fine hair about my member. I could hear Dickie muttering something as I pounded the fucking phlegm out of his milky old head, harder and harder, really fucking hard actually… a bit too hard, I felt his body go limp.

Shit, he’s not breathing. Fuck, fuck, fuck - what to do? I checked for a pulse. Jesus – I’ve fucked his face in! To death!

Before running off with his trophies and the 68 quid I found in his wallet, I pissed on his back.