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.
He barfed! Oh, yes – a lovely, thick stream of carrot mush and bits of celery steeped in the most acrid bile flowed from his gullet, the chunks clinging to her jumper and the acid corroding her already shit-smeared skin.
“Watch this!” he screamed, suddenly hurling himself off the cliff and opening a parachute with ‘#BANTS’ inscribed on it in lurid fluorescent pink, which the lads thought was a bit gay, but their concern turned to admiration as he unclipped himself and roared ‘Oi oi!’ as he tumbled toward the jagged rocks so far below.
The almost absurdly enticing wiggling of her lengthy ovipositor had him utterly mesmerised, and before he had more than the scarcest inkling of what was happening, he was overcome by a familiar tingling and a spunken efflux had shot out from his gonopore and all over hers.
“I honestly had no idea he was shagging Soph. Honestly, no idea at all. Oh my God! Oh my God. That is the biggest scandal,” said Kayleigh, giggling and sipping her cider. “Can’t get over that. Wow. I wonder if Steph knew.”
“No, she didn’t!” exclaimed Claire. “That’s the thing, she literally had no idea. Well, that’s what Nicole told me. I ain’t actually spoken to Steph. Don’t know if I can now either,” she said, laughing but still in shock. Mandy laughed too. This was all going to take time to process. Meanwhile, Trev was still not back from the shops and they were on their last cider. Were they actually going out or what? If not, she was going to get some more delivered. Then she heard the car door slam – he always slammed it – and then the front door too. Quicker than was necessary, Trev bounded up the stairs, broke the door off instead of opening it, stood there grinning for a moment, panting, then stepped backward onto the landing. “What you doing?” said Claire, amused but bemused. He sounded like he was counting to himself as his panting subsided. Then he suddenly ran forward and hurled himself at the far wall, all the landmines strapped to it triggering at the same time, blowing his entire body into tiny pieces, showering the whole room, the two girls, much of the landing, the painting over the staircase and the cat with his gore, small shards of bone and, yea, the remnants of the eight cans of K and the canvas shopping bag he’d paid an extra quid for to save the environment and hopefully leave behind a better world for the people of tomorrow.
He meant only to flatulate at her, but instead he fully discharged himself, most of his emissions admittedly falling to the floor, but also a goodly spray of near-liquid paste and poopsome chunks splattering onto her beige cardigan and her face, her eyes protected by the cucumber slices but the face pack soon becoming heavily stained with crud.