Ophelia Bewbs and the Walruses of Lust

Ophelia Bewbs Walruses

“Super Amazing Cover Art #27” by Neil Dinsmore (2016)

A fantastically outrageous tale of one extremely twisted woman’s desires for pleasure in the form of radioactively mutated walruses.  It’s bizarre, it’s vulgar, it’s sexy and it will tweak your nipples until they belch little laughs of joy.  Not for the weak of heart or mind.  Written on the 25th June 2016.


Ophelia Bewbs and the Walruses of Lust

Nothing is more sacred to the Awahii people than walruses, and nothing is more sexy to Ophelia Bewbs than an oiled up walrus with a foot long prolapse corrector pointed at her fat sweaty face. It was this slight difference in opinion and view that caused Ophelia and the entire Awahii nation to go to war. Sexy war. But we’ll get to all that in a little bit. For now, let us look at the genesis of this sordidly erotic situation.

Ophelia Bewbs had dumped her spectacularly obese boyfriend Boris Flesh-trowel only a few months prior after he’d tried (and failed) to park a fire engine up her snatch. He’d said it was a new dildo and had blindfolded her, but she knew he was lying when he accidentally set off the siren. Upon kicking him to the kerb, she was now free as a bee. What kind of bee? An Africanised honey bee, of course. The kind with a voracious appetite for the sweet stuff. Well actually, no. She was just a colossal slut with a moral compass pointed at the nearest penis. Regardless, she was now free from the previously alluring binds of Boris’ copulation sabre and now felt the strong desire to experiment with as many additional dongs as she could. It was time to get crazy.

The woman with the tattoo of a transgender starfish on her left buttock had felt that a sex holiday was in order, so she bought herself a ticket to Awahii Island. It was supposed to be jam packed with walruses with larger than normal phalluses, at least that’s what the Kinky Travel News Show had told her as she feverishly obeyed the beckoning desires of her carnivorous beaver trap with a rolling pin. Travel shows always hit the spot. Now the beckoning schlongs of distant walruses were too. According to the show, an atomic dildo bomb had been dropped just off its coast in the fifties, the resulting radiation in the area had mutated the indigenous walrus population’s genitalia into utter beasts of which nightmares were born. In Ophelia’s case, however, those mental images were anything but nightmares. They were challenges.

Ophelia gathered her travel toys, erotic paperback novels and latex bathing suits and flew off to the tropical island with dreams of endless walrus sex running rampant through her promiscuous little head. But she didn’t travel on a plane. No, that would be far too conventional and quite frankly boring. She would rather fly in true whore style, and so she took to the air in a magnificent hot air balloon designed to look exactly like a massive blown up condom. Incidentally, as a marketing trade off, Ophelia got to ride half price for the assumed embarrassment of travelling in a giant meat guard. When there were promises of taboo adventures and sun-kissed beaches, Ophelia would travel on just about anything. One time she’d even made it fifty miles down a canal riding an inflatable sex doll before her clitoris piercing popped it and she had to be rescued by nearby dog walkers, all of whom she serviced with her mouth in thanks. Yes indeed, Ophelia Bewbs was as degenerate a holidaymaker as they came. The sweat-inducing thoughts of irradiated walrus genitals alone made the large woman with type two diabetes swoon, though she was later revived with a mars bar and a can of coke by the air hostess who later received a finger to the minge in thanks. Awahii Island was just over the horizon.

Touching down in the sea just off the coast because she had went ape shit at the prospect of impending walrus sex and had accidentally destroyed the balloon by dry humping it to ribbons, Ophelia swam the rest of the way to Awahii Island and soon washed up on its idyllic shores like a dead, bloated manatee. Local islanders did gather. Disgusted looks were exchanged and vomit did spew from their mouths, such was their opinion of Ophelia’s fantastically obese body with its lifetime’s supply of spare tyres and chin upon chin of quivering fat. One islander poked the fat mess with a stick. Ophelia came to and snatched the stick off the man before feverishly going to work on her mackerel-scented tunnel of love with it, moaning all the while about walruses and the outrageous things she wanted to do to them. The islanders produced even more vomit and quickly ran off screaming, for they had never encountered such a fat whore before. She was like an alien to them, much like the giant condom that had crashed into the sea a few minutes earlier. With only a soggy stick to keep her company, Ophelia Bewbs was now all alone on the Awahii Island beach. All alone except for an approaching herd of sexually mutated walruses, that was.

