Her deranged grunting sounds were a little off-putting, but she knew how to receive and swallow a load like the best of them. Still, he hoped that he’d be able to go back to human partners soon.
He rampaged his way through Europe, quaffing pilsners, tipping goulash down his gullet, ploughing sweet strange and looking for opportunities to chip bits off old gargoyles. The only gargoyle who really came within reach, though, was alive, female and down a dark alley in the newer part of Dubrovnik, and she was looking for seventy quid. Thirty would’ve been generous. Thanks but no thanks, dragana!
Her squirming anal vortex momentarily tugged his concrete wand inward, then expelled it violently and thanked him for the liaison with a soggy brown legacy of scat.
“In nomine partris, et f-” intoned Father O’Donoghue, but his voice was drowned out by a deafening rectal belch which, for the rest of their lives, all of the congregation remembered as the ‘In nomine fartris’ incident and caused many of them refer to him as Father O’Donopoo.
He could not decide which was the greater problem, his flatulence or his crapulence. Rather than be paralysed by the dilemma, he resolved to minimise both, or rather to do the exact opposite, grunting coarsely from his anal pipe and guzzling Kestrel as he waited for the moment when he was supposed to hand over the rings, which he had probably lost anyway.
Her features had been described to him as unblemished, but that was blatantly untrue, or at least it was after he creamed off a nice big sticky blemish all over her mouth, her chin and, yea, her gleaming wabs.
So intense was her hatred for him that she was prepared to sacrifice her own life, sprinting headlong and rugby tackling him, his drink and another unfortunate lady over the edge and down for a good eight seconds before they both splattered satisfyingly on the concrete while the other lady devastated a Lamborghini and the drink smashed all over a Reliant Robin.
Sarah was into bearded hipsters (or bearded non-hipsters at a push). Carly loved athletic guys, being into fitness herself. Rose liked men with a bit of a paunch ; she found washboard stomachs positively off-putting. But Kelly was somewhat harder to please, finding that the only thing that really soaked her knickers was the sight of a Victorian strongman, and only if he had the classic moustache and was lifting old-fashioned barbells.
Oooh, she thought. He really is well hung! And he was, twisting slowly as the last twitches of his legs subsided and the weight of his exhausted body combined with the noose’s grip to finally ensure that no further air could pass through his trachea.
At the end of a long, hard day at the bakery, weary as he might be, he was always happy to grab his jacket, say goodbye, step cheerfully outside and walk to Dollis Hill underground station, where he usually managed to get about halfway to the platform before loudly and copiously fouling himself.