The limp trickle of liquid against porcelain.

The filthy tap squeaking as it is turned off. The static cling of tights being pulled on. The hot smells of the flesh. The juicy odours. The lubricated thrashings and tortured sighs. The scampering of footsteps on the uncarpeted staircase.

The slamming of the front door.

Oliver Connecticut scrambled over the hustle and bustle of these fragmentary echoes of R.E.M. to stumble into semi-consciousness in a damp patch in the tangled wreckage of his bed sheets.

As far as hangovers went, this fucker weren't too bad... bit like having a hippopotamus sitting on your face blasting the Star Spangled Banner out of its amour-plated arse at an ear-piercing volume like a sick memory of Last Orders... in all honesty, he'd had maybe one that was worse.

Every sense was sort of exaggerated to the absurd. Every movement. Every twist and turn of escape from his sheetly entanglement. Matched. Bettered. By the churning and ducking and swaying compensations of the flat surfaces of his room. The billowing curtains were race horses crashing through bus-high hedges. The way the yawning wardrobe mocked his thrashing around in a sweating tangle; making the ceiling roar with raucous laughter at his feeble bid for freedom... but such is the life of a bastard drunk.

Eventually, Oliver Connecticut escaped the tourniquet of his linen bedfellows' clammy embrace. He reached clumsily for his wristwatch on the bedside table; knocked it to the floor.

God, I am fucked, mate. he groaned to no-fucker in the house. Hung half off the bed. Head throbbing at being held at such a ludicrous angle. He rolled back onto the bed and let the room slowly churn about him, teasing him up to meet it, toying with his hold on reality, making his cock bulge and pulse in this semi-conscious, semi lucid state.

It stood to full attention, painfully hard; the skin still back, sleeves rolled up for action, so to speak. The whole length of it still shining, still slick with the sticky thick wetness; the nuggets of mustard-coloured cheese snuggled conspiratorially about the rim; the tingle, the electric buzz of pleasure in his balls. This was no bloke's waking wet-dream fantasy... Nooooo! Oliver Connecticut was positive, I have just this minute shagged somebody.

The slamming of the front door.

A sudden palpitation grabbed him; shook him awake. He raced to the window but the street lay bare, chilly. He looked around the bedroom for whoever-the-fuck-she-might-have-been. No clues to the mysterious wench hung around. Not even a stale pair of old rabbit-nibbled knickers left as an accidental memento... like the last two he'd brought back and fucked. He'd had to lie his way out of that when his mam had found them on both occasions still damp at the foot of his bed under the covers where they'd been toed off in the heat of the moment, après pub. No such luck this time. No scent to bury his nose in, rekindle the memory; any memory. He fell back onto the bed in the gloom and the room didn't like it at all, made a disturbing seascape of all available surfaces upon which his doped up body floated, rising and falling, seasickness ahoy.

Stretching and yawning at the same time as picking up the fallen wristwatch, was a feat that taxed even his powers of coordination. Slowly, yawny, drowsy dexterity, he eventually had his prize in hand. He pressed the little light-button on the side; 01:55 PM. There came a tuneless clanging and clattering from below, the stench of burnt Brussels sprouts and the crisped flesh of the chicken.

Fucking Sunday lunch. he groaned.

Oliver!!!! his mam screamed from the bottom of the stairs, You awake, love???

Oliver Connecticut pulled the pillow over his face.

Olliverrrrrr!?!? he could hear her still wailing, Are you up yet? Your dinner's going cold, love.

Here it comes...

... the pause...

... she'll wait there for as long as it takes to kill your brain cells, her fucking mouth gawping and her fat head to one side as she always does... then.

Ollllliverrrrrr!?!? his mam bawled again.

Right! he retaliated, then the pain in his head intensified by the shout, wished he hadn't. Replaced the pillow over his face.

Who the fuckin hell did I shag? he interrogated himself while his defences were at their weakest -- Good Cop and Bad Cop. Lifted the pillow from his face and surveyed the still hard, still wet cock. Enough fanny juice on that for a fuckin army. he philosophised aloud. Still, she were fuckin good -- must have been.

He took the tacky bell-end in his fingertips and idly played with it, making it leap at his touch; lion through the hoop -- he snickered lewdly to himself.

Are you coming down or what, Oliver?!? This is the last time I am asking you... his mam bawled one final, annoying time.

