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.
“Oooh, yeah!” she said eagerly as though she’d been offered a sumptuous doughnut, but the only thing she’d been offered was a turgid stonker, and the only thing sumptuous about it was the way it pressed against her boundaries as it slid with increasing rapidity in and out of her twunge.
They had coffee together. They walked through the park. They spent a lovely afternoon strolling round an arts and crafts centre. And in the evening, as he lay under a glass table, she carefully laid out a cable for his delectation.
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.
She had a most spurious quinge, it could not be denied, but his contemplation of its likely artificiality was no cause to slow, still less cease, in its use, and only when his unctuous deposit was made and then languidly and shamefully regurgitated did he conclude that his suspicions had been warranted, and thus so was the excremental vengeance he swiftly and copiously discharged about her visage and into her perfidious maw.
She might have worked in a pet shop for the last eight years, but that didn’t mean she didn’t enjoy the feeling of being devastatingly skullfucked.
There was no stopping her. She progressed along the line of guys, applying mammaries and hands to their turgid columns until each one was flopped back in his seat, drowsy and cross-eyed, and her knockers looked like they were coated in icing sugar.
She re-entered the room, took up her chopsticks and got munching. Too late, she spotted his devilish grin and realised that it wasn’t curry sauce he had splurged all over her chow mein.
“Would you like to make a donation to the horse rescue centre?”, the charity lady enquired of him. Mindful of the kind of donation the forsaken horses would most appreciate, he quickly pulled down his jodhpurs just in time to curl off a thick brown donation straight into the collection bucket. Her mouth fell open, feigning astonishment but obviously hoping that he had a few nuggets left – and her luck was in.
She had been begging him for months to settle in for a sofa day and watch the Twilight series with her, but when the day came, he just felt like watching Anal Holocaust 7 again.