Akabusi was uncomfortable unless he was wearing a pair of dungerees or Stark bollock naked so he walked into the Jimmy Savile Row tailors with trepidation. He needed a new suit for a Tanni Gray Thompson testimonial he was speaking at.
"If you could slip out of your dungerees, Mr Akabluisi" entoned the Fay tailor. "It's Akabusi" said Akabusi as his laugh filled the cluttered shop like an arsehole on creampie.com.
Kriss let the straps of his denim dungerees snap and the fabric rushed passed his polished espresso chassis leaving him standing naked. The rarefied air of the tailors brushed against his black and curlies like a fart in a tanga brief and for a moment he felt like a black Messiah.
"Miss Portensa will measure you up" said the tailor as he disappeared out back for a tug and a weep.
Portensa strolled into the room and immediately Akabusi felt a twinge in his king size plonker. She was wearing a little black dress which he knew concealed a fantastic pair of tits and almost certainly a clunge so tight it shopped at Poundland.
"Just relax, Mr Abakuski, while I measure your inside leg" she said with a French accent richer than a Guinness shit. As Kriss felt the cold metal of the tape measure climb up his leg, he could feel his black boa fill with blood quicker than tampon on the first day.
Before he knew Miss Portensa was handling his growing concern like Pat Jennings. She pulled apart her dress to expose her smooth white skin, epic bristols and a fanny more hairy than Richard Keyes back.
He ploughed into her like a tighthead forward and plunged his now diamond hard cock into her like he was staking Dracula. Within hours it was over, Miss Portensa a useless pile of tit, minge and spunk and Akabusi panting and sweating like a multiple rapist.
Akabusi rolled up his mickey and pulled on his dungerees. "What about The suit Mr Abakusi?" breathed Portensa.
"Fuck it. I'll wear me dungerees. It's only Tanni fucking Thompson" Roared Akabusi as he bent down over her bloodless torso, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.
1. Akabusi scaled the walls of the £756,000 Sussex mansion with all the stealth of a gekko on a Mallorcan shower wall. AS luck would have it the window was open. He dropped in and slipped out of his dungerees and let the cool air caress his polished ebony skin.
The house was quiet. He looked into one room and saw the sleeping Peter Andre - without the wig and wax on his face he was rather beautiful. But Akabusi wasn't into arses. Not today.
He heard a noise coming from the bathroom. He ran along the landing, his giant cock swinging in the air like Saddam on Youtube. He looked into the bathroom and saw a mad little f**ker, big as a barrel and blind as a bat leaping up and down in some boiling water.
"Akabusi!" said a voice behind him. "Stop looking at my son with your cock out".
Akabusi slowly turned around and saw Katie Price in front of him - wearing nothing but a Juicy Couture camisole and the slightest glistening of her ample clunge.
As ever Akabusi's cock became harder than the Guardian cryptic and proceeded to bang her tits off as Harvey ate a bag of Prawn Cocktail crisps from the floor that Akabusi had brought just in case.
Before Akabusi left he wiped his now dying cock on Harvey's afro, bent down to the prone Jordan, who lay liked a painter's radio in the moonlight, and whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.
The End
2. Akabusi sat in his Vauxhall Corsa as it passed through the car wash humming the theme tune from Record Breakers. All the windows were soaped up and no one could see in so, for the briefest moments, he thought about having a w*nk. But his two kids were in the back so he decided against it.
After dropping them off at school, Akabusi was at a loss as to how to fill his day. He was delivering a motivational speech to a bunch of spastics tonight in Stevenage so he didn't want to over do it. He felt a twinge in his back. It had been aching since him and John Fashanu had wrestled naked in front of a roaring fire at Fash's £128,700 mansion in Hemel Hempstead. Akabusi had smashed a porcelain bust of Justin and he had had to leave.
Before he knew it he was at a massage parlour and had paid his £10 entry. Before he could get to the changing rooms he slipped out of his pin stripe dungerees and could feel the fragrant steam of the sauna tickle his massive balls like a poacher under a trout.
He applied a towel to his lower torso, barely able to conceal his pulsating ebony fire hydrant. He stepped into the room and lay down on the pleather massage table pushing his face through the hole and letting his cock hang over the side.
Behind him the door opened and Akabusi's pussy senses were raised to Severe. The aroma of chicken and sweetcorn soup and Morecambe Bay cockles hit him like a steam train and he knew right then that he would sire another child.
