Deuce Vult

“Uhuh!” she said. “Oh yeah. Oh God yeah. Oh!” she yelped. “Oh fuck. Ohhhhh God. Oh my God, yes, yes!” she cried out, losing control as the thickest part of the turd passed the final sphincter and the whole thing plunged into the already-brown pool below, splashing some of it back onto her and invalidating the shower she’d had just minutes before.

Rock’n’roll 2017

Was that chunder he smelt? Ah, yes! And, in fact, it was his, and he had fallen asleep in it. Oh, rock’n’roll, eh? What a lau-hoooarghh! Ah, some more. Well, better to get it o-pppfffrrrbbbbsplsplsplppp. Ooh, a hot, wet fart-cum-turd. He hadn’t meant to do that. Well, he had, but not in the front garden and definitely not with an audience and surrounded by several news crews.

No such word as can’t

“You can’t polish a turd,” he had always been told, and yet, as he sat back and admired his handiwork, he felt vindicated in his refusal to believe the old adage. Granted, he’d had to embalm and varnish it first, but he’d done so delicately and with very little change to its glorious surface, and now it sat gleaming on his mantelpiece, having displaced the least prestigious of his trophies – the one for taking part in a penalty shootout at the local school fete.

The big meating

She closed her lips around his meat. Oooooh, it was firm and full of blood! She let her tongue slide languidly over it for a moment, then began to sink her teeth in, and in the moment when she pierced the skin she felt his juices squirt out. Ah, she thought. There’s no taste like that! Then she chomped in suddenly, her gnashers meeting, and then turned her head away with a jerk, tearing off a delicious gobful of his living calf as he screamed in disbelief and horror.