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art made flesh

art made flesh

I lay back on the bed, my body ached from the pleasure he had given me.

‘Oh Sal’ I moaned, my lips quivering as endorphins coursed through my blood.

He turned towards me, his honed body glistening with sweat. I could see his stomach muscles ripple as he moved. He wasn’t just a man, he was art made flesh.

‘All right my lover?’ he asked.

Everything about him seemed unreal, first discovering that he spoke with a heavy Dorset accent when he was away from the cameras. Then when he took off his baggy gray cardigan to reveal his action-hero body. You’d never suspect that underneath his badly chosen clothes and shuffling manner was a highly muscled body like that of a Greek God.

This was nothing compared to his love making, he might make his money through writing but his real talent was in the bed.

‘Again?’ he asked, raising one bushy eyebrow in question.

‘I, I don’t know if I could. I’m, I’m not sure I could take much more.’

For the last forty eight hours he had been pleasuring me, I was raw in some places from his expert skills but I didn’t want it to stop I just feared for my heart. I feared I might die of ecstasy in his muscled embrace and yet I could think of no better way to slip from this world in the next.

‘Once more Sal, but please, be gentle.’

‘Right you are. Eer we go’

He took me again and as I drifted away in a sea of pleasure he softly hummed the tune to ‘I’ve got a brand new combine harvester.’

All in the curl

‘It’s fantastic Brian!’ I ejaculated. Not from my winkle – that would come much later.

‘I’m, so glad you like it’ replied the country’s number one axeman, guitar supremo Brian May.

‘Like it? I’m in awe! Such girth. Such weight… such unparalleled density’ I drooled as Brian’s sequinned slacks lay about his ankles, a pair of tatty briefs atop them, yellowed by time and streaked with the stains of sweaty nights grinding at his instrument for the remaining troupe of Queen fanatics.

‘Y’know, Anita always says it’s all in the curl’ he sighed. He was referring to his beautiful wife, ex-soap queen Anita Dobson. Word on the street was that she also possessed a bouffant pubis of similar character. Jesus wept – a stylist must’ve been at it for days. Deep within the fronds, rubies from every continent glittered alongside the ringlet groove of his elaborate willy-bush.

‘Well the curve here’s nigh on perfect’ I exclaimed. ‘It’s the most elaborate cock-shrub I’ve seen. I think I can say that without reserve. It’s only a shame we can’t see the goods beneath it… Come on Bri! Show us what you’re made of! Unravel your fretboard for the crowd!’

Patrick Moore and I were sitting on the chaise-longue, naked as the day we were born and lathered liberally in fuck juice from a previous session. Brian had just come backstage after a barn-storming set playing to literally tens of middle-aged men, alongside the knackered-looking Roger Taylor and that bloke who used to sing on the Wrigley’s advert. And the bass player whose name always escapes me.

Brian gave me a sly wink before fishing around in the area of his mons venus. He located the pink-ribbon and as he began to unravel it, he oscillated it in a crazy manner, his scalp-mop fluttering around his brow as he gained an erection.

‘What a wonderful tattoo’ I gasped, as he stopped the motion and his four and a half inch weapon stood proudly before my waiting face. ‘Is it a dinkle-tache?’

‘Oh, you noticed. I’m so pleased. Yes. It’s a penis-moustache, forever inked on my tinkerbell in memory of poor, dear departed Freddy’

I rapidly pulled a sheath over my entire head before draining that ridiculous penis of all it had, while Patrick Moore tickled my bumhole and muttered celestial data.

hairy nipples

hairy nipples

I was shocked on the night of the performance, I can tell you. I had knocked on his dressing room door to tell him there was an hour before the curtain up, and was sure I could hear someone gently weeping. I opened the door and saw John sitting at his dressing table wearing a dressing gown and doing terrible punishment to a bottle of Drambuie. He looked up at me with swollen, tear-filled eyes and tried feebly to smile.

‘What’s the matter Mr. Noakes?’ I asked. I must admit the sight of one of my idols crying into a bottle (and his bottle was definitely half empty) disturbed me greatly.

‘Oh nothing…nothing, here sit down,’ replied John, wiping his tears on the back of his towelled sleeve. He patted a stool next to his.

I sat down.

After a long silence he turned to me, a far away look in his eyes. “Love’s a funny thing, isn’t it son?” He took another pull on the Drambuie, spilling some of it down his chin where it dripped forlornly into the folds of his gown.

‘Eh?’

Being eighteen years old I knew nothing of love. The nearest I’d got to love with a woman was pulling myself off over picture stories from my little sister’s Jackie comics.

‘Love son, love…it’s a funny thing,’ he burped. Snot dribbled down his top lip and he sucked it up absent-mindedly.

I thought about this for a while. I was sure that it was, but I also felt sure that his statement required a certain answer…I didn’t want to set him off crying again and he’d be up in front of the Queen in just over an hour.

‘I suppose it is Mr. Noakes, I wouldn’t really know.’ I couldn’t help looking round at the door, my illusion of John’s hard-man image was falling apart. They say that you should never meet your heroes.

