The mood turns black … well, blacker

A few days later it was New Year. I got hammered, and celebrated with Muntpig. A few hours later we were in the squalor of my house. Muntpig had a piece of firewood in her mouth, biting against the pain because I was intent on a bit of backdoor action. Things were going swimmingly when there was a knock on the front door. I froze. I didn’t want visitors, especially not as I was up Muntpig to the bristles! I kept quiet and heard the letter box slowly open, then a voice, whispering: “Victor, you little fucker. I am going to cut your balls off.” Then a sinister giggle and the sound of the letter box closing. I recognised the voice; it was Slobodan Zecevic, a Novi Sad scout. He was supposed to be in Finland. What the fuck did he want with me?

I pulled out of Muntpig and wiped my cock on her hair. She sat up and spat out the firewood. I stood there, puzzled. Eventually I looked at Muntpig and asked: “Do you know who that was?” She nodded, and replied: “Yes, that was my husband!”

 

NB. As I said before, this is not my own work. It is Vic Flange’s. The original work can be found on TheDugout, right here. TheDugout is dying, so I’m rescuing the story and giving it the attention it deserves.

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