What was this stinking brown stuff before him? It tasted like it had been squeezed out of an arse, though whether a human one or not he couldn’t say. Ugh! The taste was unbelievably foul. He wondered why he was even being asked to try it. Yet there was Matthew – if that was his real name – dipping his finger in and lapping it off with a grin, and not even a perverted one. If anything his expression was wholesome. It was so wrong. It w- oh, wait, it was just Vegemite.
She spat on his face. Soon he spat back at her, though not with his mouth, but rather with his cock, and what he spat was not sputum but a runny serving of spermatozoa (he spunked).
She tore open his flesh excitedly, holding him down and thrusting her face in to guzzle away at the blood and blubber as he roared in agony.
He lifted his gradually softening wanger and let it flop back down onto the turd, the load he had just deposited onto it now splattering to either side, though thankfully not back onto his face.
He bit into the apple, enjoying a huge chunk of sweet, crunchy flesh and hungrily swallowing it in his lust for more. The second bite, though, was composed mostly of the hidden brown mush at the apple’s heart, yet he didn’t realise until he swallowed and the rotting stuff hit the back of his throat, suddenly prompting him to hurl it back out with a whole lot more in train, not just apple flesh but also the previous pack of bacon-flavoured Skips and, after another big heave, an old galosh.
“Requiescat im pace,” she intoned softly, and pulled the lever, but her utterance was inappropriate, since however much she wished peace upon her departing friend, it was being denied exactly that by her own action of flushing it round the u-bend and into the sewage system where, admittedly, it would join many more of its own kind.
As he blew his nose hard with frustration, a tiny and unsatisfying amount of the thick catarrh blocking his airway was dislodged, while the pressure made the suppurating boil on his naked left shoulder burst open anew and release its infected cells into the air to share with the other guests just as the antipasti was served.
He slapped her arse again, and again, and again, until he drew a little blood and, less intentionally, a soft but definite log.
She had exuded so much quingeinal juice that the run-off had collected in her knickers and congealed into a thick, smelly cake of cruddy biff butter and smeg.
She sighed. Yes, he could go for a dump before they got on the road, but he had to go now. Yes, right now! No, not in the living room! NOT in the livi- THUNK! Fine, in the living room then. At least it had come out in one solid log that could easily be p- SPLURRFFFPPP. OK, no, he’d smudged it into the carpet.