Baroness Jasmine Hovel, in more than a few ways, resembled a hot bag of mayonnaise left out in the sun. Her scent, her personality, her general demeanor, and excretions all bore a vile resemblance to the sweltering condiment.

She spent her days investing heavily in housing derivatives, according to what the tarot cards read, watching old reruns of surgery footage, and smoking about 10 packs of Benson & Hedges a day.

The Baron Anthony Hovel of Bologna resembled a skeleton stricken with rickets, with the dermis of a patchwork quilt made of discarded foreskins.

They were cousins of some remove and neither changed their names in the marriage. Both of them bore the pustules all over their body which had been the trademark of the Hovels for three generations.

He hated her smoking. And what’s worse, she insisted on smoking indoors.

“Darling,” he timidly began, “It says in the Bible that it’s a sin to smoke.” He pulled a bible from behind his back and began to read. “‘For thy lungs are my lungs. And thou artest not to inhaleth thine smoking sticks. For it createth a great mustard in my lungs which is super gross. And people have been talkingeth, sayingeth that they don’t wanteth to hangeth outeth with thou anymore. Because thy acrid smoke which billows from thine mouth is unappealing.’ Ablutions 420:69.”

The baroness didn’t look up from the television, which was displaying a surgeon hacking away at a gallbladder. “When did we become religious?” She exhaled smoke and hot mayonnaise scent into the atmosphere.

The baron, defeated, quietly stomped off. In his spoiled, anemic, inbred heart he was stomping. But he didn’t want to disturb anyone. So he was quiet about it.

The greasy egg yolk of the sun slipped down the skypan, giving way to a bacon splatter of stars.

The great dining hall was illuminated by fireplaces on either end of the hall, and several candelabra. The portraits of inbred relatives lined the walls, with eyes that flitted around the room according to the whims of the flames. The heads of two-headed bucks and super-rhinoceroses loomed.

On either side of an absurdly long dinner table, the baron and baroness were dressed in their dinner attire. The servants dart about without names or faces, trying their best to be non-entities.

“I was examining,” began the baron, “the skulls of Greek Orthodox cretins today, and found a new devious ridge with my calipers.” He had a sip of orphans’ tears, which was his usual before-dinner beverage. “I will present my findings to the Gentlemen’s League of Phrenological Discovery next month.”

The baroness had filled halfway the dinner ashtray. She picked at some fresh pustules on her arm. The ooze of the pustules looked like cold mayonnaise. “That’s lovely dear,” she mumbled, eyes downcast.

“When do you,” queried the baron, “think we may have sexual coitus again? We did it that one time, before the war, and I thought it was really great.”

The question lingered in the air just long enough for social discomfort to set in. Then the main course arrived to the dining hall. A 5 foot long roast centipede was for dinner again. The baron’s favorite.

“Centipede again,” said the baroness. “How original.”

A nameless, faceless servant cut into the great beast, revealing the gooey, gelatinous inner parts. The baron always claimed the head for its delicious brain meat.

The baroness lit another cigarette while the last one still burned in the tray.

“Must you smoke at dinner, my love?”

“I’m clear across the room. I doubt you can tell the difference.” She popped another pustule and smeared the mayonnaise on her newly-arrived bug meat.

“I can barely see you; there’s so much smoke.”

The baroness’s eyes narrowed, and said through gritted teeth, “I will have sex with you right now on this table if you will never mention my smoking again.”

The baron was torn. He hated the smoking, but his balls were so backed up from 25 years without sexual congress. He agreed to the arrangement.

The baroness was so out of breath from hoisting herself onto the table she popped a lung pustule and coughed up some mayo. “Alright, let’s get this done.”

When the servants registered what was happening they all ran to their quarters. Nobody wants to see that.

The baron eventually reached the other side of the table. He was going to kiss her, but she lit another cigarette and thought better of it. He lifted her skirts and pulled down her bloomers to reveal her pustuled underparts. Then he pulled down his own pants.

The baron had two penises. One was 3 feet long. The other was 3 inches long. Both were covered in pustules. The longer one was more for show. It had never had an erection. The shorter one was the business end.

He tried to put his little pecker in her hole, but it wouldn’t go. The baroness rolled her eyes. “You have to lube it up, dummy.” She stuck her fist into the centipede steak and pulled out a fist of goo. She rubbed her cunt fiercely with the goo.

Still he couldn’t get his pecker in. He tried t vigorously that he popped a pustule. This allowed him to get the head inside. Then a realization came to him. He slowly ran his hand down his bigger cock, popping every pustule along the way. He applied a fist of mayo to her vagina, which allowed smooth entry.

He pumped three times and that was enough for him. As he came, the baroness blew smoke in his face. His little cock did a little spurt and he thought that was the end of it. But then he felt a great rumbling in the big cock.

Suddenly a great spray came from the monster cock, which splattered everything in the vicinity. Then an even greater spray came with such force that it rocketed the baron’s frail frame around the dining hall. He broke bones and damaged organs as he hit the ceiling, then the wall, then the floor. Then he was projected to the far end of the hall, where he was impaled from the back by the horn of a super-rhinoceros.

The baron slowly died in agony; his giant floppy cock still spraying cum all over, like a firehose without a fireman.

The baroness wiped herself off with the table cloth. She pulled up her bloomers and had a seat. Thankfully, the cum hadn’t ruined he cigarettes. She pulled out a new Benson & Hedges and lit it. She took a long, luxuriant drag.

4 thoughts on “CENTIPEDE MEAT [fiction]

  1. ‘The greasy egg yolk of the sun slipped down the skypan, giving way to a bacon splatter of stars.’ Just love this sentence. Yes completely gross, but why not? Only real criticism I have is the ending with the baron flying about due to the force of his ejeculate. The rest made perfect sense. I see a whole series of characters, events and going’s in here. I look forward to more!

    Liked by 1 person

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