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I was dressed from head to foot in a schoolgirl’s outfit, in a broom cupboard located beside Chris Evan’s Radio 2 studio. It was pitch black and my scrotum was straining against the tiny thong Chris had supplied. Each nut itched with the intensity of a scabied perineum.
He’d insisted I should hide in this alcove whilst he chatted with his pal, Vernon Kaye about Lego and other connectable toys in the next room. I’d been busting for a turd for the past thirty minutes and was almost beyond the point of no return. I pulled the door ajar to see if I could catch his attention and to check if the way was clear for me to hot foot it to the bogs before Dermot O-Leary could catch sight of me. As I peered beyond the door-crack, Evans clocked and scolded me.
‘Get BACK, you bitch-twit’ he hissed as he drank me in, an absolutely tiny tent peg evolving in his grundies. Then he got back to chatting with Vern about Meccano as he scratched his arsehole.
Back in the darkness of the dusty cupboard, I could bear it no longer and pushed a foot-long subway on rye from my winking fart-pellet. It scuffed the side of the G-String I’d been forced to wear. There was no time to worry about the inevitable, acrid-yellowy stain that would form as this mammoth soft-brick headed downwards. I realised I had no choice but to catch it before it landed on the floor, so I squatted like a frenzied wicket-keeper, catching my own grumbling gum-cheese in my hands before it could hit the ground, running. With the texture of aged Philadelphia, it was a sticky blob rather than a controllable sausage and I fought to keep it gripped. As I wrestled with the twelve-inch shit, The door opened wide and as the light blasted me from outside, the silhouette of Evan’s naked form stood before me.
He wore only his trademark, black-rimmed spectacles – but three pairs of the fuckers. One covered his eyes, as was his wont. A second set, huge and chest-wide, sat astride his chest, making eyes of his enormous nipples. The teat of each seemed to blink as I looked up at them. Finally, a smaller pair of looking-glasses covered his not inconsiderable testicles. The ballbag was bright red and the form of each nut was clearly cube-like behind those bollock-bins.
‘Ooooh! I see you’ve done me a little bum-gift!’ he chirped, delving his hands into the grotty faeces I cradled, baby-like in my arms. He then set about smearing his wrists, neck and face with the chod, gurning like Wilfred Bramble on high-grade MDMA as he jumped from foot-to-foot shouting ‘GABY ROSLIN! GABY ROSLIN’ parrot-like and with all the breath he could muster.
‘GABY ROSLIN? GABY ROSLIN!’ he shrieked in a weird question and answer session with himself.
When he’d calmed down, we did a bit of a wank then watched 60-Minute Makeover whilst cutting our toenails, all nude and smiling. It was unarguably the best day of my life.