Fuck off, you old deaf get! Oliver Connecticut mumbled to himself, rubbing his fingers together under his nose, tripping on the creamy residue. The putrid essences of a cunt baying in the darkness for climax, of a mouth open for his penile intrusions, of nipples large and pink and dripping saliva, of the cigarette smoke-stained cum in her bleach-white hair, yeah, all the classic wank fantasy material conjured up the ghost of last night's conquest; common sense pitching and roiling in the storm haze, the effervescing spectral passage his cook was expanding, growing into as he watched it. Couldn't believe the surrealistic stretch of skin and muscle; the volume of blood that must have been pumping into that enormous member; the pressure in his balls as they bulged to bursting.

Oliver Connecticut found himself leaning forward and, in his disorientation, kept on leaning forward until he was gaping over it, about to encircle the throb-hot end with his own lips; tasting feminine quam on the engorged rim. He caught himself in the middle of the most disgusting act, choking on the burning rod, gulping and gagging as it was jammed down and down his fuckshit worthless little throat pipe, threatening ejaculation. He panicked, trying to back away from the inevitable spurt as the peristaltics began to tickle his tonsils; the hot cum racing up the urethra at a colossal velocity.

The milk tasted cool and refreshing as it sluiced away the taste of wallpaper paste from the back of Oliver Connecticut's throat. His unlcean teeth ached at their ice-cold douching.

His teen brat sister, Dawn, shrieked as she entered the kitchen, Mam!! Our Stews gobbin in the milk again!!

Fuck off, small tits. he spat, milk running down his stubbly chin.

Dawn shrieked even louder, Mam!!! He said the F-word again! Mam!!!

You're dead! he made a grab for her.

His big, bustling mother, Doris, waddled aggressively into the kitchen snorting her fury, Put her down soft lad. Your fuckin dinner's in the oven. Burnt to fuck, I imagine.

Give it a rest, our mam. Oliver Connecticut moaned.

Every fuckin Sunday hang over, it's the same with you, isn't it? she continued.

Never a dull moment. Oliver Connecticut pushed too far.

Eh?, she pushed him, What did you say. Think I can't still put you over my knee as big and blokish as you think you are these days?

Oh, for fuck's sake, give it a fuckin rest, eh, woman. he stormed past her, sorta shouldering her aside.

Don't you fuckin shove me, laddy-o! she howled, schizophrenia glossing her eyes over like a disease of the cornea.

Oliver Connecticut paused only to sneer at the futile display and left the kitchen, huffing to himself and shaking his head. I'm out of here. I don't need this fuckin hassle. then turning on his mother like a wild animal, I DON'T NEED THIS FUCKIN HASSLE!!!

Catching his reflection in the hallway mirror, Oliver Connecticut stopped to admire his taught physique, the Fully Ribbed for his Pleasure GayBoy T-shirt tight over his pecs defining every muscle group; every breath he took a graphic testimony to the hours of work he'd put in at the local gym since his little rugby accident. Oliver Connecticut pouted as he posed; arms tensed; shoulders back, showing off his lats -- a perfect V, built for fuckin girls' arses right off.

Very nice. he commented on the way the stretch jeans he wore always showed off his tight little package and the pound of good solid meat set to the right of his zip. Very fuckin nice indeed. he added, tucking in the T-shirt.

He was caught completely off-side and had to quickly recheck the mirror. It was not jeans he was wearing but tights, fuckin American Tan Tights like the ones his mam hung all over the bathroom. He was stood there in the hallway gawping at the sight of his big, hairy Rugby Players legs in tights, every contour over exaggerated, the gusset like a delicate, white hand held his packet out for inspection. How embarrassing... what if his mam were to find him stood here like this? He looked around, his hands over his baggage. The jeans had miraculously re-appeared. He tucked the T-shirt into his jeans.

Man, what the fuck was I fuckin drinkin last night,? he huffed.

A touch more presentable he brushed back his close gaylength crop of hair and admired the Adonis before him; scratches his balls absently; shuddered as the cock once again leapt at the zip as the one memory from a night of oblivion pricked his bollocked up mind. Lily Veyne.

That one thought, Lily Veyne; that one Christmas gift. The needle-point sharpness of her passion. That brawny, buxom seductress of pubs. Goddess of ale, induced Sin. Just that sweet shag-happy Lily Veyne; the albino barmaid from the White House pub up Standishgate.

Fuck me. he grinned like a kid in a porno shop for the first beautiful time, Another notch on the fuckin nob.

Copyright © 2003 by Hertzan Chimera