Ten Storey Love Song Read Online Free PDF Page A

shittiness of the situation. His bum-fluff was totally matted, and to get most of the crap off he had to dig in with his nails. It was disgusting. The bottom of the bath looked like a muddy worm had crawled across it and died. Aaaaaaaaargh! His fingers smelt like fishy poo-poo, and the boxers were stained rusty orange. Johnnie sighed, then had a tiny gurn to himself and decided to cut his losses – the M&S pants went flying out the window like a beautiful brown kite. There was no more time to mess about. Johnnie dried his arsehole on the towel turning beige and beiger, and he frowned bushy caterpillars putting back on his clothes. It was getting on for half-past two as he strolled into the living room looking quite bedraggled and he wondered if Ellen would really wish to shag such a tragic person. But sure enough she smiled and took his hand, and Johnnie led her out of the bombsite and into his boudoir. Johnnie’s bedroom was red and white stripes with posters of Juninho and John Hendrie and Ravanelli on top, and although his sheets were a crumply mountain the room wasn’t particularly mucky. Ellen was feisty and sat straight on top of the peak, and when she started unzipping Johnnie she didn’t think it was strange he had no pants on. Johnnie felt a bit awkward (and maybe a wee bit paranoid off the pills), and he worried Ellen might be able to smell shit when she started sucking him off. Fortunately he stiffened up with such a nice mouth round his willy, and Ellen slobbered away minding her own business. She enjoyed giving head – having a boy shiver and spasm in time with her waggly tongue – and it was possible she was getting more pleasure off it than Johnnie. His brain was a cracked egg, half scrambled with poo-poo and half fried with sexstasy. He didn’t attempt to bring Ellen off with his shitty fingers, and when she eventually boinged on top of him all Johnnie could think about was brown goo. His arsehole still felt sticky and awful and he imagined the hot aroma of faeces filling the small bedroom, and it terrified him. Ellen was horny and couldn’t smell a thing, but just as she was reaching the sexy sunrise of an orgasm she started to feel Johnnie’s stiffy subside and his cock slipped out from inside her. She was devastated, and overall it did get the sex off to the shittiest possible start. And if anything it’s only gotten worse – now all Johnnie can do is give Ellen sore bits, no petit mort in sight unless you count Ellen wanting to kill her boyfriend. Nowadays she dreads going to bed, what with Johnnie always trying to put his leg over or trying to get her flaps going when she’s dry as newspaper. Most porn gives boys the impression girls like to suffer during sex, and when Johnnie first bashed Ellen’s delicate cervix he showed off to all the guys at the Linthorpe he’d ‘reached the top’. Wowee! Fifty-four bad shags later, Ellen’s seriously considering splashing out on a Rampant Rabbit or employing some sort of male escort, and she tries to think back to all these wonderful one-night stands she’s had with handsome, very competent strangers. Not only has she forgotten how to orgasm, she’s forgotten how to fake one. It’s now eight-and-a-bit months since her last cock-in-fanny climax (a boy named Smithy who could draw circles and figure-8s with the end of his penis), summer’s here, and Ellen wonders how much longer she can last without another fruity encounter. One particular balmy evening, she sits alone in Johnnie’s bed, bored out of her skull. She peers out the window at little kids playing ball games on the grassy verges five storeys below. She thinks bad thoughts. Johnnie’s out terrorising the neighbourhood (or so he said – he’s actually having a pint in the Central with his mates and they’re talking about Bello’s new Lacoste shellsuit, shiny red it is), and there’s nothing much to do but watch the world slowly turn. The kids outside are adorable – Ellen watches