Lamb Kofta

As you know, in 2015 I was mid-Wasteman Wes saga. He had already slung his ejaculatory matter up Kerry’s fleshy viaduct and I harboured a great deal of hatred towards him but also a strange desire to revel in the attentions he gave me as he tried every weapon in his arsenal to get me back. He was no longer living with me and I was hustling like The Artful Dodger to claw back the finances he had frittered away so frivolously during our relationship. I look back now at the weak little human I had become and wonder why I strung him along thinking he had a chance of getting back with me for so long. The only conclusion I can draw is that I enjoyed the mental torture I put him through as I drew him in and released him away again at my whim. He certainly had a hold over me I will never understand but my small acts of revenge during this to-and-fro time were a victory I rejoiced in. One such act of retribution was Lamb Kofta.
On ‘Lamb Kofta’ night I slumbered peacefully; the unbroken dozing of a single woman comfortable in the knowledge that she has no man out cheating on her, stealing from her and making her look a fool.
At 4am, however, something roused me from my sleep. A sheepish tap, tap, tapping at the window next to my head interrupted my dreams and I immediately, unequivocally knew it would be that little parasite of an ex-boyfriend of mine, brandishing his ginger dreadlocks and the freckled face I had once found so delightful. He had scaled the fence of my back garden and infiltrated the minimal security of the ground floor maisonette we had shared to harangue me in his inebriated and cocaine-fuelled state. I contemplated ignoring his knuckled mating call but Wes was a tenacious little flea, especially when under the influence, and would continue pressing at the flesh of my life with his bloodsucking pincers ready to slurp up any positivity I could muster and glean for myself. I could have called the police, of course. But with his dangerous behaviour I believed that would just make matters worse. So I pulled back the duvet, pressed my warmed size 3s to the cold, laminate floor and pattered to the back door.
I could tell just by looking in his vacant eyes that he was really, really high. He had brown stains in the corners of his mouth which he surreptitiously wiped with his thumb and index finger and flicked at with his lizard-like tongue of lies. While I assessed the state he was in, he talked at me in an endless onslaught of trash he thought was interesting but I most certainly did not. How he had been to a rave, I’d have loved it, I should have been there, all his friends were asking where I was, he hadn’t been able to tell them yet what he had done, he felt so ashamed, he just wanted me back, Kerry was the worst mistake of his life. On and on it went, drivel and tripe hammered at me while I stood, arms folded, watching him with disgust in the artificial kitchen light.
After I had made him a drink and something to eat I instructed him to sleep on the sofa, pulled him out some blankets and returned to my bed. Mentally counting down the moments before I would hear him approach my room like a small child trying to sneak into their parents’ bed in the midst of the night, less than a minute later my door handle squealed slowly open beneath his hands and he wondered nonchalantly into the room. Naked.
Arguing was fruitless; he was either coming to cuddle me, to have sex with me or to murder me. I felt powerless to stop any of those scenarios and so drew on the training my step-father had taught me all those years before. I numbed my mind to whatever his intentions were, squared myself to the realisation that I was going to loathe what followed regardless of what it was and decided letting it happen would be the safest and easiest thing for me to do.
Crawling in next to me silently, Wes began to poke his erection against me, stabbing in the dark like a trainee fencer. He had never been a fan of foreplay and always assumed that his general aura would be enough of an aphrodisiac to have any vagina dripping in his presence. He was woefully misguided. Sex with him was therefore usually unpleasant and painful – imagine trying to shove a rubber ball up a pipe marginally too small for it. Not good!
A few minutes into sex I decided I had had enough and got on all fours – a tried and tested method to finish him off. Unfortunately, in my eagerness to get the sex over with I had not taken into account how ballsy (pun intended) cocaine can make a man. Wes was always a sexual deviant on cocaine anyway but now he clearly thought arrogant confidence when driving his penis into me would be the best way to win back my affections. Without warning or lubrication he shoved his surprisingly girthy member into my arsehole.
‘Wrong hole! Wrong hole!’ I breathed, trying to crawl away and sink myself toward the mattress like a cat cowering away to avoid being touched. As I said previously though, Wes was a determined little pest and he continued to propel himself into me with shocking fervour in the pre-dawn light.
It lasted seconds only, but it felt like I was having the longest, biggest poo of my life. I could feel myself tearing and ripping around his penis as he tried to reach his climax. I’m quite sure anal is endurable when all necessary precautions around discomfort are taken but this was like shoving a metal rod into pinhole without greasing it up adequately.
‘Let me fuck you now!’ he growled, pulling himself out of my crevice. Sweet relief washed over me as he removed that demonic pole from my unsuspecting cavity. I don’t know why he thought he was now going to bury himself back into my vaginal flute after it being in my shitter but that was an argument I was willing to have with him once I’d nursed my poor, damaged bumhole back to some semblance of normality. I imagined I must be haemorrhaging anally, surely?
In the greyish light that precedes the day he sat, perched against the pillows, panting and smiling as if he were about to laugh.
‘Where are you going? Get back on!’ he demanded.
I turned to look at him, assessing his putrid rancidity with repugnance emitting from my very pores.
‘Absolutely fucking not, mate.’
But he seemed not to hear me. In the split seconds since he had made his cold command, sneering with the smirk of a beast, he was now looking down towards his erection, head bent forward and arms held in the position of the ‘I don’t know’ emoji at his sides. He seemed to be sniffing the air like prey seeking out safety in the great unknown of an open field.

