“Yes,
that
. It’s just not good enough, Honeycunny. I cannot have a member of my staff behaving in such a sordid and orally disgusting oral manner.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“You will be if it happens again. I know that you’re as abnormal as the next nymphomaniacal woman, Honeycunny. Obviously, you get hungry and like a bit of ... I also realize that the oral incident in question isn’t entirely your fault. Blond’s equally to blame for the sordid episode, if not more so.”
“That’s right, sir. I was so frightened. He forced me to kneel down and open my mouth and suck and lick his beautiful ...”
“Don’t push your luck, Honeycunny. OK, off you go. And mind what you put in your mouth in future.”
“Yes, sir.”
Popping another Valium as the stray cat wandered into the office, Spew rubbed his chin.
The cat might have been planted by a foreign agent, he mused. It would be easy enough to hide a small transmitting device in the animal’s fur. If that was the case, then any conversations made with the cat present would be heard by the enemy.
An agent might be hiding outside somewhere
listening to my every word
, Spew thought, wondering whether to blow the cat away with a 54
twelve-bore shot gun. Coming up with a better idea, he got down on his hands and knees beneath the desk and stroked the feline.
“Our new military base in Catswana is a closely guarded secret,” he said. “Don’t worry, Prime Minister, this phone call is being scrambled. Yes, our nuclear sub is still patrolling the Straits of Dire. No, Haynes Blond is in Los Angeles on holiday. Of course, Prime Minister. I’ll be in touch.”
Banging his head on the desk as he rose to his feet, Spew grimaced. “Fuck!” he cursed, flopping into his chair. “Fucking fuck, fuck!”
“Is everything all right, sir?” Honeycunny asked, leaning in the doorway and scratching her crotch.
“Ah, Honeycunny,” he smiled. “I didn’t know you were there.”
“Neither did I until I was here. There again, I suppose I wouldn’t know I was here before I was here. Why were you talking to the cat, sir?”
“Er ... I wasn’t.”
“I’ve been watching you. You were on your hands and knees beneath the desk talking to the cat.”
“Well, yes ... I was just making sure he was OK. I thought he might be a little lonely and
...”
“Are you feeling all right, sir? I mean, are you of a sound mind?”
“Of course I am. What are you implying?”
“It just seems strange to call the cat,
Prime Minister
.”
55
“Yes, yes, I ... I’ve decided that we’ll name the cat, Prime Minister. It’s better than tiddles, don’t you agree?”
“If you say so. I’ll get off to the chemist, then.”
“Yes, you do that. And don’t forget my Hardo Cream.”
Sighing as the woman left, Spew checked his watch. Blond should have reported in, he reflected agitatedly. There again, knowing Blond, he was probably in some seedy bar chatting up a young knickerless floozie with a dripping lust hole and ... There was no need for concern, Spew concluded. As usual, Blond would materialize at some stage and start talking a load of bollocks about how he was waylaid by a prostitute or attacked by a gang of vicious agents disguised as pension book-wielding grandmas. Cursing as the cat clawed his leg and ripped his trousers, Spew leaped up from the desk.
“Get the fuck out of here!” he yelled, almost falling over as he tried to kick the cat up the arse. “Fucking well fuck off!”
“I beg your pardon?” a besuited man asked as he appeared in the doorway.
“Oh, Watson,” Spew grinned sheepishly as the cat shot out of the room like a bat out of hell. “I’m sorry about that. I was talking to the cat. Er ... I don’t mean having a conversation with the cat. Anyone who’d have a conversation with a cat would be deemed insane.”
“Indeed, they would.”
“So, how can I help you, Watson? How might I be of help in your helplessness?”
“I’m far from helpless. I’m concerned about Blond’s psychiatric tests.”
“Yes, I’ve received your psychiatrically disturbing psychiatric report.”
“In my unconsidered psychiatric opinion, Haynes Blond doesn’t exist.”
56
“He doesn’t ...” Spew paused, taking the incredible theory on board. “You know what this means, don’t you, Watson?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Neither do I. Wait a minute. Of course Blond exists,” he returned. “I was speaking to him earlier.”
“You’ve heard the term,
I think, therefore I am
?”
“Have I? Oh, I mean, yes.”
“Blond doesn’t think, therefore he aren’t ... I mean, he isn’t.”