Small hands covered in oil began to explore his muscular, Nigerian coffee coloured bodywork. As the girl's hands reached his proud buttocks he tried everything in his power to conceal a huge fart he had been brewing since he'd parked in the multi storey car park.
When the girl slipped a greasy little finger up his April he let out a yelp and nearly roared "Awooga" but he stopped himself. The hands of the girl motioned him to turn over, which he duly did.
His eyes found a young Chinese girl wearing a little white tunic which he knew concealed a pair of juicy little bristols and almost certainly a clunge as ripe and yellow as a week old banana. As he lay on his back, blood rushed into his veiny Tower of Pisa quicker than Asians into a Cash And Carry at 8.59am. He lay there looking like a chocolate drawing pin as the girl starting applying more and more oil. He was so hard and tall that he worried slightly that the price of oil may be affected by his erection.
Her tiny hands kneeded his giant oak and at one point Akabusi half thought she was an Ewok trying to climb a Giant Red on Endor. He leapt up and ripped open her tunic revealing, as he had suspected, a gorgeous set of two tits, nipples as dark as Green and Black 70% and a pussy so wet and hairless he was reminded of Duncan Goodhew.
He dived into her like a released rapist and set about plunging into every orifice that was available and some that were not. Within hours he was on his vinegars and let rip with such a gush of spunk that the poor girl tried in vein to make a call to the Morecambe Bay coastguard.
Spent, sweating and panting Akabusi untangled his yawning plonker and slipped on his dungerees. The girl, who later from police reports he found was called Hi Tide Run, lay on the floor, a shredded mess of manfat, baby oil, matted hair and rice. Akabusi looked at his Casio watch/calculator and saw that the spastic thing started in 20 minutes. He bent down over the Chinese meal he had just demolished, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.
Akabusi sat in the back of his Corsa watching Loose Women on his black and white portable. He hadn't seen this many mouthy cunts since he fucked all of B*Witched at Ainsley Harriot's barbeque in Staines. That had ended in bloodshed and he knew if he watched another minute of this menstrual backwash he would have to take a life.
It was piping hot in the motor, Kriss never opened the windows and the air con was like a war veteran with emphysema trying to blow out a dropped John Player Special. Busi was wearing his spring wardrobe - crushed tan linen dungarees which were more breezy than a French cheese shop. The air was creeping in around his sleeping genitalia and tickling his taut black curlies like a favourite uncle at a niece's birthday party.
Akabusi turned the telly off, he was depressed. That morning he had given a motivational speech to a large group of deaf young achievers in Stevenage and he spent an hour pumping his fist and mouthing "Awooga". Which wasn't far removed from his usual routine. Kriss had wondered what these fuckers would achieve anyway other than playing the xylophone really fast and signing Open University programmes about ants. When they didn't clap, Busi had stormed out without even flashing his chocolate donger. He'd stuck a fat index at them. It was the only language they understood.
To cap it all he looked down on his weeping dark colossus and realized it hadn't supped at the frothing fountain of a ladies clunge for over two days. His fat balls were more full of tadpoles than the Blue Peter pond after Peter Duncan dared to have a wank into it. He needed to unsheath his meat drill bit and screw something into a wall soon or he feared a bigger cum explosion since Paris Hilton made herself sick before lunch.
He got out of the car as a bucket full of crumbs from the ten Greggs Steak Packs he devoured quicker than the North Sea eats oil rig workers dropped to the ground. He looked around at all the other cars parked up at The Priory and laughed a deep and dark laugh that set off a few alarms. When you had a plonker like Busi's you didn't need a Hummer to get pussy, pussy came to you - in your '91 Vauxhall Corsa.
He was at The Priory to see poor old John Regis whose OCD had gone ballistic since he was turned down for a part in the sequel to the Greek fight flick 300. 301 was a perfect project for Regis and his rampant OCD would have been helped exactly 3021 times more than the cocktail of drugs he swallowed every morning.
€œThis is Regggggggggggggggiss" was the last thing Akabusi heard as Regis was carted off in The Priory's white Escalade ambulance outside Kriss's £127,983 mansion in Luton. If Roger Black had been there then maybe they could have saved the huged chested blubbering fool but Black was in Tehran about to poison that President Inmydinnerjacket or whatever that guy who looked like a minicab driver in a £10 Spastic Society suit was fucking called. It had meant cancelling four JJB Sports opening events and one signing at a Maplins in Letchworth but work was work.
