Boom! A turd exploded in mid-air, splattering the plush regency drawing room with its filth.
As the sarge emptied the suspect’s pockets, the contents – a cigarette lighter, keys, small change and a condom – were nothing new in themselves, although there was a degree of novelty to each one. The lighter was of industrial scale, as though required to ignite an ancient lighthouse. The keys looked like they opened some mildewy dungeon. The small change appeared to be from Hungary, and Soviet-era Hungary at that. And the condom? Well, it’s always good to be safe, but most normal people would rather pass up the opportunity for a shag rather than work themselves into an already cum-filled condom – and I do mean filled.
“You slut!” he bellowed, but he knew he wanted to cream all over those sumptuous bangers.
Yes, he had been told that this kind of surgery was not guaranteed to work perfectly, and he had signed a form saying that he understood the risk of his buttocks collapsing and bloody silicone gel draining from them down his stockinged legs, but still, he hadn’t really thought it would happen, least of all while he was giving the annual Reith Lecture.
His veined rod, crowned with a gleaming bulb, was exactly what she wanted, and boy was she going to get it, just as soon as she explained how Hatful of Rain: The Best of Del Amitri ‘wasn’t that great’.
They were bonking. Wait… were they? You bet they were. Oh, yes – they were bonking alright. Bonking they were. A bonk was being had by them. They were bonking one off. Q. What were they not doing? A. Not bonking. If bonking was a sea, they were swimming in it. And so on, and so on. There were various ways to say much the sa-SPLAT! OK, the bonking was over now (he had cummed).
She was almost delirious with joy as one gloopy serving after another splattered onto her face and ran down toward her mouth where she could lick at it. Yet the supplies of this marvellous gunk were limited, and soon enough the bottle of Dolmio was empty – although she remembered with a devilish grin that there was another one close at hand.
He accepted that anyone who dares to host a party will be left with a big clean-up in the morn, but even so, he was dismayed and really quite angry to find that among the cans, the bottles, the sticky spillages, the improvised ashtrays and the hundreds of discarded nitrous oxide canisters, his so-called friends had also left not one but twelve full logs of poo, four times as many nuggets and, yes, a whole wall decorated with an almost impossible number of bogeys.
He guffed in the most coarse and vulgar way possible, absolutely shredding not only his own decorum but also that of everyone else present, the sheer unseemliness and incongruity of his rectal endeavour impossible to ignore, and the stench impossible to inhale without vomiting, fleeing the room or, in one case, fainting in a paroxysm of ecstasy.
He dove forward, crunching his face brilliantly into the edge of the roof, his body whipping forward and slamming into the building’s side as his face slid off and he fell to the ground five stories below, breaking horribly on the concrete and ending up so contorted that his final, copious guff, which also brought forth solids, was directed perfectly into his own grimacing face.