Mission barely possible

He sprinted into the main hall, the policeman’s hands almost on him, but he skirted round the crowd, dove through a gap and somersaulted beautifully into the five-tier wedding cake, utterly covering himself and the nearest dozen or so people in marzipan and bits of cherry and apricot and fulfilling his mission with style before being taken to gaol and, probably, made to disappear.

Team effort

She had made him cum, he informed her. “Well, no,” she interjected. “That’s not quite true.” And it wasn’t. In a sense, she had got him ready, but only by being so beautiful. That had made him hard. It had not made him cum. For that, the rapid, shuffling motion of his hand, clasped as it was around his pole, had been required. After some seconds of that, yes, the gunksome serving had been drawn forth from his prostate and, via the well-directed penile hose, hurled onto her face, where there still sat a snail-trail-like remnant, and a tell-tale crispening of part of her fringe.

Let freedom ring

She was so beautiful and had such poise and social sensibility that it was hard to imagine her pooping one off. But it was even harder to imagine her not pooping one off, since she had just started doing exactly that, and soon would have finished the off-pooping. Thereafter it would have been a fait accompli. Imagination would have been shoved aside, just like the anal folds that the steamer shoved its way through on its way to freedom.