Scissoring the Alien


“Alien Love” by Ktr-Liane07 (2012)

Absurdist, ridiculous, alien-based comedic erotica with a focus on giving you a headache.  That’s how I’d describe this short tale.  What wonderful things will happen when an alien (from space no less) accidentally brutally kills a lesbian’s lover and the two subsequently fall for each other’s jiggly bits?  Find out in this strange tale!  Written on the 24th June 2016.

Scissoring the Alien

Vinjivola was an intergalactic silicon-based space vampire from the planet Oolala. Wendy was a run of the mill Earth lesbian with a gluten allergy. The two were destined to meet. Because excitement.

As Wendy was eating her obese lover’s hairy clam on the paving slabs outside their New York City apartment one sunny summer morning, a vagina-shaped spaceship suddenly crash landed on the larger woman’s meaty head. “Oh sweet tits, whatever have I gone and done?!” shouted the intergalactic silicon-based space vampire from planet Oolala when the spaceship’s door opened.

“You have done me a frighten,” said Wendy, beginning to cry as she looked up at the space vampire’s shapely body. “That was my obese lover and you just twatted her up real good. Behold, her head lies smashed to smithereens like a triple-chinned watermelon”.

The space vampire looked down at the pulpy splatter expanding like a burst haemorrhoid beneath her crashed spaceship. “Sordid. I’m totes sorry, oh strange creature. It was an accident and I am a space alien who also happens to be a vampire. However can I make it up to you?”

“Well…” began Wendy, rubbing her chin as she eyed the lusciously curvy contours of the sexy space alien who was also a vampire and also had double D breasts which jiggled and wiggled like jelly on a patent protected Sybian machine set to Orgasmageddon mode. “I’m now in dire need of a new lover. Be my sexy vampire space alien love object from beyond the stars”. It was a reasonable demand from a woman whose lover had just been royally twatted up by a vagina-shaped UFO which had reasonable mileage and an FM digital radio.

“That is a reasonable demand from a woman whose lover has just been royally twatted up by my vagina-shaped UFO which has reasonable mileage and an FM digital radio. To your boudoir at once! We scissor post-haste!” The vampire alien saluted like she was in the army, only she wasn’t in the army, she was an alien vampire from planet Oolala and that is how they confirm their submittal to interspecies lesbian sex.

The two females took each other’s hands and skipped merrily into Wendy’s New York City apartment with its five floors and nine bedrooms each with its own en suite because Wendy was a millionairess whose parents had won the lottery but died of gout before they could spend a penny and it had all went to her in the will and she’d bought this massive town house but referred to it as an apartment in an effort to come across as humble. Inside, they scissored.

For the next 30 days and 30 nights they scissored without sleep. Each room was scissored to pieces. So much scissoring was had that they had not noticed the police at the door who had come to investigate the obese dead lady whose head lay twatted apart beneath a vagina-shaped UFO from planet Oohlala outside Wendy’s front door. The police had battered down the entrance with a sun ripened battering ram imported from Outer Mongolia. It had been carved out of the oldest tree in Asia and was infused with forest magic by five Sistine monks who had went missing while on holiday over there and were later found and given jobs as battering ram manufacturers. The magic was not real, but the battering ram was, and so the door came a loose like a pair of cotton panties at a rock concert.

Once inside, the police found Wendy and Vinjivola scissoring like you wouldn’t believe. They were so scissored that they had resorted to scissoring in an actual bed because they were so exhausted, such were their insatiable scissorisms. The police attempted to arrest both the females for the murder of the obese lesbian outside, but the space vampire was having none of it. She had come to love sweet Wendy and her admittedly sagging-but-in-a-cute-kind-of-way breasts with the peanut sized nipples and vibrant tapestry of blue veins. To scissor is to love, and love she indeed did. So when the New York City police shot her in the vulva, she ceased scissoring and bit into their necks. One by one the boys in blue fell into pools of their own blood as they were slain by the curvaceous and profusely sweating intergalactic silicon-based space vampire who was now a lesbian who had evidently been forgiven by her new lover for accidentally brutally twatting the life out of her old lover with a vagina-shaped UFO to the head.

“I totes love the soggy knickers off you, you big sexy beast with divine albeit flawed-but-in-a-nice-way breasts. I want to take you back to planet Oohlala in my vagina-shaped spaceship if it’s still parked on your ex’s head outside where I left it,” mewed the vampire alien in triumph and lust.

