He had tried to slap her arse, but she had swiftly moved aside and he had instead slapped her father’s wanger.
He had told her that he wanted to plough her fields in order to make a landing strip for future deliveries, and she had had the land cleared of people and livestock in preparation, and yet when he came to do the work, it turned out that she had taken ‘fields’ to mean her flanginal area, ‘future deliveries’ to mean his penile effusions, and ‘ploughing’… well, you can probably guess (hard drilling).
She went looking for a big club of meat, and she certainly found one. Alas, she had been hoping for a more conventional specimen. Still, one has to make the best of what one can get. She only hoped that she wouldn’t bear a half-camel child.
It wasn’t the yelling. It wasn’t the stomping around. It wasn’t the parties that went on all night. It wasn’t even the way they seemed to watch old episodes of Kilroy at maximum volume at 5am while chanting sectarian football songs. It was the fact that, not once but many times, she heard spooge hitting the wall so hard you’d think it’d been fired out of a blunderbuss.
As she curtly dismissed her ladies-in-waiting, she wondered for the umpteenth time what they were really ‘waiting’ for – her, or a severe pounding with a turgid spunk-tube.