Akabusi strolled into the clinic, his midnight pussy piercer slapping against his toned inner thighs like Collymore on Jonsson. The Armani clad nurses stopped administering placebos to cigarello thin models to watch as Busi headed for the John Paul Getty ward with the confidence of a man with a gold medal and a brown wheelie bin in his dungs. The attention sent a spark down his body and his meat twitched to a semi and he knew that if he had a look it would now be the size of two kingsize Mars bars wrapped together with fat veins.
He let slip the confines of his linen dungs and let the imported air of the clinic cling to his toned onyx chassis to Ciccone to black babies. Regis was sitting at the window of his oak panelled room wearing a Maria Grachvogel clincal gown and was busy counting the reality stars ghost writing their autobiographies in the grounds. "97, 98..." wept Regis as he heard the unmistakable sound of flesh against flesh that meant Busi was in the room. They embraced. They weren't sh*t pushers or anything but the touch of Olympian on Olympian seemed to cheer up the vacant Regis.
"What the fuck have they got you on, John?" roared Kriss with all the power of a Spartan attacking a Ginsters concession. "Karl Malden, Kriss. Fuck knows" said Regis as he secretly counted the bristles of Akabusi's immaculate tache. "Get the fuck out of here, Mr Akabumbum" said a voice from behind the boys which was a smooth as a babies arse but without the skid marks. Akabusi was almost at full lob as he turned to spy a nurse clad in a tight white tunic that Busi was sure concealed a pair of bristols so epic that Cecil B Demille made her bras.
If Kriss's pussy senses were right and they always fucking were he suspected that joining those tits was a clunge as wet as a Norwegian work experience chap. Busi knew at that precise moment he had to get Regis out of this cunt soup factory but he also knew that he had to bash this nurse's doors in like coppers visiting a Rasta temple. Before this thought even left his brain to tell his balls the nurse had ripped the tunic from her hard body and let the buttons fly across the ward.
The combatants faced each other, Akabusi looking like a brown capital T on it's hind legs and her like a naked woman with nice tits. Akabusi pounced on her like a fat person devouring a buffet of obesity genes and within seconds he was sliding the length and breadth into a glistening hole that had previously been as unable to open as a bacon sarnie stall at Golders Green tube station.
As she reverse cowgirled him he was faced with a tight little arse hole that looked like an 80 year old whistling. Busi called to Regis to come over and stick his pinky up it. Struggling with his OCD, John finally couldn't resist and slipped it up to his Liz Duke signet. This was progress. And it made the nurse yelp like a dog being kicked.
Within hours Akabusi was on his violent vinegars and let fly with a gush that looked like a dam letting off pressure. The nurse slid all over the floor looking like she had just had union with Slimer. "Pack your Transformers rucksack Regis. We're fucking out of here" cried Akabusi as he rolled up his brown St Bernard cock and popped on his linen dungs. Busi wanted to get to a party near Durham he'd heard of on Myspace, it was called "House Rape" or something and he knew that sounded quality.
Akabusi looked down on the twisted pile of dying giant sperm, matted blonde hair, Prozac pies and a clunge so wasted it should be in The Priory, he bent down, whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.
Akabusi sat back at his desk in his £127,000 mansion outside Luton as he sent off another lottery scam email to an unsuspecting victim. He had been keeping a low profile since the Tanni Gray Thompson Testimonial - there had been problems with access and Tanni had been left in the car park.
He'd spent most of his day walking around his study naked, the newly installed central heating allowing him free and easy nudity. After watching Working Lunch Akabusi positioned a full length mirror so he could have a wank as he flexed his biceps which were so black and shiny you wouldn't be embarrassed to upholster a Porsche 911 with.
He had to drive to Letchworth later to open a new JJB Sports with Roger Black so he turned off the computer and popped his dungerees on and headed to the kitchen to toast a blueberry Poptart.
Before he got to the bottom of his walnut finish stairs there was a loud knock at the door.
As he opened the door Akabusi knew he was going to fuck something this rainy afternoon. There before him we two young women both in smart pencil line skirts and green blousons that he knew concealed at least four epic bristols.
"We're Scientologists!" chimed the duo with accents sweeter than Midnight Hot on FTV when the missus is out. "Would you like to take a stress test?"
Before he knew it Akabusi was serving blueberry Poptarts to the girls in his second living room. Akabusi could feel a spasm in his veiny colossus every time the girls said Dianetics and before long he "accidently" let his denim dungerees drop to the shagpile revealing his toned form that was as black and scary as a balcalva in Derry.
