There was snail slime dried into her clothes, or so she assumed, since it couldn’t be cum, or at least she couldn’t admit that it was cum (it was cum).
There was a scummy smell coming from somewhere, and that somewhere wasn’t his arse on this occasion. Well, unless it actually was. He bent as far forward and down as possible and sni-BLEURGH! OK, it was his arse.
It was a cock, yes, yet it seemed not to have an opening at the end. Come to think of it, it seemed not to have any veins either. She had seen smooth ones before, sure, but they usually still had that big vein down the underside. This one didn’t even ha- oh – wait. She’d been here before. This thing – it was the size of a cock, yes – a big one at that – but it wasn’t made of human flesh. She looked down to where it didn’t meet the groin of a man (or woman). It stood alone. Well, it laid alone. And it wasn’t really the colour of human flesh, or at least not of anyone she’d been intimate with. And, far from having veins protruding from the surface, if anything it had crevices across it, perhaps where the surface had been smooth under pressure but had then fractured somewhat when released. Released from what, though? Something about the same width as a cock. She couldn’t figu- agh! She gagged and leaned back. The smell… wow, yep, there it was. It was the smell of poo. She was looking at a poo.
A breathy fulmination narrowed into a pinched squirt, and ended in a sudden crescendo of rippling fart and a finale which comprised a near-silent squeezing seamlessly becoming the release and falling of the turd. And yet there was no plop where one should have followed. His suspicions piqued, he knelt to look under the toilet door, but since it reached almost to the floor he lowered himself still further, appending to his person many sodden shreds of toilet paper and no small amount of common floor filth. Under the door he saw the explanation, but was scarcely relieved to be freed from his curiosity, for there between the squatting legs and feet of the defecator lay another whole body, upturned, and he knew then that the presence of an open gullet accounted for the absence of a splash.
As I was going to St. Ives, I met a man with seven wives. Every wife had seven sacks. Every sack had seven cats. Every cat had seven kittens. Kittens, cats, sacks and wives, how m- PPFFFFLLLLLRRRBBB!!! Ahhhhh baby. Ahhh that was a fucking fart and a half! Oh, God. Actually, it really was a fart and a half : a little extra had come out. But hey, he was at home alone, so he could just go wash the brown muck out of his pants and sit on the loo for a proper go. Ah, he was enjoying the bachelor life. He might even just throw the pants away!