Apparently, the scent of a washed up fat bitch attacking her own pastrami kebab with the limb of a elm tree was quite the turn on for the uniquely formed Awahii walruses. The galloping swarm of blubber was making its way from a distant inlet where they usually just chilled and admired their own massive dongs. Now they were on their way to investigate the smell of Ophelia.

When they arrived and finally saw that the source of the stench was in fact a rotund woman who looked more like a slutty whale basking in the afterglow of a self inflicted elm stick dildo attack to the canyon of womanly delights, they were rightfully confused. Surely that stench was the excretions of a female Awahii walrus looking to bake some buns in that big ol’ walrus oven of hers? Not even close. “Oh my!” mewed Ophelia as she drank in the sight of forty or so walruses with tent poles so huge you would be forgiven for mistaking them for elephant trunks (but they weren’t, they were just really big penises). “Come here, my beautiful darlings. Have a taste of this hot kebab!” The walruses weren’t sure what to do next, so they just shuffled around on the beach like a bunch of cloth helmets instead.

“Come on!” shouted Ophelia, getting annoyed at the shambling beasts now. They weren’t taking the bait. Ophelia was an impatient woman, she was used to whipping out a lip or two and the males would usually come running with their pants down. On Awahii Island, however, things were going to be a little more challenging. “Right, sod the lot of you! I’ll be back, bitches, and when I do I’ll be packing more Viagra and walrus pheromone sprays than you can shake a scrotum at!” And, a few minutes later after the obese puddle of sloppy fat rolls had managed to struggle to her feet, she marched off across the beach towards the aptly named Awahii Island Town. She just hoped that the islanders had heard of sex drugs and love sprays.

Luckily, despite being a third world nation with little concept of anything beyond rocks and bananas, they had. There was even a specialist shop called “Sexy Bob’s Discount Pill Store” and it had a sale on for Viagra and walrus pheromone sprays, which was quite unusual for an island that prided itself on its negative stance towards bestiality. Ophelia bought all the drugs and bottles of spray she could afford, which was one of each. She’d lost her purse when the condom balloon had ditched in the sea. It sure was lucky that she always kept an emergency £20 note under her third belly fat roll. And this was damn sure an emergency. A sexual emergency. Ophelia needed an interspecies drilling and she needed it STAT.

After stopping at a cake shop to gorge on the display cakes when the till monkey had her back turned, Ophelia returned to the beach once more. By this point, pretty much all the mutated walruses with giant draft excluders had left. There was only one walrus left now, and it was much too busy sunning itself to notice that its comrades had gone. Ophelia did not hesitate in executing her devilishly slutty plan. She waddled up to the bulky beast as silently as she could (only letting rip a handful of farts) and managed to successfully bang the Viagra pill up the walrus’ bellend, the force of which woke the creature up with a jolt. “Told you I’d be back, you sexy beast! Now get a load of this!” Ophelia broke the neck off the bottle of pheromone spray and poured it all over her sunburnt fat rolls like she was applying maple syrup to a stacked tower of pancakes. The walrus’ eyes opened wide. It had just entered horn dog mode.

In the weeks that followed, many theories were put forward as to what became of Ophelia Bewbs after that fateful day on the beach. Some reports suggested that she had been pumped so hard by a horny walrus that she was cast out to sea. Some said that she had been obliterated by the randy walrus and his piledriver of pleasure to such a degree that she had been vaporised. Others speculated that the holidaying whore had fallen in love with the walrus that had porked her pilchard divot and had went off to live with him elsewhere in secrecy. Whatever the case, Ophelia Bewbs was not seen again on Awahii Island for quite some time. Yet on certain nights when the moon was bright and the giant penised walruses gathered for their night time beach orgies, the local islanders could almost swear they could hear something on the breeze. Something slutty. Something that sounded almost human mixed in with the lusty moans of walruses bumping and grinding on the sand.