The girls didn't flinch and attached the cold metal of the E - Meter to his now throbbing ebony hose. "Do you like Tanni Gray Thompson?" was the first of many questions asked by the two blondes. Throughout the dials made no movement.
"Would you like to fuck us both on your pleatherette settee?" asked one of the girls. Immediately the E-Meter exploded and Akabusi's cock became so hard he knew he could drill to Calais if they needed him.
He pulled the girls blousons apart with his newly cleaned teeth as they slipped out of their tight skirts exposing four pert and peachy tits and two clunges with so little hair he thought he was looking at Right Said Fred as kids.
He barged into the two of them like a stock car and before long he was plunging his Super Tennants can of a cock into one girl's arsehole as he used his famous tongue on another's clunge that was wetter than a 21st on the Marchioness.
Within hours it was all over, the Scientologists strewn across the plastic sheeting Akabusi had put down moments before copulating. In his head he was humming Samuel Barber's Adagio for Strings as he had never seen such twisted naked flesh, cum and blood since Hazel Irvine cam over. His battered cock weeped the last remnants of his powerful seed as he wound it up and slipped into his dungerees.
"Would you like to meet Tom Cruise, Mr Abukusbi?" said one of the girls as she coughed up a short and curly hairball.
"Fuck off, I know Fatima Whitbread!" roared Akabusi with a laugh that filled the spacious two bedroom semi like Fern Britton in a thong. He bent down, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear, patted the other on the fanny.
And walked out of the house, slamming the door. Then remembering it was his house. And he was wearing his indoor dungerees. He had no car keys. And he was late for the JJB Sports opening in Letchworth.
Dunno where they came from, a mate mailed me that one about three days ago and I couldn't stop laughing. Didn't Fashanou (sp?) coin the "awooga" catchphrse during commentating Gladiators on ITV?
Dunno where they came from, a mate mailed me that one about three days ago and I couldn't stop laughing. Didn't Fashanou (sp?) coin the "awooga" catchphrse during commentating Gladiators on ITV?
he did indeed. i was just about to point that out. stories wouldn't be as funny with fashanu though.
Akabusi sat in the park throwing bits of sausage roll at a one legged pigeon as the winter sun beat down on his ebony dome like Ike on his first wife. He'd picked up two sausage rolls and a Steak Bake from Gregg's at the station and found a quiet spot in the park. The Steak Bake had given him serious heart burn which only a bottle of Tango could put out. He'd bought a bottle of Lilt instead. All in all it had been a shit day for Akabusi.
His accountant Harvey Goldenblum had called him earlier and confirmed that his £117,980 mansion in Brickhills had been repossessed by the National Lottery. Akabusi had become addicted to online scratchcards and things had got so bad he sold all his medals and naked pictures he had of Norris McWhirter. The ten quid he had got on eBay for the lot hadn't made a big difference.
On the upside the cool air of the wind brushed against his expresso chassis like Rolf Harris on canvas. He felt his tremondous length growl like a waking tiger - it wanted feeding and he knew it only ate pussy. He popped his hand inside his grey dungerees and pinched the increasingly engorged helmet to quell it's mounting excitement. He brushed pastry flakes into a pile and then necked the lot of it. It made him feel good. Like a man again.
He made a little pooh behind a tree and headed over the road to the Palace.
Akabusi had been to Buckingham Palace before - he picked up some mickey mouse MBE back in the day. He hadn't disgraced himself and poor old dead Diana had welcomed a fanny patting. Today Akabusi and Roger Black were receiving a little badge to thank them for not killing any spastics on a outward bound trip to the Brecon Beacons. The Palace didn't know that a little window slurper had fallen off a cliff and Akabusi and Black had buried the body in a shallow grave. Hopefully feral cats and foxes would do the rest.
Akabusi mingled with the crowds of Lords, Ladies and fucking Tanni Gray Thompson. Tanni managed to get invited to all these things and the Palace had excellent access due to the Queen Mother. Akabusi didn't need any encouragement from Jim Davidson, who was receiving a knighthood for services to race relations, and pushed Tanni into a broom cupboard and jammed the door. Hopefully the feral cats and foxes would do the rest.
The Queen appeared. Akabusi couldn't help but feel a sudden rush of blood and cum rush into his empty brown wheely bin and his giant testes twitch like a black body builders pectorals. His proud onyx majesty rose to attention as everyone stood. He looked like a brown flag pole and his flag of spunk and a little piss was attempting to unfurl. As Her Majesty went by his erection fell to it's knees quicker than a Romford secretary. She was minging.
