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.