The Curmudgeon


Friday, November 25, 2011

Tory Sex Scene

Warning. Honest pornographers and others of a comparatively sensitive disposition may require eyeball cleanser and/or mind-bleach after viewing this post.

They were usually too busy making money, so in general they left such dirty work to the voluntary sector. Still, it was the conference season; liaison was a buzz-word that year and we're human too the sales pitch; so they gave it a try in the hope of promotion.

Her eyes were a pair of passionate drawing-pin points protruding from a blushing mound of Blu-tack. Flesh responded eagerly to the force of gravity as artificial supports twanged and were jettisoned like so many cast-iron pledges. There were three minutes of squelching sounds, then at last he wobbled forth from his underpants.

"I only practise safe sex," she said, spreading the pulped remains of twenty million taxpayers over his throbbing accoutrement. The head glistened hot and fat and purple, and the glans didn't look too good either.

Chins collided and spread sensuously across other chins. Their tongues battled together as if trying to wrap themselves around the name of some wog athlete at the OBEs. It was like dissolving into a warm salty sea of reduced immigration, labour flexibilitisation, enhanced fiscal productivity, and war. It was like two Astute submarines running aground in the night.

Ruthlessly he penetrated her innermost gusset, while his rampant cummerbund pulsed with market forces. "You can't put it up there," she whispered. "That's where all my statistics come from." Yet those of her lips which paid service to God, country and family values thinned and pursed with the moist humidity of an Anglican blue-rinser. She became almost interested as she realised that they were being heterosexual and that Iain Duncan Smith would almost certainly approve.

The adhesive sound of his high-level lunchbox slapping against her buttocks reminded her of the tutting of Liberal Democrats in cabinet, and the thought drove her to new heights of spontaneous career management. Fish-grey fleshy wavelets stirred the sparse hairs on his paunch in time to the thrusting of his dynamic assistance package. His jowls quivered like fanatical porridge the moment before unsticking itself from the ceiling.

"Don't stain the power suit DON'T STAIN THE oh fuck it."

Her cry came too late. Eyes bulging like Secretaries of State, he discharged with the force of the UK Border Agency. Still, once he'd been spanked and then anally penetrated with a rolled-up Daily Mail, even he had to admit that he felt somehow cleansed.


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