Akabusi was fucking confused. He was expecting Helen Mirren - that glorious old milf that he'd seen on a pirate dvd the night before. The reality was some old bird who he suspected had bristols like burst balloons and a clunge as crusty and useless as a Conservative Peer. His sword sheathed and his balls bowed Akabusi went off looking for pussy elsewhere.
Akabusi headed down to the stables. He liked horses, they knew what it was like to carry such a dead weight betwixt ones's thighs and he often used to train with Desert Orchid at the Linford Christie Track. The sessions would often end with mutual masturbation from which Akabusi would keep Orchid's horsefat and sell it to Arabs. He didn't know what Orchid did with his though.
Kriss let the buckles of his smart dungerees slip to the shit covered hay and let the fetid air of the stables circle him scum round buy one get one free deals. "Do you ride Mr Abakumisi?" said a female voice from behind Akabusi. He froze. The lady was so full of plums he felt like he felt when he'd teabagged Janet Street Porter.
He slowly turned around looking like a chocolate Challenger tank heading into battle. Before him was a brunette dressed in tight cream jodhpurs, white blouson and a pair of patent leather riding boots that would bring a tear of cum to any man's cock eye. He knew that beneath the riding gear were at the most two sparking bristols and a clunge as smart and as bald as Helen Rollinson. But not as dead.
"Do I ride? What do you fucking think!" he roared with a laugh so loud the horses bolted into the yard and killed two OBEs and a bloke in an electronic wheelchair. His sceptre rose to knight the girl whose tight jodphurs were becoming wetter than a child at an Art Malik birthday party. He was going to get royally laid.
"My name's Kate. Kate Middleton" she said with a voice as silky and hot as a balti fart in tight jockeys. Akabusi became so hard he thought some cunt was going to put Excalibur into it. The future Queen let loose rivlets of brown hair and loosened the buttons of her blouson. Akabusi wasn't one to stand on ceremony so he tore her top off like a Zulu at Rourke's Drift. A pair of epic creamy white bristols store at him like Paul McKenna's eyes. Kate ripped off her jods and stood before Akabusi naked - her glistening axe wound beckoning him to bow at her feet.
Akabusi tore into her like Henry VIII at a Toby Carvery. His hands were all over her like the old Empire and some of the acts they were committing were just as horrific. He plunged deep into her like a jousting event and felt her cold regal body rub against his hot black tribal like years of oppression. She was greedy for cock and Akabusi wasn't one to disappoint. He thought later that she might make a career as a sword swallower if this Queen shite didn't work out.
Within hours it was over, Kate lay a mangled mess of white flesh, medals, horse shit, cum and vol au vents. Akabusi pulled out of her like Hong Kong, letting his weeping willow of brown muscle to roll around in the hay. Akabusi was sure that his rampant manslush had reached the inner sanctum and he broke into a wide shit eating Akabusi grin as he thought of a brown baby being born to the royal household in nine months times. "Try explaining that you bitch!" he roared.
He could hear the constant banging of Tanni Grey Thompson somewhere in the Palace so he bent down over the sated, upper middle class spunk vessel, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.
Akabusi didn't like going to the dental hygenist as much as the next man but his smile was his bread and butters. So he lay back on the patent leather chair and felt his anus tighten like a pupil in flashlight.
The nurse came into the room and immediately Akabusi could smell pussy and it was strong. Within the confines of his dungerees he could feel the old chap twitch like a Michael J Fox without the pills. The nurse bent over Akabusi to check his molars and he caught a glimpse of her huge bristols.
He said "Ahhh". As the nurse left the room to get a lollipop and a sticker Akabusi wasted no time. He leapt up and slipped out of the dungerees, letting the air con in the room tingle his black and curlys. He thought briefly about having a w*nk before so he could last longer but it was too late.
The nurse walked into the room and spying the naked ebony Adonis before her became wetter than a paper towel in a Koh Sumai hotel on Boxing Day 2004. She let the white tunic slip to the ground and unleash an epic pair of tits and a pussy with less hair than Lex Luthor.
Akabusi mounted her like Dettori and rode her in the dentists chair until he came all over her like an airport fire hose. Because his mouth was so numb from the anesthetic he went down on her soaky wet clunge piece for about an hour before he came. And her as well. Obviously.
As he pulled on his dungerees he wiped his now fallen hero on the lollipop the nurse had given him, bent down over her spattered porcelain body and whispered "Awooga" in her ear before patting her on the fanny.
