Surely there was only a certain amount of other people’s earwax-infused pus a man could reasonably be expected to quaff, but still, that amount was in the centigallons and he was still at the stage of vomiting violently after each sip from the first beaker (with faded Power Rangers print). He was determined to get through it, though. What doesn’t kill me makes m-HUARRRGGGHHHH!
The follow-through filled his Y-fronts immediately and carried on going, his clown trousers soon brimming too and the pressure forcing the hot cack up through the sealed plastic sheeting into his heavy plate armour and finding its deserved release through the gaps.
Where had he done his O-levels? Thrush College? No, and there was no such establishment, but anyone who saw the state of his mouth could be forgiven for thinking it was realer than ‘Real Deal’ Holyfield.
She did a lovely spinning roundhouse kick to his face, immediately bursting open his disgustingly Botoxed lips and allowing yellowy-red crap to run free and dribble miserably onto the fake white tiger rug they had only just finished bonking on.
He masticated contemplatively the delicious layers of pastry and salmon before swallowing and making way for a draught of that deep, luxurious Chateauneuf. Just as he placed the crystal goblet down, and thank goodness not a moment later, his lights went out and he splodged down into the salmon en croute, cream sauce squirting rudely out onto the table and his mouth falling open in the most undignified way, half-chewed food spilling out onto the plate as his hosts stood and rushed to see if he was OK, which he wasn’t.
She presented her sizeable jugs to him, and he fumbled with them both, creaming himself wantonly, absolutely covering the front of his pants and trousers in that thick white stuff and leaving him only the merest dribble left to pour onto his spotted dick.
He delved deep into her flanginal cavework, rooting around for a good place to deposit his spunk, finding one, unloading with a guttural growl, and then falling asleep on top of her before fouling himself just as he suffered a massive brain haemorrhage.
“Oh, God, yeah! YEAH!” she roared in exultation as more and more was stuffed into her gob. She really, really loved peanut butter.
She had decided that, while it might be Friday night and everyone was going out tonight, she was going to run a long bath, put cucumbers on her eyes, do a face pack and listen to her audiobook of Geoffrey Boycott Reads a Thousand Years of The Shipping Forecast (unedited version).
She got nicely skagged up and then dove in to start noshing him off, knowing that if she did it well there might be a tenner in it for her and she’d only need to do likewise to another three fetid tramps before she could afford either her next needleful or an appointment at the doctor to find out whether it really was gangrene in her bad arm.