He was absolutely tearing up the place with his dance moves. Oh, man – these squares had never seen moves like this. They couldn’t keep up. They’d cleared the dancefloor for him. He had all the space he wanted. He was strutting like a peacock. He was grooving like some kind of groovy dance god. He w- FLURP! Oh, no. There was no dancefloor. There was only his bedroom, if you could call a gap between two big bins with a cardboard roof a bedroom. He wasn’t strutting now. In fact, his sole concern now was to get up without smearing the turd into his clothes and sleeping bag worse than it already was.
In his dreams, he was free, always free. He could go wherever he wanted, soar above any scenery, meet anyone, and unload his wanger onto whoever’s face he chose. Alas, in real life he was chained to a radiator, fed only turnips, and used as a spittoon, if by ‘spitting’ we also include anal extrusion.
He had done the legwork, and now he was reaping the reward – unloading every bit of white gunk he had all over her face as she rubbed her oily boobs and pushed them together invitingly, looking up at him and winking. Suddenly he awoke, shivering and drawing his emaciated body inwards to salvage any warmth as the wan sunlight in the sky above slowly faded for the final time.
He suddenly remembered his first ever handjob and came hard into the pond.
“It’s not like you to be miserable,” said Rebecca. And it wasn’t. Hetty was usually the heart and soul of any gathering. But usually she wasn’t on a gangbang comedown. On an average day she wasn’t harrowed by the fresh memories of eight masked giants standing in a closed circle around her, wanking as close to her face as possible, and making sure the cum did ruin her hair. She sipped her Pimms and tried to smile.
The Kraftwerk concert had been good, but the quick round of sex enjoyed just outside, in front of everyone, had been better. Still, he couldn’t understand why so many people had stopped to jerk off, nor why some of them were police, who, if anything, were supposed to break up this kind of disorderly behaviour. Then the actual police turned up, and he realised that what he’d previously thought were police were actually tramps, that what he’d thought was the street outside a Kraftwerk concert in Kentish Town was actually a disgusting one-roomed hovel in Wigan, and that he wasn’t actually a man, and that it was him getting shafted, and that what he’d thought were ‘the actual police’ were just more tramps.
The switch was thrown down. He felt the electricity slamming into every part of his body at once. The voltage coursed agonisingly through his flesh. His skin began to smoke. His bowels expelled everything they could. And yet all the suffering, all the cries of exultation from the bereaved, all the morbid intentions of those who were subjecting him to this final ordeal, could not quite rob from him the memory of the last five minutes he’d spent in his cell with the 1989 annual of ‘60+ And Busty’ magazine. Those creased faces, well-chosen camera angles and implausible norks would accompany him into Gehenna.
Some people regarded him as taciturn, but in fact he was just stunned into silence by how big that woman’s bangers were in that magazine he’d found when he was younger.
His rancid sputum was like ambrosia to her, yet she also wanted his bombastic wand up inside her channel. How to get it? Well, drugging him with flunitrazepam, GHB and a huge dose of Viagra was a good chemical basis, but she still found that she had to show a video of herself lying on the floor, gazing neutrally at the camera as a huge rod was dipped slowly and steadily in and out of her salivating mouth before he really got hard. Even then, she wished that he didn’t stink of fresh tarmac. Suddenly she awoke on the ground next to some fresh tarmac, badly hungover again and wishing that she wasn’t tormented by such visions or by oral thrush.