Swallowing Corporate Cock

I’ve been feeling sick to my stomach of late. This is because it contains a metric kilo of fetid corporate ejaculate. All slimy and slithery and inside me. Yum yum. And do you know how it got there? Why, I gleefully knelt at the desk of the boss and took his full length of wrinkled bullshit pipe into my willing gullet and I sucked like a brand new dyson of course. When I say ‘boss’, I don’t mean mine. Nor do I mean theirs. Nor do I mean the top boss. No, instead this fucker is just a higher-than-minion-level-but-lower-than-king-level boss. The kind of boss you’d have to fight at the end of say the 6th level in a 10 level FPS.

Incidentally, in this 10 level FPS I would refuse to pick up any of the guns scattered throughout the base/complex/spaceship/world/wherever and would instead opt to wield nothing but two tried and trusted cricket bats with which I would transform myself into a veritable dynamo of long-pent up impotent rage. Like a thwacking great Dervish of death I’d spin my way through the game manically twatting all and sundry (friend or foe – you can all fuck off or die as far as I’m concerned at this point – the red mist has descended) squarely in the hole pies are normally forced through. By level 2 word would have spread of the madman with the wooden bats. Over-confident bosses and eager-for-promotion henchmen would be swarming towards my position confident of an easy and braggable kill. The fools. By level 5 there would be a palpable frisson of fear in the virtual air. Bosses would start sending massed forces against me and every stupid, ugly alien/soldier/terrorist head I saw would have its jaw loosened and brain hole opened by my gore dripping bats. By level 7 numbers would be running low and only the cream of the crop would be sent against me. They would creep and stalk and pounce like bastard ninjas and I would land a death blow to the kisser of each and every one of them. And I would do this naked. With a fucking big hard-on. I may even fuck the ruined faces of the dead and make sure the security cameras saw me so they could broadcast the exact moment my rage-filled man-mess mixed with the gooey ruins of their friends heads and forced a whitey-pinky ooze out of their shattered noses. By level 10 I would be the Angel of Death. But with wooden wings. And an unhealthy obsession with sticking my tinkle in the brain goo of dead men. Or women. I’m not sexist, after all. Or aliens. I’m also an equal opportunity bastard. Point being, whoever the bad guys were in this game, I’d first kill the fuckers with my cricket bat and then bugger their faces live on TV. All whilst grinning and humming The Girl From Ipanema.

Why would I do this? Because in real life, where I not only don’t have two cricket bats but I don’t even have one cricket bat, I am the kind of impotent pussy that has just taken my fucking middle manager boss’ old chap into my hot, little mouth and given it the schlurping of a lifetime*. And all to get him to put me on a poxy £600 course that not only do I not want to do, but they don’t want to put me on. And that’s why when I look at the bosses here all I hear is a cacophony of swinging willow and breaking bones and terrified face-fuck screams.

Mind you, what I hear when I look at myself in the mirror is far worse. An empty silence that somehow sounds so very disappointed with me**.

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* This is, of course, not a literal statement. He & I may be many things, but neither of us would welcome such an event.

** Imagine your parents tutting at you for some stupid act you know was stupid and you’d do almost anything to erase from history. And your grandparents. And teachers. And loved ones. Siblings, friends, work mates. Fuck, passers by too. People I don’t know and don’t exist are tutting at me. Silently. In my reflection. Jesus.