“Aren’t he? Hang on, hang on. If he isn’t, then what is he?”
“Nothing, he doesn’t exist.”
“Wrinkled ball bags! I wonder whether Blond realizes that he doesn’t exist?”
“I doubt it. A mind that thinks nothing and therefore isn’t can play tricks on the nonexistent mind. He probably believes beyond all doubt that he exists when doubtless he undoubtedly doesn’t exist.”
“I’m with you, Watson. Well, I’m not but ...”
“Would you like me to break the devastating news or will you tell him?”
“I’ll tell him,” Spew murmured sadly. “I suppose I’d better inform his mother, too. The poor woman will fall into a state of vaginal shock when she hears that her son doesn’t, and probably never did, exist. It must have been a difficult birth, seeing as there was no baby born at the time of the birth of a baby boy.”
“At least it wouldn’t have been a breach birth.”
“A breach of contract, seeing as the contract to deliver a baby was breached.”
“I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes,” Watson sighed.
“Why’s that? Are you suggesting that my feet smell?”
57
“No, no. It’s just that I don’t like elasticated Marks and Sparks slip-ons.”
“Neither do I. I only wear them because they were a gift from a pregnant nun.”
“It’s a sad life at times. Well, I’ll leave you to get on.”
“Right you are. And, Watson.”
“Yes?”
“Thanks. Thanks a million.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“I won’t.”
As the psychiatric left the office, Spew perched himself on the edge of the desk. It was hard at the top, he reflected. The rest of it was pretty hard at times but being at the top of the British Secret Service was hardest of all.
Poor old Blond
, he mused, wondering how to break the news as the one-eyed cat peered around the door. His shredded trousers flapping as he walked across the room and rested his bum against the windowsill, he scratched his balls.
If Blond
doesn’t exist, then how can I tell him that he doesn’t exist?
he pondered. “Fucking hell,” he breathed. “Of course Blond exists. Watson needs psychiatric fucking help!”
Blond looked up at the PM as his wrists and ankles were secured to the table by metal clamps.
He was in real trouble, he knew as he lifted his head and gazed at the circular-saw blade spinning between his thighs. The blade nearing his naked crotch, he reckoned that he had about a minute before the two halves of his scrotum parted company. The last thing he wanted was a ballectomy, he mused, pulling desperately on his bonds.
“You’re doomed!” the PM chuckled in his devilry. “Your balls are doomed!”
58
“Wait!” Blond gasped, his eyes darting between the whirring blade and the PM. “Can’t we do a deal?”
Switching the saw off, the PM frowned. “A deal?” he echoed. “You’re in my torture chamber, Blond. You’re hardly in a position to do deals.”
“Yes, but ... What day is it?”
“Tuesday.”
“Thank God for that. I thought it was Wednesday. It’s just that I have to pay my phone bill by Wednesday otherwise the bastards will cut my balls off. Excuse the pun.”
“You’ve plenty of time, it’s only Tuesday. I know that because my grandmother calls on
... Stop talking bollocks.”
“At least I still have my bollocks to talk about.”
“Not for long, you haven’t. What sort of deal did you have in mind?”
“A square deal. I’ll give you my new mobile phone if you release me.”
“I don’t know, Blond. It’s tempting, but ...”
“I’ll also take you for a spin in my new Robin Reliant.”
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do” the PM smiled. “I’ll forget about sawing your bollocks in half if you agree to my secretary sexually abusing you.”
“You’re on!” Blond grinned.
“Am I? I wondered what that mess was.”
Ordering the Minister of Sex Education to release Blond, the PM moved to the window and rubbed his stubbly chin. Pondering on having his shaver repaired, he grinned as his secretary entered the small room. In her late teens with long jet-black hair, the little tart was a real beauty.
She was an invaluable member of staff, even though she did break the PM’s razor by shaving her 59
pubic hairs. She was also an insatiable nymphomaniac who couldn’t survive without a minimum of a dozen damned good fucks every day.
“I need vile sex,” the girl breathed, gazing at Blond’s naked body as he stood before her.
“Really perverted, debased, filthy, disgusting, vile ...”
“I can give you a hand on that front,” Blond smiled as she tore her flimsy dress off.
“I don’t want your hand,” she returned, looking down at a tattoo of an erect penis adorning the swell of her firm tits. “It’s your cock I want. And I want it forced right up my Gary.”