The story of Ophelia Bewbs coming to Awahii Island to have sex with a walrus quickly spread across the island and very soon the entire population hated her sinfully fat blubber cheeks and slutty bestiality ways. She was a menace. A fat, loud, sweaty, smelly, walrus shagging menace. The islanders hated her and came to hate her even more when the story broke internationally and the subsequent effect it had on their island’s tourism completely destroyed their fragile economy. The islanders of Awahii were beyond furious with the tubby whore now.

Around a month or so later, all the speculation regarding the woman’s mysterious disappearance was laid to rest when Ophelia Bewbs reappeared on the beach riding her walrus lover like it was some kind of horse with a really bad diet. Behind her, an army of over a thousand walruses with baby-making coitus cannons snarled and grunted as they galloped over the sands towards Awahii Island Town.

Ophelia had been living in sin with her lover in the safety of Chode Cove. She had been content living there, gorging on walrus dongs and piss clams for the last month, that was until an airplane carrying the world’s most prominent media journalists had crashed into the water just outside her new home. The unfortunate souls had just left Awahii Island after reporting about the filthy sex acts of Ophelia. Their dictaphones, notepads and other reporting materials had washed up on the shore and the walrus lover had read all about the islander’s supreme hatred for her. She had been decimated in the press and now the world knew that she liked to get ridden dirty by great big walruses with gigantism of their fleshy kickstands. Ophelia was first and foremost a slut, but secondly she was a proud woman. She wouldn’t let the islanders get away with calling her a “walrus-grinding blubber bum who smells like a barrel of dead catfish”.

The walrus army helmed by the most shameless woman ever to set foot on the island crashed into the town and made their way to the Awahii Island Huts of Parliament to confront El Presidente about Ophelia’s slander. The commotion had roused the other islanders and soon the town square was packed with both humans and walruses and one big fat mess of a woman who also happened to be naked save for a walrus tusk sticking halfway out of her bearded home for wayward willies.

“I demand an apology for telling the world I’m a colossal whore who gets her rocks off banging large flippered marine mammals!” screamed Ophelia to El Presidente who had appeared on the balcony of his presidential hut.

“Never!” raged the little man with the very well maintained moustache and expensive looking aviator sunglasses. “You are a great big fat piece of whale shit and we all hate you because you consume walrus ding-a-lings with that disaster of a vagina of yours! You ruined our reputation as a holiday destination, you collapsed our economy and now everyone on the planet associates us with bestiality. You fat dog, with the power invested in me as El Presidente of Awahii Island, I hereby sentence you to death!”

Ophelia took the man’s words as an invite for war. And so, war she gave them. What followed was referred to later by the surviving members of the world’s press as the Interspecies Battle of Awahii, or the War of Walrus Shagger Island. It was, by all accounts, pretty brutal. It was also noted by survivors as being the only battle in history to feature equal amounts of sex and violence. Ophelia, being a epic skank, had brought herself to orgasm on the fallen bodies of no less than four hundred Awahii islanders and all one thousand mutated walruses. During the carnage, the general of the walrus army had vanished when it looked like her side was going to lose. Indeed, the walruses were eventually wiped out by the islanders who had a serious advantage in the fact that they had basic training in jiu-jitsu. Celebrations were had. Ophelia Bewbs and her army of mutated walruses had been defeated.

El Presidente never found his foe’s body, however, and so it is assumed that she still lives. Though not on Awahii Island, as it has been searched high and low for a big fat slut and none was ever found. The world’s press decimated the islanders once again in the aftermath of the Interspecies Battle of Awahii due to their spectacular slaughtering of the entire indigenous population of supersized penis walruses. The economy never recovered. El Presidente eventually shaved off his moustache and shot himself. He was never replaced and the island quickly fell into lawlessness with most of the remaining islanders either turning to drugs and alcohol or being murdered by those who had. It was a sad end to a once beautiful holiday destination and it was all thanks to the world’s most insatiable slut and her incomprehensible demands for new sexual adventures.

