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Rotting ham

I was awoken by the squawking of what sounded like a titted cockerel. I was in an alien bed – all pink, tattered sheets and a horrific, fudge-spattered duvet.

‘GOOD MORNING! AND WELCOME TO BBC LONDON!’ squealed the wrinkled sack of woman before my bleary eyes. That harridan before me – it could only be the disastrous result of an owl and sow cross-breeding? Surely?

As my vision returned the nightmare unfolded – I realised I’d gone and done it again. After a night in the bins outside Blockbuster drinking swarfega with the man from the Job Centre, I’d allowed myself to be seduced by the passing Vanessa Feltz. Again.

And there she was, wide awake and rampant in front of me, dressed only in yesterday’s brassiere and sitting cross-legged and bottomless on the bed, before me. That’s right – ‘bottomless’. The bottom of half of her was bereft of any protective clothing-shield. All manner of stench was emenating from her entrances and exits. I whiffed cat-food. I inhaled traces of sulphurous egg yolks. Most prominently, the reek of rotting ham drizzled into my nostrils.

‘Oh shit’ I mumbled. ‘Morning Vanessa. Couldn’t trouble you for a cup of tea, could I?’

‘THIS MORNING WE’LL BE DISCUSSING AWFUL LITTLE SHITBAGS WHO COME TO MY HOUSE AND ARE UNABLE TO PERFORM WHEN MY TOYBOY’S AWAY!’ she blathered on. ‘WE WANT TO KNOW WHAT YOU THINK WE SHOULD DO ABOUT THESE PEOPLE…?’

She looked at me with imploring eyes, as though I should answer her query. I was too distracted as I had noticed one of her leathery, care-worn nips had begun snuffling around the rim of her bra wiring, before popping itself over the lacey edge. Her teats were moving around like small, rose-tinted badger-snouts, completely independent of the rest of her body.

‘Make them a cup of tea and put a bath on for them…?’ I feebly half-answered.

‘WRONG!’ she shouted, full of shit and vim. ‘WE HAVE TO PUT THEM IN DETENTION!’ she cawed, ramming her crooked fingers in her wanny and snuffling that pig-snout into a crinkled bridge.

She began to draw her cruft into a cavernous trench, big enough to fit three fists, before she bounced up on obese calves, her varicose veins so swollen they were in danger of popping. She positioned herself over my hungover form and before I knew it, my entire cranium was enveloped within a Feltz-clamp. Horrified and miffed, I staggered to my feet with her thighs clamped around my collar whilst screaming ‘Hey, you! That’s not on!’

I was The Man In The Vanessa Mask, and I wasn’t happy.

From within her gigantic vagina all I could hear was the muffled sound of cackling as she rode my head for all it was worth, grinding away like some terrible buffing wheel until I collapsed under the weight of her dimpled cheeks and brought us both to the floor. Upon landing, a gallon of canal-sap glugged from within her, covering my face, ears and chin in a coating of Feltz-treacle. Eventually it solidified, forming a pillow against my cheek.

I slept, dear reader, within her abdomen and dreamed of the good old days, before Vanessa, before Trisha, when Kilroy was the main man. I recalled the time when it was possible to get brewers droop in front of a breakfast radio presenter without being throttled by her grunt. And I wept.

Oh! How I wept.

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December 2017
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