‘Is that…Is that shit..!?’

My eyes travelled reluctantly to where his downturned head was pointed and as the absolute carnage of the situation struck me I gagged and giggled involuntarily.
There, between his legs, his penis was steered upward to the heavens and it was absolutely swathed in my crap. Not small smears like Branston Pickle, no skid marks up and down the surface like the track of Brands Hatch, no pebbledash discharge lightly covering the shaft. What I had left on him was like a mini-milk ice lolly. It was a perfect casing of thick, brown turd that, had it been on a wall surface, a Plasterer would have been proud. From root to tip it was even in both smooth, russet texture and viscosity. Stodgy swathes of excrement concealed the shape of his helmet and the gentle folds of his foreskin.
‘Don’t look, don’t look!’ I cried as I ran from the room, frantically searching for wet wipes and cloths so I could rid him of most of the damage before he truly took in the faecal massacre now permeating his pubic region.
I cleaned him like a mother cleans a newborn babe that has blasted crap all over itself. Wipe after wipe fell victim to the beef-coloured emission I had oozed all over Wes. He lay there, still hard, looking out of the window in mock-interest at the nature that awoke outside while I mopped away the detritus.
Finally, I was satisfied. No stain remained, not even the speckle of last night’s dinner resided on that cock. Wes tried to convince me we could continue with sex after this monstrosity of an endeavour had taken place; I ordered him to go and have a shower and return to the sofa where he belonged. He could finish himself off into a sock for all I cared, as long as that poo-brandishing tool came nowhere near me.
Alone once more, I remade my bed and opened the window, cold air wafting in to remove the odour of unwanted fornication and faeces from the room. I ruminated on what had just occurred and felt a strange sense of victory; he deserved to get shit on. I wish the shit had been metaphorical and therefore could have been more public but this was what guys like him earned. He had been seeking ejaculation and instead his penis had been covered in a far less pleasurable liquid – my stodgy, fibrous leftovers.
Triumphant, I moved away from the window. But as I turned I felt a strange, wet sensation on my coccyx when the cool breeze hit me. What on earth could that be?
Well, I’ll tell you what ‘that’ was, dear readers.
In my utter humiliation at having dropped my guts all over Wasteman Wes I had momentarily forgotten about my own wellbeing. When I reached around to discover what the moisture on my spine was I inspected the fingers I had rubbed into the wetness to find with sheer horror that it was in fact my own shit. When Wes had pulled out of my sphincter the contents of my rectum had somehow managed to spray up my back. Nuggets and pellets of poo covered me from the crack of my bum to the middle of my vertebrae.
The shower I had in the seconds after this gruesome unearthing was amongst the most scolding I have ever endured.
In the years that have passed my friends and I have coined this story ‘Lamb Kofta’ and I have to say when I see one of those cylindrical meaty delights basking in the chilled section of the supermarket it takes me back to that terrible, terrible night. On the bright side, Lamb Kofta was the final blow for Wes and I. I ceased toying with him from this point and confessed there was simply no chance of rekindling the love that I had once felt for him. Once you have burst your anal seams all over someone there really is very little that can be said to resurrect the feelings of desire that had been there. The small act of vengeance – which I had no control over – was thanks to my body, particularly my sphincter, for secreting upon Wes the brown payback he utterly deserved, even if it simultaneously resulted in the single worst moment of my life.
So the moral of the story is this: If someone is generally just shitty in bed and shitty as a person, don’t disrespect your vagina by letting them take up lodgings there. They will perceive your submission as a green flag to do with your body as they please with no regard for your pleasure or pain. Your body will take control of the situation in no uncertain terms and metaphorically, or physically, shit all over that state of affairs! Sphincters are our comrades; save yourselves the time, the energy and the wet wipes!

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