Wendy was enraptured by everything about Vinjivola, especially her pierced nipples and perfectly formed double D breasts which were silicon-based and not silicone-based. She jumped into the air and performed a triple-tiered somersault into a corkscrew plancha straight into her lover’s open arms. “Oh sweet alien with the ripe norks and scissor skills to pay the bills, I love the fundamental basics of you! Of course I’ll jump in your vagina-shaped spaceship that killed my obese ex by twatting the life out of her bean, of course I will. Let us go to planet Oohlala and scissor until we think of something better to do!”

And so, arm in arm like two interspecies lesbians hugging because they were in love due to unforeseeable circumstances involving a vagina-shaped UFO and a battalion of dead NYPD cops, Vinjivola and Wendy jumped out of the fifth storey window and landed in the street below in front of the spaceship which by now had accumulated several parking tickets from being illegally parked for 30 days and 30 nights. But the alien vampire had forgotten her keys, and so asked Wendy if she had the front door key so they could go back inside and get it. However, owing to the fact that they were still both naked from a month of solid scissoring that would make a stationary factory full of lesbians blush, Wendy had accidentally left the front door key inside.

The lovers were stuck outside the apartment which wasn’t really an apartment but actually a five storey luxury town house but was incorrectly called an apartment by the owner because she thought it sounded more humble. They couldn’t get in the spaceship because it was locked and they couldn’t get in the house either for the exact same reason.

“We are highly naked and highly caught out,” said Wendy eventually as she finished checking her scissored-to-near-oblivion vagina for her house keys, just in case.

“Indeed Earthling whom I love so dearly despite being a different species but that’s okay because bestiality is not frowned upon on planet Oohlala from whence I came. We are in quite a pickle. Whatever shall we do now?”

“Nothing. We shall do nothing because I cannot think of anything appropriate for this situation, for you see my brains have been scrambled by our epic scissoring and intermittent nipple flicking,” said Wendy.

Just then Vinjivola remembered that in addition to being an intergalactic silicon-based space alien from planet Oohlala, she was also a vampire. And so she bit Wendy on the neck.

“Oh cripes! I had forgotten that in addition to being an intergalactic silicon-based space alien from the planet Oohlala you were also a vampire!” croaked Wendy as her lover drained her of all blood, killing her not quite instantly but close enough.

“Totally,” said Vinjivola. “I had almost forgotten too, what with the mindless scissoring and all”. Then she also remembered that she did not need a key to open her UFO because it was equipped with clap technology. The murderous vampire alien with the curvaceous body that would make iron melt clapped three times and the door to her spaceship opened. The door landed with a sickening crunch on top of Wendy’s head, twatting it apart like nobody’s business. Vinjivola climbed into her vagina-shaped spaceship, turned on the FM digital radio, pressed some more buttons and finally flew off, back into the outer reaches of the galaxy, from whence she came.

The Old Sea Chest


“Elm, Leather and Iron Bound Chest” by Period Oak Antiques (c. 1500)

Originally written on the 26th May 2016, this poem was an entry for a 50 word fiction competition.

The Old Sea Chest

Crumbling sea chest, time is thine enemy.
Where once clung a trusted latch,
Now peel rusted bones.
When the brittle roof falls
And the cabin sighs its last,
An old container spills its secret.
A life long extinguished,
Liberated but for a moment.
Before being imprisoned forever,
Beneath collapsing timber.


Rembrandt - The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes Tulp (1632)

“The Anatomy Lesson of Dr. Nicolaes” by Rembrandt (1632)

Here is a short story about consciousness within dead tissue, agonisingly alive and aware throughout an endless existence of experimentation.  Written on the 20th June 2016.


Assimilation of parts and a pain borne of bone itself. The slamming together of raw stumps, fusing of cold arteries and violent stitching of meat as it twitches and winces from the electrodes. This is my reality. This is my existence.

It is not life, for life is a virtue I am not afforded. I am an experiment, one which seems destined to fail over and over again. If only the master knew, if only he was aware that I feel everything that befalls me. Sometimes, when the ocular nerves are attached correctly, I see those livid white ribs, shattered in parts, outstretched and praying to the clinical lights above, as he tears out one blackened organ and replaces it with another. How I wish he’d conclude his torturous trials, or give up entirely. They are corrupt and I am corruption itself. I, this inanimate yet freethinking pile of mismatched flesh and bone, I am screaming the unsung wails of an eternally dying man, trapping within the iron maiden of science.