"Mr Akabusi, please come in" said the secretary as she adjusted her horn rimmed glasses and felt the sudden rush of blood to her clunge.
Akabusi strode into the room like a Titan with a clown face. His eyes were drawn to the secretary's tight black pencil skirt and loose white blouse, through which he could see a straining white bra and within that a pair of massive bristols.
"I've come to fix your pipes" announced Kriss with his deep barotone timbre filling the room like spunk filling a vagina after after a ten year prison sentence.
The secretary quickly sat on the desk and unhooked her tight Croydon facelift hairdo unleashing waves and waves of lush brown hair.
Akubusi dropped his dungerees and let his throbbing member fall to the ground. As he spied the secretary's glistening axe wound his cock stood to attention quicker than a Chelsea Pensioner at the Cenotaph.
He then banged her. And banged her. And banged her. Until the secretary was like a floppy doll covered with spunk.
As Akabusi wiped his now flacid python on some company stationery he whispered "Awooga" to the naked secretary and patted her on the fanny.
Akabusi sat in his Vauxhall Corsa eating a corn beef and horseradish bloomer from Greggs with all the gusto of an Ethiopian at a Harvester salad bar. He looked out the dirty window at some pigeons fighting and fucking in the strong beams of the low winter sun. He roared with a laugh as loud, dark and hollow as a Lenny Henry comeback tour. What did these animals know of the art of fucking love making?
The thought sent a quiver down Akabusi's ebony frame to his purring pussy pounder. It hadn't tasted the sweet suds of a clunge for at least eight hours and it was getting restless and hungry. Kriss considered inducing a wet day dream - or a "lunchtime geyser" as Geoff Capes had once called it. But no. His throbbing hulk of brown greasy gristle needed kneeding and it had to be from the wettest, reddest lips since Jilly Goolden on a tour of the Bordeaux region.
And anyway, John Regis was sitting in the back of the Corsa nursing a Cheese and Onion pastie and feverishly counting the rain drops on the window. Since the Manchester Casino debacle Regis's OCD had become 456 times worse. Akabusi and Black had tried to fuck the casino over with Regis counting cards but the daft window slurper had gone nuts and pushed the table over and flopped his monster cock in the face of the croupier. Regis insisted there were 39 steps out of the casino but the boy's feet barely touched the ground.
To cheer himself up Akabusi had entered a Pro Celebrity Golf Tournament at Wentworth and as he licked his big brown finger and dabbed the crumbs from his tweed dungerees he looked out on the assembled Z list clebs at the first tee. He knew he was going to get some hole today and he prayed to his Nigerian gods that it was deep and didn't have a flag in it. Yet.
Akabusi wiped Regis down with a wet wipe and headed over to registration. In the distance he spotted that cunt Tanni Grey Thompson rolling over to the first tee with her electronic caddy in tow - it looked like a convoy of shit Transformers. Akabusi growled and snarled like an Muslim's belly on the penultimate day of Ramadam. If he was playing against her he was sure he would lose his considerable rag and bury her up to her head in a bunker. He tried to remain calm as he was introduced to his caddy.
Clunge Sunesson was the smoking hot daughter of Fanny, Faldo's old stick holder, and Akabusi's interest in this good walk spoilt was heightened when his greedy eyes focused on the svelte Swedish sexpot that stood before him polishing his wood. The cool air of the early morning breeze slide into his dungerees like Sidney Cooke into a nephew's bunk and licked at his black short and curlys like lesbians at the annual muff divers stamp collectors blow out. He wanted to sink his rapidly engorging brown Mizuno into her fairway as soon as. But he had a game to play and some spastics to buy a bus for or some shit like that.
"What's your handicap Abakumi?" hurled Bruce Forsyth as he passed by in his golf buggy which doubled as a hearse. "My big cock, you old cunt" roared Kriss with a sharpness and panache not seen since that bender Wilde complained about the wallpaper. Akabusi knew he had a powerful swing but knew more often than not his balls ended up in the rough. She worked in the clubhouse on Saturdays.
As was Akabusi's custom he let the brass buckles of his tweed dungerees loose and felt the coarse fabric rush past his ebony carcass like a rocket launch. All the celebs knew the score with Kriss and no one said a fucking word as he stood at the first tee looking like a large chocolate "K". Akabusi always played erect- it improved his game and left him ever ready to plunge his black post box into a fan or PR girl. As he shifted his giant onyx rugby balls and pulled his bat or club or whatever the fuck it was called the CTU tone of his mobile started ringing.