Spark in Time

Michael Conrad Hirt -  Vanitas Still Life (1630)

“Vanitas Still Life” by Michael Conrad Hirt (1630)

A poem about mortality, art and legacy.  Written on the 2nd July 2016.


Spark in Time

These numb fingers and this rusting brain.
This yellowing parchment and raptor’s mane.
Words of power, wisdom and change.
On tablet immortal by window pane.
Lines unending, scrawled in time.
Moments captured, verse and rhyme.
And when fingers and brain no longer tick.
When candle on sill is reduced to wick.
The words remain, poignant and strong.
Immortal on paper, when author’s gone.

Amongst the Stones

Caspar_David_Friedrich_-_Abtei_im_Eichwald_-_Google_Art_ProjectThe Abbey in the Oakwood

“The Abbey in the Oakwood” by Caspar David Friedrich (1809-10)

The following is a short story about an ominous presence in an old graveyard and the power it holds over all those who dare enter it.  Written on the 2nd July 2016.


Amongst the Stones

As the shadows grew in length and the icy breeze brought with it the closing curtain of twilight, the grim sentinel found its strength again and slowly began to emerge. Settling over the solemn gravestones like a phosphorescent mist, the swarm governed its ancient dominion once more.

It wasn’t the spirit of a long dead denizen, interred within the cold folds of the earth. Nor was it a natural oddity, borne of strange or incomprehensible natural phenomenon. It was neither living nor dead, but rather something in-between. It wasn’t always there, floating from marker to marker as it had for so long, but when the conditions were right, it gathered and blossomed and roamed through its ancient haunts once more.

The mist was a strange thing; a conglomeration of many screaming lives cut short. A bitter, billowing, wandering fog of the unforgiving departed. The swarm, as it was known to some, was the combined form of centuries worth of tormented lost souls. A ghoul, some called it. The devil’s shroud, others came to refer to it as. The truth was, it was nameless, for it no longer had an identity. It had long lost the individual personalities and consciousnesses that formed it. In death, it had amassed power and substance through the lingering shards of agony and was now a wild thing, a contorted bastardisation of death.

It lingered in the graveyard, flitting from stone to crumbling stone, as it had done since the day of its genesis. A conception out of corruption, a birth out of death. The mist held its unholy dominion over the sinking monuments, and like a foul guardian it kept the living at bay.

The eldritch presence was enough to render its rotting lands silent to any and all curious feet. No longer were bouquets left resting against marble and sandstone, no tributes to the loved and the lost. No one came around the old grounds anymore, such was the infamy of the swarm and such was its power. It pressed those who dared tread upon the damp undergrowth to leave quickly and never return. It was cold, electric and stern. It commanded and was always obeyed. The settling of its negative energy on one’s shoulders was as effective as a shove through the old iron gates.

These days, its dominion was desolate and overgrown. Empty and decaying, like the coffins that rested beneath its soil. An empty world, abandoned and grey, patrolled from time to time by the strange fog when the conditions were right. A bleak resting place, governed forever by the meandering shadows snaking its gnarled trees and ancient stones.

The Stranger

death-in-time-beatrix-rolan

“Death in Time” by Beatrix Rolan (2011)

The following is a poem I wrote about death (always a favourite subject of mine).  Written on the 24th June 2016.


The Stranger

Who is this dead man standing at my gate?
Of they who roam in the gloam,
And nightmares make.
Why is this visage grim and soulless husk,
A lingering sentinel in gathering dusk?
And of mine, chosen threshold,
Does he silently busk.
Where lies thy grave, where dwelt thou prior?
Who saved your bones from funeral pyre?
On path to mine, thou cannot tread,
No invite here, icon of dread.
Away with yourself, cold loitering thing,
Into the night with the chill you bring.
Who was that dead man standing at my gate?
He who shuns the sun,
And nightmares make.