How many I once was, I do not know. There have been so many parts that have come and gone, so many sutures holding us together, I no longer know which of them made up who I was in the first place. Who did I used to be? Is my genesis in this liver? Does it lie in this spine? Tell me master, tell me who I once was.

I never lose track of the changes, however. My mind is painfully sharp. There have been eight right legs, twelve hearts including that of a pig, fourteen complete sets of vascular systems, six eyes and a well documented array of internal organs. Yet never a complete brain. I consist of two lobes, each from a different, unwilling donor. I have no idea who I once was. All I know now, is I am simply meat. Meat with which to play.

The experiments are all I know. An arm grafted here, it blackens and is sawn back off again. A femur inserted into this slab of cold tissue, but this one doesn’t quite fit. Eyes that sometimes blink, though through no intent of my own. It’s hell, undoubtedly, unfaltering and unforgiving. I just wish I knew if I deserved it.

The wielder of the scalpel leans in again, blurred, milky, but I see him. He carves my bad eye out of its socket, grating metal on bone. My one good eye isn’t installed correctly, so I do not see him as he picks up the sternal saw again. I feel it though. I always do.

The Deity in Tartan


“Shadow Warrior” by Andrew Hillhouse (2000)

This is a short story, a fairy tale almost, about the Scottish people having their very own god, and the incredibly stereotypical things that He did for bonny Scotland.  Written on the 9th May 2016.

The Deity in Tartan

Made out of kelpie-grade haggis, the Alpha Scotsman was the physical embodiment of all that is Scottish. He was not born, but rather came into existence when a large shipment of battered haggis accidentally fell off a cliff and had been struck by lightning at the exact same moment it impacted with an Irn Bru factory below. The combination of the impact, burst of raw energy and that fact that “Real Gone Kid” by Deacon Blue had been playing at full volume in the factory at the time resulted in the single most powerful surge of pure Scottish energy in history. Out of the mighty tartan explosion, which sounded like 10,000 bagpipes filled with selkie fart all erupting at once, emerged the 50 foot Alpha Scotsman.

According to scribes, His first words were “Get it richt up ye!”, presumably directed towards God, for His existence was clearly never supposed to happen. God, unavailable for comment at that time (or any other since for that matter), did nothing to stop the towering Alba golem as He flung Himself across the turbulent seas in a highland jig so perfectly executed that it caused salmon farms and oil platforms to sprout in His wake. The mighty Scotsman soon landed in the Outer Hebrides, where He allegedly took a dump so magnificent that it became a lighthouse powerful enough that it was the only one ever needed for all of Scotland thereafter.

After this fleeting visit to the storm ravaged shores of the western coast, the giant proceeded to break physics by caber tossing Himself all the way to the beautiful isle of Skye, where His porridge-flavoured sweat became premium whisky and His copious dandruff was presented to the local crofters, who in turn baked the pieces until they became black puddings, worth their weight in gold.

The Alpha Scotsman was revered by many, loved by all. Except the English, that is. They, for whatever reason (no doubt dating back to the outcome of the second Scottish War of Independence in 1357) seemed to loath the fact that their neighbours to the north now had a living, resident and quite magnificent deity providing them with all the happiness, success and tourist sex appeal a country could ever need. The jealous nation south of the border simply could not let the Alpha Scotsman live, especially when their own attempts at creating an Alpha Englishman proved fruitless. As it turns out, dumping a shipment of teabags and crumpets off a cliff onto a red telephone booth in a thunderstorm does not create a supreme being. It only makes a mess. The English therefore hatched a sinister plan.

But the Alpha Scotsman was no ordinary Scotsman. He was a super Scotsman. He’d eaten all the porridge in the country and it had expanded both His stomach and consciousness to such a level that He could read other countries’ thoughts. As He sat sunning himself atop Edinburgh Castle one day, He suddenly sensed that the dastardly English were planning to bomb his kilt off, rendering Him nude from the waist down. They had assumed that the Scotsman’s subsequent embarrassment would be such that He would run away from Scotland forever. They were dead wrong. The Alpha Scotsman smirked when He discovered this devious plot, He would teach them not to mess with His bonny kilt and country. The proud giant waited patiently for the English to get their act together and execute their ill-fated plan.

