Game

Some fruitcakes call me tart. Bitter. Sour maybe but
I’m not … I was just sat.
Sat like any normal fruit.

He picked us up. All three. Easy for him he was ambi dextrous. He knew a thing. Took us to his flashing

lights. His mobile disco at this evening wedding do. Took us into the dark behind the doings. Larked

with guests. Saying it’s all a game. Not obscene at all. . He’d had a word”. The bride on the quiet OK’d

it. Disco said “Can I have … ” Dont remember exact.
I dont. He had ‘three girl fun. He wanted three to come

up to his three chairs.
Three chairs. I tell you there he’d put three chairs outstretched in a line. The girls sat on edge

on them. They had to ask out three men. Not their shouts. men they fancied. They did. Disco played ‘The Stripper’ and

turned it off. Unfinished. And threw us to fingers. The girls. Then we did it. We didn’t ask for it.

The girls-pushed-us-up the menstrouser legs-stone washed denims. I could smell his hot cobs dripping off of me. His spots.

His legs. Rough. With blisters. Football. Squash. Little cists. All bony. Sticking me. My rind broke, bleeding. His jeans bound
tight.’ My zest wept and blebbed. I-feel-vio-Ia-ted. His lace crutch tickled then. He had girls panties on.

Kinky bastard. Scab. Just brief it was. Then she squeezed me down his other one.
My juice filling a long

bruised scar on his thigh. Were injury or other.
Pressure went. I plopped out to laughter and her smart

hands, threw me back. Missed by feet. Picked us up off of the-meat platter.Back to Disco’s grin.
One press stopped me bleeding.

Manhandled to the bar
they squashed us in this crap, wasted buffet. Now so
spoiled they dont want to know.

Manhandled to the sink bar cut us for a drink:
One tasty cocktail slice. One tainted lick of spice.