Prehistoric Spatchcock

Prehistoric Spatchcock

‘Shhhh’ said Pauline Quirke.

She raised a single digit to my mouth and pressed it hard on to my lips. It smelt faintly of corned beef and crabsticks.

She brought her huge, round, red face to my ear and whispered, ‘Do it on me. Right on my fuzzy pizzle’.

‘Christ Pauline’ I threw back my head, my mouth agape. A fat slimy tongue filled my jaws as she unbuttoned her overalls and dropped a long, wizened tit into my lap with a plop. I could barely restrain myself, I unzipped my fly and my awful tiny winkle peeped through the teeth like a winter acorn. The smell of ammonia made Pauline’s eyes roll back in their sockets. I instantly sprissed up a tapeworm of ball-juice over her eyelid.

‘Seen one of these before?’ she asked, with a lascivious smile. I played along.

‘Oooh, miss’ I squeaked, ‘it is my homework?’ 

Pauline smiled, ‘only if your homework is a weeping flap…’ She actually winked. I felt tired.

Pauline grabbed me by the cheeks with her huge builder’s hands. Her cracked nails dug into my flesh.

‘You’re going nowhere, you young pig. You’re staying with me until your business is done’

I watched her undress from my chair. A pool of rough clothing fell at her peeling feet. In the light of the naked bulb I watched her writhe like a Pamplona Bull. The flesh of her posterior hung over the back of her dappled thighs and vibrated to the movements of her stilton-kissed midriff, itself punished with sausage-shaped breasts that rolled over her like fighting pub drunks – pulled down with heavy fish-finger nipples, contorted and dented.

She turned to face me, her purple head casting a violet glow over the brickwork as she reached down between her beef-carcass thighs. Deftly draping an elephant’s bladder of flesh over her sailor-blue tattooed forearm, she parted her legs and gently spread herself in front of me like stately home curtains, a fat bluebottle emerging from her creaming red fud and dropping to the floor. Dead.

The vicious smell was so overpowering that salty water streamed from my eyes. I really wanted to go home, I wasn’t feeling at all well but there was one final action I had to undertake, to sate Pauline, to crush the beast.

She lay clumsily onto her back, her legs spread back like some sort of prehistoric spatchcock and grunted erotically. I burst into tears as I loosened my belt, dropped my Tesco pants, let my bum out and assumed the position.

I stood over Pauline sobbing my heart out.

‘I don’t like homework!’ I croaked.

‘Just do it, you slag!’ honked Pauline, her voice, like her teeth, broken with the anticipation of something frankly awful.

I strained hard, ‘easy, easy, easy’ chanted Pauline wistfully. Farting wind whiffled out like cheap fireworks. I pushed for all I was worth. ‘Bung it, bung it, bung it in the beaver bush!’ sang Pauline, quite motionless save the twanging muscles in her stagnant crimson crevice…

Dear reader, manners and taste prevent me from describing what happened next, save to say, I done a ruddy great poo in her fanwar.

I left Pauline giggling like some sort of behemoth schoolgirl without saying a word. I can’t wait to see her next Tuesday.

I think I’m in love.

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