Hog Ceremony

Written by Matthew Shute

The hair grows yellow from my slut, and I quiver in a self-consciously cretinous way as I gaze in the direction of my mother's oblong rut-caper. The slave pampers me, but I ignore her gibbering. The preparations for the ceremony are drawing to a close, and I can feel my bowels loosening. I have done my bit, of course, contributed in my own humble way. My mother is a true Lady of the Manor, and I am honour-bound to service her "edge" on occasion. Her eggs only infrequently underwent molestation along the blunting fringe of kidney-freighted garters, mind. Do not think me so rude as to readily throw my offal at her tender and elegant gait. Before you condemn me as a wanton Prince, be sure to know that those (like you?) believing in the Oyster Curse would never be considered apt fodder for the nail grinding bats who infested Lady Mcfeathershum's brain-topped wig. The scaffold rearing from her motherly brow is a majesty to behold, although its true contour can only be glimpsed while withdrawing diagonally from a frustrated heron...

So ask yourself: "What do I do on a Friday day, as it sinks into voolish night? Am I to bestow myself in thwarting the Lady's hog? Is my captain the crescent wind? Is the meat of synthetic vool a tarnish to the requisite venting of members?"

Now, if you have distinguished yourself under my mammy's vaginal beauty, you will proficient in finding your previous self making slovenly progress along the plainest corridor to be uncharted by any zen pest.

Your history had once been vague. Long ago you smithed your way into being profoundly bored by the others in the list. Only my mother, hence, could cram the weasel out of you.

But it matters not anymore, for the ceremony is at hand.

Now hark. HARK as my Lady speaks:

"O, dribbling butcher, I tell you that the crispy fecundity of grunting toiletry ought to be the least of your preponderance. The clammy centre of fish-whipped sex IS its own middle, but what of the outside? Lest I become too trite in my condemnation of those in a gutlessly effluent sector of slut-manufacture, please allow the falling the of so-called "fluxors" to familiarise your broken eve with the station in life of a gristle manipulator! Yes, you, churlish peasant. Approach the hog pen."

"Here he doth work!" sayeth the mayor, grinning like a vole-baiter, pointing a gnarled barb in the direction of the cull.

"But from whence? But from whence?" my Momma asks (from... ahem... "below").

Now look. Inquisitors are seen "being glimpsed" into the meat of the stacks. This is a good sign.

"Hershich! HERSHICH!" issues the thrashing hog: a particularly devious noise to issue from the swab. My golden lipped slave retrieves it. She sniffs feverishly at the flange, and grants your black mouth a sample in kind.

Like the odious taste, do you, guttersnipe?

Time has passed. "Yet it must also be mentioned that in a time of effortless crisis, a large Canadian will swarm." That was the exact and verbatim monologue to spew from the Mayor's verbally flatulent nostril, as he fell. Oh how my pet cunt chuckled as he fell and fell and fell and fell.

But that was seconds ago. This is now. You are in the arena. Yes, yes. You have played your part.

Oh, I can barely stand to watch. The ceremony is drawing to a grisly climax. The hog is open. It is screaming and thrashing as you do your stuff, down in the dirt. Oh, poke it again! Poke it and let your appendages entwine!

Yes, yes! This is too much!

Suddenly, I, my mother, and the rest of the assembled nobility issue wantonly all over the scene. Confetti has nothing on this. Look at Momma go! Her wig is spinning, splattering us all. She is encompassing us all in her blooded flatulence, and including ALL of us in her grace.

In my own orgasmic rapture, I let loose one last dying scream:

"When Darth Vader rapes your bitch, I will be the puppy!"

The hog is dead and so are we all.