Glyndebourne again! He kept finding himself back here, despite swearing off it – and at it – every year. He’d have to find somewhere to do a quick line or, fuck it, quite a few. In fact, he was wet-fingering the empty bag (oo-er) in no time, and less than an hour later he was being hauled out by two toughs who weren’t even wearing any sort of bouncer outfit and, they proudly told him as they shoved him into the pebbled car park, didn’t even work there. They just loved Handl so much that they decided to get a ‘Handl’ on him and stop him doing football chants over the music, as he laughingly related as an imaginary guest on BBC Breakfast the next morning, winking at Rita Chakrabarti when the camera was off him and wanking at her later before sinking into a pit of self-disgust that ended in him ordering another bag of much shitter bugle.
“Argh, yeah!” he roared, pumping his shaft faster and faster before letting fly with a substantial load.
It was a bare-faced lie, and she frowned angrily, then abruptly vomited as her nose admitted a hot blast of rectal gas from the zebra’s stinking rear.
Just as he began to push the ring onto her finger, a huge crash and the scattering of glass sounded as Pete from next door hurled himself through the oldest and finest of the stained glass windows, failing to halt proceedings by more than ten minutes and subjecting himself to a night in hospital, during which time the bride and groom had a marathon session of hard sex with her being treated to a copious serving of thick cum.
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.
Her bodice sprang open, a button pinging off an exposed heating pipe, the pressure of her heaving bosom simply too much to be contained by that delicate satin garment. The boobs thus exposed, he could scarcely be forgiven for succumbing to his excitement, although it was generally agreed later that he should at least have got the old chap out before it gooped into his vicuña-acrylic mix Y-fronts.
He grunted aggressively and without warning, a stiff gust of stinking gas blasting forth into the ill-prepared faces ahind his colono-rectal pipework and causing not one but two of them to wrinkle in disgust before vomiting, albeit only into their closed mouths, leaving them able to tidily dispose of the chunder out of the window in one case and, after an undignified struggle, back down their scalded gullet in the other.
They were bonking. Wait… were they? You bet they were. Oh, yes – they were bonking alright. Bonking they were. A bonk was being had by them. They were bonking one off. Q. What were they not doing? A. Not bonking. If bonking was a sea, they were swimming in it. And so on, and so on. There were various ways to say much the sa-SPLAT! OK, the bonking was over now (he had cummed).
He guffed in the most coarse and vulgar way possible, absolutely shredding not only his own decorum but also that of everyone else present, the sheer unseemliness and incongruity of his rectal endeavour impossible to ignore, and the stench impossible to inhale without vomiting, fleeing the room or, in one case, fainting in a paroxysm of ecstasy.
“Ohhhh, YES!” he cried as he swung the big mallet underarm to crunch beautifully into the chin of his foe, knocking him out cold, whipping his neck back horribly and leaving him to tumble backward out of the crow’s nest, over the side of the listing ship and into the jagged beak of the leviathan.