Little Jamie was running around, Jayden was following him, Katie had just pooed in her nappy and now mother was calling for help from upstairs too, and if she was calling while the kids were going mad, that meant it was urgent. Now she saw smoke coming from the oven. Shit! She’d forgotten about their waffles. Oh, God. And it was raining. The washing had to be dry for this evening. Then her phone started ringing, and it was her boss. He never usually rang. Just as she was about to answer it, she heard a sharp rap on the front door and a face trying to poke through the letterbox. The bailiff! Oh, God. And he’d definitely seen her already. Her mum called again. She told Katie to just stay still for a moment. She thought of getting Jamie to bring in the washing but then almost laughed at the idea. She began to scurry upstairs. But then the smoke alarm went off, and it was piercingly loud. Suddenly, near the bottom of the stairs, she found herself losing control, and turd after turd plunged out of her arse, into and through her knickers and fell free to flop indecorously into the puddle of piss she had poured forth at the same time.
His lips exploded! Well, that will happen if you pay the lowest possible price in Dhaka to get them ‘done’, or so he had been told over the crackling phone line by his concerned mother, but had he listened? Had he fuck. Ah, man, it really hurt too. Still, perhaps he could distract people by getting some more botox in his already-bulging forehead, or maybe in the hideously rigid flesh around his eyes.
Oh, god. The very sight of it made her mouth water. She got her hand in there and started groping that big, shiny sausage. She didn’t even ask permission. He sat there casually, legs wide and hands clasped behind his head, not making any move to help or hinder her, yet his face showed his total bemusement at the sight of her squeezing and palpating the meaty column that was supposed to be the main part of his dinner. Still, might as well get stuck into the chips.
The constant and unbidden seeping of fluids from her rancid crevice into those tight, white briefs had left them not only permanently defaced by hideous yellow stains but also saturated in the gusset and crotch by the ceaseless flow of quingeinal pus.
In her Plenty of Fish profile she looked like Yasmin Bleeth. In real life, under the street lights, she looked more like one of the Lockerbie bombers. But after they’d had a few cans of Kestrel back at his bedsit and got amorous, she looked like Yasmin Bleeth again, if Yasmin Bleeth had had a predilection for hardsports.
Another serving of salty cum splattered hard into her face, then another, and another, but she persisted in her task, and soon the plane’s course was righted and the lives of everyone on board saved.
As he resigned himself to his fate and stood there urinating and defecating into his trousers, the crowd of people around him who had so forcefully protested just moments before that they ‘couldn’t move further down the carriage’ suddenly discovered that they could, in fact, move a lot further down the carriage, and they did, at least until someone at the other end also loudly fouled herself, after which those caught in the crossturd just had to try not to breathe much and pretended harder than ever to be really interested in reading the Metro.
Her deranged grunting sounds were a little off-putting, but she knew how to receive and swallow a load like the best of them. Still, he hoped that he’d be able to go back to human partners soon.
He could not decide which was the greater problem, his flatulence or his crapulence. Rather than be paralysed by the dilemma, he resolved to minimise both, or rather to do the exact opposite, grunting coarsely from his anal pipe and guzzling Kestrel as he waited for the moment when he was supposed to hand over the rings, which he had probably lost anyway.
He was really tired of hearing about the tsunami damage. It didn’t look like the death toll was going to get above eight thousand – absolutely pathetic by 2004’s standards anyway – and they were just saying the same thing in the same tone of voice over and over. He switched over to BBC Four. It was a documentary about how punk had blown away the pretentious era of prog r- THONK. Hello! Some action at last? Yes, but… well, he’d turded himself. Amazingly, though, it had come out cleanly. He considered his sitting position. Yes, he supposed that was possible – his arse wasn’t pressed straight down against the couch, but was more facing forward, allowing the turd out, through his loose boxers and, yep, there it was on the floor, a few ants already roving over to inspect it.