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.
Her huge bangers stunned him into silence, a silence broken only by the sound of his orgasmic suspiration and the titters of those around him as a silvery wet patch appeared on the front of his purple camouflage cargo pants.
Yes, he was wearing couture vicuña briefs. No, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be spunking into them. It didn’t even mean that he hadn’t already (he had).
The provenance of her sumptuous bosom was hard to ascertain definitively, but he suspected that it was augmented by human artifice, indicating a high degree of concupiscence which he felt ought to be rewarded, first with his spunk and then, later, with more of his spunk.
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.
Her face had become little more than a landing strip for spooge, and she only had herself to blame.
His spunk looked great on her big, shiny new knockers, or at least it had when it had landed there. Not so much now, four and twenty years later, the crispy residue lost among the sagging folds of supercentenarian flesh.
As the sarge emptied the suspect’s pockets, the contents – a cigarette lighter, keys, small change and a condom – were nothing new in themselves, although there was a degree of novelty to each one. The lighter was of industrial scale, as though required to ignite an ancient lighthouse. The keys looked like they opened some mildewy dungeon. The small change appeared to be from Hungary, and Soviet-era Hungary at that. And the condom? Well, it’s always good to be safe, but most normal people would rather pass up the opportunity for a shag rather than work themselves into an already cum-filled condom – and I do mean filled.
“You slut!” he bellowed, but he knew he wanted to cream all over those sumptuous bangers.
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).