‘Take Valerie Singleton. I…I loved her for years lad, years…and I never told her.’ He made a sound somewhere between a sniff, a sob and a belch and closed his eyes.

‘Oh’ I said.

‘Never told her…never fucking told her. Couldn’t you see, she wouldn’t look at me…wouldn’t fucking look at a p-poor northern boy like me!’

He brought his bottle angrily up to his mouth and, unaware that he’d just smashed one of his front teeth out, took another pull of Drambuie (and blood). I was now desperate; I didn’t want to be there anymore.

‘Shep loved me!’ He wailed.

Oh shit, he’s brought the fucking dog up. Again.

‘And I loved Shep!’ He was starting to shout. I suddenly noticed that in his drunken state his dressing gown was falling open. I noticed his nipples. Christ they were hairy. And it wasn’t human hair.

‘Fucking hell John!’ I rasped, ‘what the fuck happened to your nipples?’

But John didn’t hear. He swayed to his feet, the cord on his dressing gown becoming worryingly loose.

‘I never fucking told her! I never told her and thought I’d never have her…but Jesus Christ son, she’s just telegrammed me.’

He shoved a tear-stained telegram in my face. I read it.

To cut a long story short it seemed that Valerie Singleton had only just come to the boil and had told him, in no uncertain terms, that he was on a promise after the show. I didn’t know the language of love at that tender age and some of the terms were unfamiliar. ‘I’m going to fuck you big boy’ was obvious but I didn’t know what a ‘hot lunch’ was. It sounded good for him anyway.

‘What’s the problem then, Mr. Noakes?’ I asked, confused. ‘It looks like you’re up for a right seeing-to, and no mistake…’

‘What’s the problem?!’ he barked, ‘WHAT’S THE FUCKING PROBLEM?! IT’S SHEP!!’

‘But…but Shep’s dead Mr. Noakes, Shep’s dead!’

John swayed and looked down on me, the hint of a triumphant smile on his wet lips.

‘Oh no he’s not…Not thanks to modern science. Shep’s alive. IN ME!!’

‘What? I don’t understand!’

Panic was rising in my chest, I tried to rise but he pushed me firmly back down.

‘Surgery boy! Surgery! I’ve melded Shep into my own body! It was the right thing to do…it felt so good!’

Jesus, suddenly the hairy nipples made sense…they were Shep’s! But, surely, he can’t have…

‘But oh! The irony!’ he gargled, ‘I have my little Sheppy forever, but because of this, I can’t have Valerie, she won’t want me now!’

I had to think fast.

‘But it’s only nipples John, surely you can keep your shirt on and she’ll never know!’

His hand moved up to the back of my head, grabbing my hair and twisting it around his strong fingers.

‘Oh she’ll know alright boy, she’ll know…’

I gagged in horror as his dressing gown fell to the floor. The nipples were the least of it. I watched, frozen with horror as his canine lipstick started to emerge from within himself, leaking a silken thread of doggy pre-cum two inches from my face.

‘But you don’t mind do you lad?…You don’t mind…’

I was powerless to resist as Shep’s engorged member forced its way to the back of my throat.

Sucked his thumb

Sucked his thumb

‘It’s okay Gordon,’ I said, whilst the titan of TV cookery rested his head in my lap.

He sobbed in reply.

‘No, really. It happens to everyone. Especially people with high pressure jobs, like you’

‘I just wanted to give you a good seeing to, yes?’

He looked up at me with those cold blue eyes and started to cry again.

‘It’s okay Gordon. No, it’s really fine.’

‘Just, just don’t tell Anthony Worrell-Thompson, yes? That little SHIT will tell everyone what happened, yes? I don’t want to lose my sponsorship deals, yes?’

‘I won’t’

The Michelin-starred chef gave me a hug. A little trail of snot dribbled out of his nose as he made the internationally recognised hand-signal for ‘would you like a cup of tea?’ (You make your hands into the shape of the letter tea and raise your eyebrows). I nodded.

Once he was back in the kitchen he seemed to come alive again. His muscled body was covered in eczema and his back-hair had been shaved into a Saltaire, dyed blue. When he returned he had a silk kimono on. It was too short, and his puny balls were visible below the hemline.

‘That’s nice Gordon,’ I said. ‘Where did you get it?’

‘It is fucking nice isn’t it, yes? I got it from Japan. Yes, the actual Japan.’

I nodded and sipped the tea.

‘Look, do you want to just cuddle for a bit?’ he asked.

‘Erm, well I have to…’

‘Only for a bit! Go on, yes?’

‘Okay Gordon’

He pounced on me and knocked the tea out of my hands. I rocked him forwards and backwards on my knee cooing softly. Gordon sucked his thumb and snuggled into the crook of my arm.

‘You know… if you hang around’ he sniffed ‘we could go and shout at my Sous Chef?’

He looked at me hopefully.

‘Perhaps Gordon. Perhaps’

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.

August 2017
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