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).
She was almost delirious with joy as one gloopy serving after another splattered onto her face and ran down toward her mouth where she could lick at it. Yet the supplies of this marvellous gunk were limited, and soon enough the bottle of Dolmio was empty – although she remembered with a devilish grin that there was another one close at hand.
The long, sturdy wangers exploded all over her, a terrific shower of gooey plasm covering her from brow to chin, making this a happier birthday than any of the previous hundred and four.
“What?” she spluttered indignantly. “I risked my life saving yours! I should get a medal!”
“I’ll give you a medal,” he said with a snarl. “Kneel down.”
She knelt expectantly. Something seemed wrong, but she assumed that this must be part of the medal presentation. Damn it! If she’d known, she would’ve got her family to come and watch. She would’ve dressed in her best, got professional makeup, arranged for a photogr- SPLAT! He’d launched the medal onto her face with his big wanger and was now strutting away. She was amazed that the ceremony was over so quickly, but also very proud. Only after he had sped off in his Proton Saga did it dawn on her that his bestowal had not in fact been a medal as such but rather a stringy cord of pubic mucus.