He wanted sex, and her corpulence was no impediment. Well, not psychologically, but it was nigh on impossible to insert oneself to a sufficient depth without also snapping one’s spine.
Other than fellwalking, they had few interests in common. She liked the Antiques Roadshow, while he found all Sunday evening television depressing. She was into cakes, whereas he ate hardly anything sweet. And she was hoping for a period of gentle courtship, whereas his explicit aim was to smash her back doors off within forty-eight hours of their first shared glance.
He sat down to curl off a big chud, but all that came out was snot. So what happens next time I sneeze? He shivered and resolved to destroy his respiratory system before it could turn against him.
He lifted his feet up to allow the cleaner to hoover under his feet – irritating, but not so much so that he had to stop stroking one off. Nor was the sound of her wiping down the sinks in her rubber gloves a reason for him to avoid letting out a loud gurgle and belch as he synchronised his ejaculation with a squelching fart.
So what if they’d run out of K-Y Jelly? You use spittle or you just wait. You don’t use Valvoline.
“Am I wrong?” he asked rhetorically. “No, you’re not wrong, Pete, you’re just an assho-” she tried to reply, but her gob was suddenly crowded full of steamy turds as he turned and demonstrated just how much of an ‘asshole’ he was. Even then, she was wrong to say that he was just an arsehole (note the correct spelling), and he made sure she knew it by swiftly turning again and slashing all over her face and hair, matting it to her flaking scalp and leaving her looking thoroughly dishevelled.
“Don’t stop me now, I’m having such a good time, I’m having a ball,” muttered Wendy deliriously as her starving body began to consume her atrophied muscles.
She lay down and placed a hand, palm down, about six inches above her lips, which she pursed, allowing him to whack his todger off the lips, onto the palm, back onto the lips, off the palm, etc. Th-th-th-th-th-th-thwonk!
She danced though she couldn’t dance. She played chess though he beat her in a few minutes. She nodded as he spoke of books she’d never heard of. And she gave him all the signals she could short of a direct proposition, though she knew that he was engaged. She would stop at nothing to get to that moment where she could extract his rudiment and rub it onto her own face while blinking with mock innocence, then never touch him again and blackmail him for all he was worth. Or at least that was the plan, and yet by sundown it was he who had a juicy load on his visage and was swaggering away, never to be seen again except one time outside Cash Converters in Tong (near Bradford) and he looked so natural being led around on a chain by Dame Vanessa Vicious that she kept schtum.