The following summer, as the Alpha Scotsman refilled the North Sea oil reserves with His mind power and eliminated heart disease amongst the population by developing a health and exercise program for school children that they actually enjoyed for once, the bitterly jealous English finally made their move. Scotsman had just finished performing stand up comedy for the first time at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival when a squadron of English fighter jets tore up Princes Street, scaring young children and international dance troupes in the process. The Alpha Scotsman immediately somersaulted onto Arthur’s Seat and bellowed at the screaming metal wasps advancing towards Him, “’Mon then, ye wee beasties!” And ‘mon they did.

The attacking jets fired their guns which had been preloaded with bullets filled with tea and crumpets in addition to the more traditional gunpowder. The Supreme Leader of England had assumed that tea and crumpets would be the Alpha Scotsman’s kryptonite. They weren’t. To the Scotsman, they were less dangerous than midges. Never the less, the screaming bullets tore through the air and obliterated the Scotsman’s belt, dropping the giant’s colossal kilt to His ankles, exposing His Scotch saveloy.

However, far from being embarrassed and running off never to be seen again, the Scotsman started laughing and swinging His dong around like a Glaswegian windmill. You see, what’s under a true Scotsman’s kilt is Grade A highland beef and that’s something to be proud of, not embarrassed. The exposed love organ was the exact same length as one of the giant’s arms, though twice as ripped and intimidating. The sight of such a thing caused the fighter pilots to crash their planes into Princes Street Gardens, where they went up in a giant tartan fireball.

The Alpha Scotsman knew it was now time to put an end to the English people’s jealously once and for all. He did not hate them, nor did He really care what they did, unless it encroached upon His bonny lands and people. A terrorist kilt attack in the middle of the Fringe Festival was just that. So, not bothering to find a replacement kilt, the titan caber tossed Himself down to London in one fluid thrust. Once He landed, the Scotsman did His best not to blind anyone with His gargantuan third leg, but casualties could not be helped. He quickly located and tore the roof off 10 Downing Street, pulled the Supreme Leader out of his office where he was engaged in trying on bowler hats, and told him to leave His beloved country and people alone, lest he wish doom and gloom to befall his own nation. The Scotsman promised to create an army of haggis golems and send them to England with orders to turn every house into a bothy and every man, woman and child into a wee Scottie dog. He’d turn all their crops into highland toffee and Tunnock’s teacakes, making all their teeth rot and fall out. It would rain every day and night for all eternity and He’d even batter and deep fry the Houses of Parliament. The Supreme Leader, through tears, agreed to the Scotsman’s fair terms.

The great tartan titan put the trembling man down and then whisked Himself off to His homeland once more. He had secured Scotland’s future and His people would be free to enjoy the more Scottish things in life, without the threat of an English tea and crumpet invasion ever again. The giant icon of Caledonia smiled, His glistening teeth sending out vibrant rays that caused all the crops in the countryside to spontaneously reach maturity and harvest themselves.

Deciding upon a temporary rest from public view, the Alpha Scotsman made His way to Arbroath, where He created a battered Mars bar so big that it could, and did, feed the entire town for the next five generations. He also made a second one, this time for Himself, and legend says He took it with Him into a secret cave somewhere to the north, where He remains to this very day, waiting for the time when His faithful Scottish people need Him once more.

That Sinking Feeling

The Shore of the Turquoise Sea (Emerald Sea) - Albert Bierstadt (1878)

“The Shore of the Turquoise Sea” by Albert Bierstadt (1878)

A short story about death at sea.  Written on the 26th May 2016.

That Sinking Feeling

There’s a sucker pulling out my eye. It doesn’t hurt. But still, I’m not too pleased about it. The thrashing thing obscuring my vision suddenly retreats, and I see it. Bulbous, wriggling, darting into the darkness. A squid? Where the hell am I?

Dead. I’m dead, but I can still think. My thoughts are slow and the ones that manage to fully form are arguing and fighting with the others, but through this cerebral brawl I manage to recall something: my body flopping overboard in a storm. It’s like my entire life was a dream up until this point, and try as I might, I can’t quite seem to recall it anymore. This cold and angry water is my everything now. I’m sinking into the abyss.

