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Bull stirred beneath Alan. And Alan felt his limp penis slide out of Bull’s kneepit with lubricated ease. Bull struggled round in the fluff-encrusted runnel of the vestibule and brought his pale, frank eyes, with their horrible weight of understanding into the brown, trustworthy gaze of his seducer. They tried very hard to stare affectionately at one another.

And what did Bull feel throughout this? How was it for him? Shame on you for even daring to ask. Some things must, after all, be sacred. Some things mustn’t be picked apart and subjected to such close scrutiny. But still, it is only fair to say that the experience was shattering. Bull felt violated, traduced, seduced, bamboozled, subjugated, entrapped and enfolded. He felt his capacity for action surgically removed. He felt, for the first time in his life, that his sense of himself as a purposeful automaton, striding on the world’s stage, had been completely vitiated by a warm wash of transcendence. This must be like a religious experience, thought Bull, his veal cheek pressed against the double plug socket. And had he been better versed in such things he might immediately have given his vagina the status of stigmata. In which case the outcome of this strange tale might have been considerably different.

The two orgasms had beaten up on him from either side. One came with each thrust of Alan into Bull, and the other derived from Alan’s expert and emphatic tugs at Bull’s cock. Though of such different natures and provenances they had somehow managed to merge together, like the Skaggerack [sic] and the Kattegat off Bull’s Jutland.

Bull – a farce eftir Will Self (úr Cock & Bull)

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