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.