Judging from the state of the splintering hull I see disappearing above, we must have crashed. Or maybe we exploded. Or something. It hardly matters now as I continue my slow descent into the darkening midnight blue. Nothing really matters anymore.

I see another squid. I hope it fucks off.

Why did I have to die at sea? My body will end up in a right state now, of that I have little doubt. How I wish I’d never seen those pictures on the internet. Stomach churning. That’ll be me soon enough, and apparently, death is very generous and offers front row seats to the macabre transformation. Consciousness and ruination, hand in hand throughout the whole, disgusting process. Fantastic.

The second squid didn’t see me. It vanishes into the gathering gloom.

After counting a few prehistoric-looking marine creatures and wondering why there’s no heaven, my body eventually catches some wayward current and rolls at an awkward angle, giving me a glimpse of the bottom for the first time. It looks quite rough down there, like a submerged city of onyx rock and foreboding kelp forests. An ancient home to a thousand unseen denizens of the deep. There’ll be plenty of them down there too. Slithering bodies, rumbling stomachs. All patiently awaiting my arrival. God dammit, I’m going to be eaten by these unnameable fiends.

I think I used to be a fisherman once, but I can’t be sure.

If I could sigh, I would. But seeing as I can’t, I’ll just content myself with sinking further into these blackening waters, as they envelope me like the frozen hand of Njörðr. I wonder how long I’ve got left until I hit the bottom, until I’m resting on my rocky bed in my new aqueous world? With only one eye left, I’ve got pretty bad depth perception so it’s hard to judge. God damned squid.

Fate didn’t plan on me completing my journey, however. I didn’t make it much further. The bane of my death, that god damned tentacled menace comes back. This time he finishes me off. His cephalopod limbs with their serrated suckers separate my pale flesh from bone, and in the billowing cloud of ink and blood, I dissipate into the sea of nothingness.


reborn-naomi-walker 2011 3

“Reborn” by Naomi Walker (2011)

A short story about rebirth.  Written on the 9th June 2016.


The metamorphosis had begun with the warping of ancient tissues, the mutation of prehistoric genes. The phoenix was tired and longed to emerge from its worn, ashen bed.

The time had come for change. The decision was made by others, when the bombs dropped and the oceans evaporated, when the trees ignited and the mountains imploded. That was the moment of clarity. A return to innocence was in order, long overdue and inevitable in nature. The celestial had said “enough”. And so it began, again.

Rebirth. Expelled from the womb of rapture, protected by the placenta of purity and nursed on the flawless teats of celestial innocence, the second chance commenced and blossomed into an aeon of timeless silence and contemplation.

It was a beautiful age, the timeless one. One without damage or scarring, one without thought. It lasted until its peace was inevitably shattered once more by the advancing tide of humanity which had spawned upon that innocent, soulful thing. A world of change had come once more. As the sand began trickling through the hourglass, the rupturing of that purity began anew. It was slow at first, just as before, and as the tumultuous shores passed through the glass and filled its bottom, there was less and less left to expend.

The bombs would come again, of that there was no doubt. The oceans would vanish. The trees would erupt and the mountains would collapse into nothing. The decision would be made again. As it always will.

Amorphophallus Titanum


“Jungle Clearing” by Michel Rondberg (2012)

This is a short horror/strange story about a man who finds himself lost in a jungle one night and what he encounters there.  Written on the 8th June 2016.

Amorphophallus Titanum

The explorer looked at his watch. He scolded himself for continuing to do it, he couldn’t read it anyway, it was far too dark. Onwards he struggled, through the dense thicket, over gnarled roots and aggressive vines, hoping for a path, hoping for a way out. He’d been lost for several hours now, the sun had long since departed and only made his task all the more difficult. Why had he wandered off alone like that? It wasn’t like him at all.

Suddenly, the man tripped over an invisible grasping hand, probably another root, and was sent headlong into a wall of branches, crashing through them before landing with a sickening thud on the other side. Cursing under his breath, he clambered to his feet, brushed himself off and looked around. And there it was.

