She
He, Percy, was English… well - short, overweight, balding and at 61, little chance of anything remotely of a sexual adventure. He never had one. Married at 21 to Helga, a fishmonger’s daughter whose kipper always smalt fishy, he would have to be heavily intoxicated to climb over her whale blubber belly and attempt to empty his bucket.
In other words, his life was really shit. Lost his job as a security guard at Mothercare, when the firm went tits up, leaving him no more fantasies to jerk off in the toilet after looking at pregnant women.
But – things would change when he met SHE.
She, an Australian called Matilda, walked the sea shore selling mussels and cockles alive and always waltz around exposing a length of hair from her armpits, dribbling with sweat. Oh, she smelt good, a mixture of seafood and of Brut aftershave.
Percy got something in his pants that he thought would never happen, a hard on as he asked Matilda for a fresh bag of cockles. She opened the bag and let drips of perspiration from her braless breasts salt them.
Percy
shot his bolt, sneaked away, but he had a plan. He had to go shopping. If he
could not have Matilda – he
could make a ‘fearce
de fook’ out of Helga. A visit to Iceland and Boots
chemists sorted out his needs. He, Percy, was English… well - short, overweight, balding and at 61, little chance of anything remotely of a sexual adventure. He never had one. Married at 21 to Helga, a fishmonger’s daughter whose kipper always smalt fishy, he would have to be heavily intoxicated to climb over her whale blubber belly and attempt to empty his bucket.
In other words, his life was really shit. Lost his job as a security guard at Mothercare, when the firm went tits up, leaving him no more fantasies to jerk off in the toilet after looking at pregnant women.
But – things would change when he met SHE.
She, an Australian called Matilda, walked the sea shore selling mussels and cockles alive and always waltz around exposing a length of hair from her armpits, dribbling with sweat. Oh, she smelt good, a mixture of seafood and of Brut aftershave.
Percy got something in his pants that he thought would never happen, a hard on as he asked Matilda for a fresh bag of cockles. She opened the bag and let drips of perspiration from her braless breasts salt them.
Getting Helga to drink non-stop 1.5 litres of Strongbow extra strong cider was easy. The warmed up bag of mixed seafood she gobbled eagerly. Percy rammed the heating up – fuck the cost – and Helga sweated. Sprinkled with Brut aftershave, she moaned as Percy fuelled with lust and a Viagra tablet fuelled stork that would made a donkey jealous, as he climbed up the mountain and rammed his porker into a sweaty, fishy kipper until his bags fired their bolt of seamen, rolled over and snored away.
He was awoken by Helga kissing his still tender end. She flustered – ‘that was nice. Can we do it again?’
And they did – once a week and lived happily ever after – until…
They fucked themselves to death.
The End.
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