Clunge picked up the huge bloody thing and the battery attached and slung it over to Akabusi. It was Derek Redmond. They hated Redmond. Him, Blackie and poor Regis had never forgiven him for plonking Suzanne Davies and not letting them watch and he had a small willy so he never really fit in. As Akabusi held up the whole tournament with his call, viewers could see his veiny colussas begin to fall to the ground like Beckett in the cathedral. Apparently Redmond had been sending parcel bombs to various offices across the country. He'd got a parking ticket whilst he was dogging with Collymore and McFadden in Penge and it had driven him nuts. And he had a small willy.
Deflated, Akabusi told Redmond that the lads would be over to his £117,560 mansion near Watford as soon as the tournament was over. They'd have to kill him of course. He knew too much. But at least the madness would be over and the good people of the parking and traffic enforcement community could sleep easy. Black liked murder and killing so he would garrotte the micro cocked loon whilst he poured the others a Kestrel.
Clunge Sunesson came over and told him the tourny was off. Darren Clarke had waterlogged the second hole with his tears and automatically both won the tournament and managed to fuck loads of mothering birds. Akabusi wished he had a dead wife. Oh well, he thought as his attention returned to Clunge.
He knew beneath the pink Pringle top and flourescent tabard lay a pair of epic blonde bristols with all the promise and weight of Frank Lampard as a teenager. And as sure as Regis was mad as a closed box of cunts, Akabusi knew that tucked into those khaki shorts was a pussy as hairless and had a powerful grip as a Professor Xavier action figure. He felt the blood rush into his brown campanile quicker than a train delay at the hint of snow.
He picked up Clunge and threw over his shoulder and headed to the tranquillity of the nearest bunker. He torn her gear off and flung her into the bunker. She lay helpless in the sand like an upturned beetle - with a pair of itty bitty tits and a fanny as wet as a Zeebrugge purser. He plunged into her like a Johnny Vegas dive bombing a kiddie's pool and before long he was up to his crackers in this blonde spunk wagon.
Within hours he was approaching his vinegars and let out a roar of pain, pleasure and passion as he let fly such a stream of hot man scum over her battered torso that people in the next town thought someone had struck white oil. He had.
As he strapped his dying dong to his toned calves and slipped on his tweed dungs he looked over to the Corsa. Regis was all excited - there were 8796 rain drops on the rear window and couldn't wait to tell Redmond. Black was at the boot loading up some tools and cheese wire. This was going to get messy.
He looked down on the shagpile of giant spermazota, matted Scandic hair, Slazenger Number 1s and a Clunge that looked like a regurgitated steak, bent down, whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.
Akabusi had had a sh*t day. He'd spent the morning with his accountant Harvey Goldenblum and to put it bluntly he was f**ked. He had made some very bad investments in the last tax year - a bus tour for Tourettes sufferers to the Vatican had ended in an international situation and his collection of dildos modelled on his own gigantic black c*** had gone into raw materials problems.
His plans to put on a production of Towering Inferno on Ice with Colin Jackson in the lead role had been dashed. Two people drowned in rehearsals and the family were after him for compo.
After a runw*nk in the park he decided to go to the zoo. He loved the zoo, it was full of animals throwing their own sh*t and spunk around. It reminded him of home.
He wandered around the near empty zoo, his denim dungerees gently rubbing up against his slick, toned jet black skin and making his veiny python twitch like Ali at an Olympic opening ceremony.
He bypassed the chimps, they disgusted him and he made his way to the elephant enclosure. When he got there he spied that there were no punters around so let slip his dungerees and exposed his naked skin to the cool air of this January afternoon. As he stood there looking like a chocolate tripod, an observer may have mistaken this figure for a baby elephant. With two legs. And who was black.
As per usual, he hopped over the railings, briefly feeling the barb wire scrape his heavy ball sack like nails down a blackboard. As he landed he heard a voice "Oi, you. Get the f**k out of the elephant enclosure, you f**ker".
Akabusi had only been caught at the zoo once before when he had sat in the reptile area and had several unsuspecting nuns stroke his throbbing colossus. As he turned he saw a female games keeper, her coarse khaki shirt and shorts clearly concealing epic bristols and he hoped at least one usable hole.
"Oh, it's you, Kriss" she said in a voice as smoky as Roy Castle's lungs. As she told him off, Akabusi knew she was looking at his pumped torso and his increasingly engorged black magic. He knew also that she was becoming more turned on and wet than a homosexual at a Barrymore pool party.