The rotting corpse flower, Amorphophallus titanum, with its stench of a thousand putrefying bodies baking in hell’s infernal ovens, stood ominously in the middle of a small clearing. Its Latin name translated to something along the lines of “giant’s misshapen and erect penis”. The explorer knew what it was, knew the lore of these parts as well. He knew to turn and run. But curiosity is a strong hand, pushing inquisitive people forwards, towards the unknown. Towards the alluring unknown.

It was some time after midnight and the dense jungle had finally given respite to the lost soul in the form of the clearing. Above, he could finally make out the moon, liberating that which was hidden within dark shadows and the ominous recesses of blackness he had spent the last several hours navigating. The pale beams illuminated the patch of rough ground before him, save for a few roots and the odd rock, there was nothing there. Except the flower.

Despite its ungodly reek, it was undeniably magnificent. Being in full bloom, a state the explorer knew to be quite rare, sometimes taking up to a decade to reach, he felt blessed to be bearing witness to it. Its hues skewed in the moonlight, it emitted a strong presence quite unnatural for a mere plant. A presence which, though not exactly threatening, was inexplicably filling the man with a creeping sense of unease. A strange feeling of dread that was crawling its way up his spine, as if the alluring plant was well aware it was being gazed upon, and did not take too kindly to this interruption of its midnight meditation.

The air in the vast city of trees was changing now, the man felt it upon his agitated skin. A dry cool had descended around him, replacing the clammy heat he had spent the night trudging through with an electric cold which only heightened his anxiety. Strange indeed. The ambiance of the forest had changed too. An eerie silence had hushed the clearing, blotting out the vampiric insects and the rustling of jungle foliage. Very strange. There was nothing in the lost man’s world now, save for the sound of his own heart pounding in his ears and the vision of the blossoming flower, illuminated by the moon’s rays like a revered statue upon a pedestal.

Fear is a strange thing. Irrational fear, stranger still. Why did the explorer feel such terror in the presence of the corpse flower and its foul emissions? Why had the world died away around him? Why wasn’t he running away? There were no answers, only the plant’s ethereal grip on him that night in the clearing. The explorer began to feel himself being drawn towards it, almost hypnotised like a bee to a rose. Unable to stop himself, he began walking through the columns of luminescence. The rotting corpse flower was calling to him.

In the morning, the search party arrived. They had been tracking the missing man through the forest most of the night but had eventually stopped to rest, before resuming in the first rays of dawn. They were now standing within the clearing, gagging on the rotten air that infiltrated their lungs. They had found the lost explorer. He lay in the middle of that small, dank dominion, a few feet from the offensive flower. It was not blossoming. One of the guides said it had probably been several years since it had, and would probably be several more until it did again. The unfortunate man lay dead, his body emaciated and seemingly drained of all fluids. The gathered men were unable to account for the state of the remains; he had only gone missing the day before. In silence, they hurriedly collected the cadaver and made the hike back towards camp. Not a word was said between them the entire way.

Strange things happened out there in the forest. Strange things indeed.

Ophelia Bewbs’ Dark Desire

Geary Jones - NUDE_OBESE_LADY_2 2016.jpg

“Nude Obese Lady 2” by Geary Jones (2016)

A tale of lust, deeply bizarre fetishes, violence and fat people.  You probably shouldn’t read this if you’re easily offended.  A parody of those terrible erotic novels that people seem to love so much.  Now with 50% more rubber sex toys.  Written on the 3rd June 2016.

Ophelia Bewbs’ Dark Desire

Well known demented sausage strangler, Ophelia Bewbs, was rightfully mortified after she got carried away one day and admitted to her personal erotic gardener, Boris Flesh-trowel, that she longed to experiment with pleasure that can be measured. Specifically, pleasure measuring eight inches and above. Whatever did that rack-happy gimp think of her screaming slut ways after that particularly sexy revelation?

Boris was an inconsiderate prick who liked to go out to bars and lie to drug-addled weekend revellers that his name was Doctor Fingers and he lived in Castle Finger Licker. He also happened to be a dangerously fat fuck with type two diabetes and advanced cancer of the glans penis. He was a cross-eyed, cross-dressing, cross-bearing ginger with a stupid perm, a figure like a melted chocolate duck and marshmallow-like he-titties which others referred to as “hairy love dumplings”. Despite the undeniable threat to her life, Ophelia found herself unable to stop picturing Boris’ mondo twatted abs and venomous dodongo lance, fantasising nightly about submitting to his deepest desires involving cockmeat, vaginal holes and probably cake.