“Up your Gary?”
“Gary Glitter, council gritter, pint of bitter, shi ...”
“Ah, I’m with you. You want my magnificent cock shoved right up your kingdom come.”
“Thy will be done, and done rotten,” she grinned, leaning over the table. “Christ, that saw blade looks fucking sharp.”
“It fucking is, you’d better be careful.”
“OK, shove your cock right up my kingdom come and come.”
To fuck an eighteen-year-old girl’s bum rather than have his balls separated by a circular-saw was a pretty good deal, Blond knew as he stood behind her with his rock-hard weapon in his hand. Reaching behind her back, she yanked her firm buttocks apart, opening the brown ring of her anal eye in readiness for Blond’s bulbous glans. The PM and the Minister of Sex Education gleefully looking on, Blond pressed his solid pleasure plum against the delicate tissue of her bottom-hole.
60
“Shove it right up my arse!” she gasped in her wickedness as his knob defeated her anal sphincter muscles, penetrating her rectal duct and slipping into the dank heat of her bottom sheath. “God, you’re big!” Driving his veined shaft into the murky depths of her hot bowels, Blond gasped as she tensed her muscles and gripped his twitching organ. She was a right little tart, he mused as his heavy balls pressed against the swell of her wet vaginal lips. And right little tarts deserved a damned good anal rogering terminating in a crude bowel sperming.
“Spunk my arse!” she cried, squeezing her muscles again and crushing Blond’s purple plum. Withdrawing, he grabbed her shapely hips and drove into her again, his rock-hard shaft stretching the clammy walls of her rectal tract, jolting her naked body with his illicit penile pistoning. Again and again his swollen knob glided along her anal duct, massaging the soft walls of her tightening sex tube as she squirmed and writhed in her depraved pleasure. Gasping, projecting her naked buttocks further to allow him deeper penetration, she clung to the table as her naked body began to shake violently. Close to coming as his knob swelled and throbbed within her tight arsehole, Blond increased his debased anal fucking rhythm, shagging the little whore like there was no tomorrow.
Repeatedly pistoning the tight cylinder of her arse with his huge cock, his lower belly slapping the rounded firmness of her bum cheeks, he felt his sperm coursing along his solid cock shaft as his ballooning glans throbbed. “Jesus!” he cried as his sperm jetted from his purple crown, lubricating the crude rectal pistoning. “You’ve got a tight Bovril bypass!” His swinging balls slapping the wet cushions of her vaginal lips, he arse-fucked her with a vengeance, delighting in his crudity, and hers, as she cried out in her wanton act of depravity.
61
Chuckling, the PM watched the crude anal rogering as Blond drained his swinging balls and the girl let out screams of pure sexual ecstasy. The squelching sounds of arse fucking resounding around the room, the girl shuddered as her vaginal muscles tightened, squeezing out her lubricious juices of orgasm as her thighs twitched and her arse crushed Blond’s thrusting knob. Her clitoris pulsating, her inner thighs dripping with spunk and cunny cream, she projected her buttocks even further, offering the very core of her hot bowels to the intruding knob. Rocking her naked body, meeting the penile thrusts, she cried out again as her orgasm peaked, sending tremors of crude sex through her quivering pelvis.
This was what real sex was about, Blond reflected as his balls drained, the last of his spunk pumping into the girl’s spasming anal canal. There was nothing like riding bareback on a frisky filly. Talking of arse shagging, it was about time Miss Honeycunny had her arse screwed rotten, he again decided as he stilled his deflating cock. His knob absorbing the inner heat of the young girl’s anal cylinder, the root of his huge shaft stretching her delicate brown ring, he pondered on the immediate future. There was no way Honeycunny was going to enjoy a bowel spunking while he was held prisoner in the PM’s torture chamber. But, apart from arse fucking Honeycunny, his priority was to make his escape.
“You did well, Mr Blond,” the PM grinned.
“Although I say it myself, I’m a damned good arse fucker,” Blond replied, slipping his sperm-glistening penis out of the girl’s hot anal duct. “My nickname at school was arse fucker, although I have no idea why.”
62
“Really? I hope it wasn’t a boys’ school.” The PM hesitated, rubbing his solid cock through his trousers as he gazed into Blond’s eyes. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news but I have to tell you that I’m the bearer of bad news,” he finally confessed.