"You better put that away" she said pointing her rake at his c***. "It's making Mumbles the elephant jealous".
Within a split second he ripped open her khaki shirt to expose two huge tits that were so hard and muscular you could put them on a nightclub door and there would be no trouble. "Why don't I hide 'this' up your clunge!" roared Akabusi like a black panther with his nuts caught in a slammed Tom Clancy novel.
The zookeeper let slip her shorts letting the air attend to a pussy so hairy it looked like a mammoth with labia for legs. Peeping out from the bush was a clitorus so big and meaty it wouldn't have looked out of place hanging on a hook in Smithfields. Akabusi hadn't seen anything like it since he'd been "surprised sexed" by Judy Oakes.
Within seconds his ebony trunk became more full of blood and muscle than the aftershow at Britain's Strongest Man.
Akabusi took a deep breath and plunged into her hole like Albanians through the Chunnel. Her skin was so rough it was like having angry sex with a sander going at full pelt, but Akabusi loved it. He loved it rough. And this was rough.
Around the zoo animals scurried for cover, some even choosing to leave and join the circus with Jeremy Beadle, as Akabusi and the zookeeper's cries rocked the trees and cages like a bunch of Jews at an adulterer trial.
Within a matter of hours it was all over, the zookeeper's body lying strewn on the straw, a pile of spunk, hair, muscle and animal feed. The zookeeper mustered her last remnant of strength and rolled up her clit and crawled away from Akabusi.
Akabusi bounded to his feet, his spirits enlivened by this classic intercourse. €œf**k the tax man!€ he thought. If he wanted to fund another musical based on the life of Daley Thompson he f**king would. He wrestled his seeping c*** back into place as he pulled his favourite dungarees on. He caught up with the escaping keeper by following her trail of clunge suds and bent down and whispered €œAwooga€ in her ear and patted her on her fanny.
The sun shone down on Akabuski's shiny chocolate head which glistened in the mid day sun like the tin foil wrapper of a milky bar. He was in the front garden of his two bedroom mansion and was sitting wearing his summer short style dungarees which showed off his mighty jaguar which would moisten any clunge to biblical vengeance proportions, perhaps an ark would be needed. Fortunately, Akabusi could provide.
His Argos plastic garden furniture was heating up and it began to burn his mighty oak tree like legs. He stifled an awooga and decided that he needed a glass of Coke Zero (he was hoping for a sponsership deal and drunk it at any opportunity he could.)
He walked to his Kitchen/dining room and from the window he suddenly smelt the sweet aroma of clunge. An aroma he knew only too well. It hit him fast and suddenly like a junkie waiting outside the post office for a pensioner on a monday morning. Like the junkie, Kriss also had an addiction. An addiction for the sweet sweet act of love making. Or as he called it. "Munching the branston"
The aroma was sending him mad and his pulsating warrior was almost bursting through the summer dungarees so he slipped them off and he stood there in all his glory like Michaelangelo's David smeared in chocolate with a much larger pocket rocket. He was in a frenzy now and was ready to track down that clunge and attack it like a bully attacking the boy with the stutter in the playground.
He burst out of the door of his mansion and surveyed from left to right. The sun on his balls felt good to him. It reminded him of the time him and Michael Hutchence had gone to a brothel and had some kinky match sex with cheap whores. All of which are now in wheel chairs, like all of Kriss' lovers. It was then that he spotted where that sweet aroma was coming from. It was ex blind date host Cilla Black. She was out walking her dog and saying Chuck to anybody would listen. Kriss normally didn't like old Vag but this smelt too good to turn down.
He bellowed over to her 'surprise surprise' You see, he also has a razor sharp wit. And at this he plunged into cilla like a plane into the world trade center. His mighty staff was up her BHS two piece beige suit and her old ginger saggy clunge was tightening around his mighty penis which looked like Al Jolson but infact several feet bigger than the singer.
In mere hours it was all over. He looked down at Cilla who looked like she had just been attacked by a gaggle of angry geese who had an affection for spitting. His famous Akabusi smile appeared on his face and he said. "Are you still breathing?" There was no answer. Barely holding back his laughter he said "Maybe i should ask our Graham" He chuckled so loud and erotically that a 4 year old who was playing near him actually hit puberty right then. She pointed towards her playhouse and Akabusi grinned.
Before heading off too the playhouse he leant over Cilla. And gently whispered, "awooga" in her man juice covered ear. And patted her on the fanny. Today had been a good day for Kriss Akabusi.
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