She drifted listlessly through the days, having a daytime nap here, a cheeky glass of Pimms (less fun without the girls) there, a slice of cake on occasion, but always niggled by the miserable dearth of hard penises to slide onto. As she prepared to move house, though, she did at least find an old laserdisc of gay pornography, and though she struggled to imagine herself in any of the roles presented on screen, she was brought to a sudden, screaming orgasm simply by the sight of a solid and slightly upcurved rod and the way it spilled spunken goodness from its winking terminus.
She had passed all four of her GCSEs, but she had failed to achieve even an F at not devastating her knickers with colossal amounts of turdal matter.
She could see that the case contained a bomb, but her shift had just finished and she knew she wouldn’t get paid for doing overtime, so she waved it through, stood up to make way for Martina, and marched off to get on the tube before the crowds. The plane exploded before take-off, as it turned out, but she didn’t hear about it until much later, and the news was accompanied by a text from her boss saying they’d be closed tomorrow, so she’d be having a lie-in. Whallop!
He scrambled to get the lid off the jar, lifted it high and more or less threw the contents all over his own face, guzzling as much of it down as he could without slowing, then tossed the jar onto the pile with a glassy clank before grabbing another, yanking the lid off without even twisting it and this time coolly but rapidly pouring the entire half kilo of Chicken Tonight straight down his oesophagus.
He was stunned to see that her stream of piss came out almost straight, such was the pressure. He had only ever heard, not seen, women having a slash, and it had always sounded like a tinkle. He had assumed that it was always so. But this was practically boring a hole in the back of his throat.