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.


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.

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.

Blabber Juice

Blabber Juice

“You’ll get nothing more from me!” I roared at Widdicombe as she tore towards me with those great juddering udders. “I’m exempt from this sort of thing, d’ye hear?”

Veins the size of undersea transportation tunnels, nipples not s’much like fried eggs, but more like fried and flattened legs, with gallons of milk spilling out all over the shop, stinking and ruining the carpet. Mountains of tit, left, right ‘n’ centre! No escape!

“Damn you woman!” I thundered, darting behind a Chesterfield. “Can’t we just go for a Coke?”

Slowly, as in an eclipse, a dribbling booby appeared over the back of the sofa. It blotted out the sun … well,  the standard lamp. I stared up in horror at that flabby great knocker, flecks of blabber juice dripping into my eye. Christ, the smell!

I knew what I had to do if I was to get out of this alive. Like a man on his way to the gallows, I reluctantly raised myself level with the nipple, and opened my mouth.

“There’s a good boy,” Widdicombe cackled. “Mummy knows best, mummy knows best, mummy knows best …”

I let out a strangulated whine as fifty year’s worth of rancid and backed-up flabber-batter poured down my gullet.

All I’d wanted was an interview.



As we prepared to leave the Dorchester, Boris ran his fingers through that famous mop of clean, blond hair and motioned with his bulbous thumb towards the lavatory.

‘Would you care to…?’

He didn’t need to say any more.

‘I’ll see you in trap two – the disabled option. Plenty of legroom’ I replied, winking like a schoolgirl.

I waited in the large cubicle, unbuttoning my blouson and undoing my shoelaces – keenly aware that Boris is a notorious toe-sucker.
He arrived minutes later, panting and flushed.

‘What’s the matter, Boris?’ I asked, clenching my buttocks.
‘Sorry old bean, was rushing around trying to find one of these…’

He fished a tangerine from his pocket, knowing full well that I knew how he intended to use it.
In one quick movement he unbuttoned his shirt and stuffed the tangerine into his mouth. In a flash his trousers and pants were on the wet floor and he stood before me as naked as the day he was born.

‘Give us a twirl, Boz’ I called, enthusiastically.

As he did so, I noticed each aureole was discoloured – a bruised blue and black against his blank white flesh. He was entirely without hair in the pubic region and his scrotum housed only a single bollock, causing it to hang symmetrically like a bowling ball in a plastic bag. The major surprise arose as he displayed the rear view – for where you and I have a pair of buttocks, the Mayor of London has a collection of three cheeks – each one as dimpled and pimply as the other.

He was upon me before I could count his anuses.

Perfect Circle

Perfect Circle

“Why aren’t you wearing a suit?” Peter asked.

I could tell he was angry as he flicked the zip on his fly

“I just, I, I just came here to get a quote.”

“Well you’ll not get a quote from me. You didn’t turn up in a suit and that shows me you aren’t ready for business?”

“Is it business time?” I asked, terrifed of the answer.

“Yes, yes it is” he said.

Peter flicked a switch to the side of his chair. The hot studio lamps turned off and were replaced by disco lights and a lava lamp.

“Oh, god. OH god… please, no!” I screamed, knowing that the rumours had been true. Soon I’d know why all the all the people who had invested in Peter’s businesses had gone mad, gibbering about ‘the ring’.

Peter Jones stood up and dropped his trousers. He was wearing white pants, and his socks were held up with old fashioned suspenders.

“It’s time for you to learn the truth about business.”

The lights dimmed again, and then shone bright on Peter’s crotch. His tiny penis was erect, surrounded by a perfect circle of public hair. A ring of hair trimmed to exactly a centimetre in width – a flawless hoop of carefully styled curls that harboured an ancient evil.

I’d seen the truth. The truth of THE RING.

July 2018
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