One evening whilst public masturbating in a fountain, Ophelia spotted Boris the jiggly juggernaut juggling his own sizeable titties and flirting with the local bike, a fat whore of about fifty who lived with far too many German shepherds to be normal. Titty Bond was her name, and holy Christ on a lubed-up pole was she an epic slut. She’d once fellated eight donkeys whilst high on crack and the entire town had shown up at the local park to watch. Damn that Titty Bond with her jumbo fun bags and lumpy buttocks with their melted starfish tattoos. Ophelia tortured herself with thoughts of Boris feverishly working his sun-ripened man-sword into Titty’s haemorrhoid-ravaged chocolate orange. Ophelia’s desperate ambition to become Boris’ perpetual love slave began to feel like nothing more than an utterly dumb, senseless and disgusting fantasy, no doubt rooted in her subconscious feelings towards her late stepfather who allegedly had a twelve inch behemoth in his pants which he liked to demolish garden gnomes with. Perhaps she should have just focused her soppy lust on her transsexual sous chef, Rocky Hairpie, instead?

However, sexy fate had Ophelia in mind when she got home later that night after spending four eventful hours in the town fountain, during which she was joined by no less than five other colossal perverts with itchy beavers. Boris Flesh-trowel snuck up on her from the shadows of her boudoir and proceeded to feverishly caress the shit out of her enraptured norks with his fat sweaty hands, before finally dragging her onto the sleeping bag in the corner where he proceeded to pound the all-encompassing fucksmack out of her velveteen kebab with his sizeable sausage of rumpy pumpy. She delighted as her filthiest and most erotic dreams finally began to come true. Boris the profusely sweating mound of blubber took her on an exhilarating journey of rubber fisting, fluid snorting, rimming and animalistic expressions of lust involving the anal sphincter and impressive Spanish accents.

One night, after a thorough humiliation at the end of a plastic banana, Ophelia decided to fight back, testing just how far her slutty soul could push her supremely fat and well hung slob of a lover. Defiantly, she tried to insert a finger into his puckered brown eye. Big mistake. Enraged at such an unforgivable indiscretion, Boris slapped seven shades of dog shit out of his sex slave and dragged her to a nearby sausage factory. At first, Ophelia thought he was going to bite her sweet buns and force feed her links of Lincolnshire’s finest via her trout run, but instead the irate lover of pies and sex wrapped a length of duct tape around her head and then smashed her canyon of frothing love with the side of a vintage electric guitar plugged into a small practice amp and a chorus pedal.

Several hours later, as Ophelia lay in bed after her guitar-induced paingasm, enjoying the cancerous growths on Boris’ wang as it rolled around on her tongue like a fleshy lollipop, and he enjoyed a carrot cake that he’d stolen from a 24 hour supermarket on the way home, she felt that they were finally connecting on a more intimate level.

However, as Boris’ sordid-as-demonic-goat-shit desires got darker still, he farted really loud and revealed that he had a very special task in mind for Ophelia and her squelchy divot of glee, and that it involved a pneumatic drill with a rubber fist glued to the end of it. He immediately whipped one out of his copious backside with a perverse look of pure, undiluted sadism, making him look more like a devious bastard on the same level as a sasquatch herder who loves herding his personal cucumber into his sasquatches’ unspeakable orifices. Ophelia studied her mischievous and stunningly obese lover of filth with trepidation – how could anybody possibly bring themselves to make sweet love to something that was used to break up tarmac earlier that day? She looked into Boris’ intense, crossed eyes and shuddered like a seizure-prone slag watching a Japanese animated porno cartoon.

Would Ophelia Bewbs be able to fully submit her sodden cock trap to Boris Flesh-trowel, or would the venomous dodongo-lanced blubber bag go too far? The answer was no, because both of them died of massive sex-induced heart attacks before the drill could even be plugged in at the mains.



“Hands, Aged, Elderly, Old, Senior” by Pixabay (2014)

A short poem I wrote about old age, its inevitability and those affected by it.  Written on the 27th May 2016.


Her veins are cerulean,
She’s growing cold.
Her hands are shaking,
They’re getting old.
Her smile is withering,
Her years unfold.
I say my goodbyes,
To this hand I hold.