Friday, 5 February 2010


Akabusi was in the shower. Crying. And wanking. In fact there was liquid coming from every orifice. He hadn't felt this bad since he'd watched an hour and a half of Britain's Got Talent. It was that bad. He had travelled to Los Angeles for the funeral of international businessman Vincent MacMahon who had tragically and spectacularly exploded on an episode of some wrestling show.

Busi had done a lot of work for the WWF back in the day - once arranging a fight in a skip near Luton between Hulk Hogan, Sir William Regal and an endangered panda. The panda had shit moves and had taken a severe beating from Regal leaving it with two black eyes. Busi had withdrawn his support of the wrestling/animal charity not long after.

The funeral had been a sombre affair. Live on cable. Many of the wrestling world's best wrestlers had carried MacMahon's walnut effect coffin and then chucked it into the grave. Mourners then ceremoniously smashed a metal chair or bin onto the coffin as Journey played soft rock classic Don't Stop Belie-

Whilst eating a Powerade vol au vent at the wake at a titty bar Busi's agent had called him with the news that "Lotions 13" had been creating quite a buzz. Mainly because it was a big steaming pile of shit but also due to the fantastic tax dodging opportunities it offered. The producers of Hulk II were interested in speaking to Kriss about greening up to play Dr Krisstopher Banner. If the money and tax breaks were right Busi was in but he wanted to play it black and not green so the production company told him to stick it up his arsehole and offered it to John Regis or failing that Jonathan Edwards.

Black and Regis were out in LA with Busi and the entourage had been tearing up LA like Portugese coppers in brush land. Regis' rampant OCD was exactly 873 times better and out here in LA LA land Regis was considered a balanced individual. But a black one. Black had been hooking up with his crew from the Rollin 60 Neighbourhood Crips, although out here they called them chips Busi had learned. Black had put more caps in arses than George Michael on tour and the heat had forced the Busi posse to take refuge in the Mondrian.

So here Busi was in the hot stream of a Hans Grohe struggling to get blood into his ebony pussy pestle as his massive hands moved quicker than an Albanian at a Presidential walkabout. To make matters much much worse, his onyx boa inflictor hadn't felt the sweet touch of a lady's tight white clunge piece since he'd surprise sexed the Virgin Atlantic stewardess as she given him Reiki over Newfoundland. Busi had it all. But he wanted more. More pussy.

To cheer himself up and get Regis out of the wardrobe, Roger Black had arranged for Busi to deliver one of his magnificent and hugely expensive motivational speeches at a local prison. A woman's prison. As Regis towelled down the sleek, jet black chassis of Mr Krisstopher Akabusi, the thought of pumping his fist and shouting slogans at a room full of caged heat was too much to take and he had hit John in his eye with his inflated helmet. Just like Barcelona in 92. Maybe he would get some LA gear after all, Busi mused as he slipped into his Armani dungerees he snagged from TK Maxx.

As Busi, Black and poor demented Regis pulled up to the Century Regional Detention Centre in Lynwood in there hired convertible Corsa they could all smell the accrid stench of unpounded pussy and the sweet aroma of women slipping more fingers and tongues than a professional stamp sticker. Busi wanted to high ten but choose a five to appear cool.

They checked in, received some prison issue mirrored shades and waited in the back stage area whilst Busi ran through an arm pump, an Awooga and a Awwwwwiggght in front of Black's sunglasses. Regis had totally covered himself in a map of the prison but he was too scared to get a Schofield so he had transfers. In the LA heat he now looked like a panther who had rolled in a Hello Kitty collection.

The crowd were baying for Busi and when he emerged in his ermine dungs wearing his Olympic medal the place erupted like Palestine. He hadn't seen this many women with tats, piercings and buzzcuts since he went to the Melanie C comeback concert. There were "women" here rougher than Barrymore's chair leg and just as dangerous. Regis was sweating so much he was now standing in a pool of ink and Black kept his hand firmly on his ivory handled Glock.

Many of the deep C divers were touching themselves and others whilst Busi spun out his usual brand of David Coleman anecdotes and lispy bullshit. By the end of the 5 minute speech the gang of tail didn't even clap, they squelched. And that was enough for Busi. He let slip his dungs and felt the fabric slide past his smooth toned thighs. He stood there for a moment looking like a beautiful chocolate elephant with it's back legs and torso chopped off. Then the riot started.

With two women dead and fourteen guards severely raped the posse took refuge with the prison padre Father Ignatious O'Reilly. "Mr Akabumbum. Despite your naked torso causing the biggest riot since that Ikea opened in Edmonton I would like you to visit one of our poor prisoners on Death Row. I think she would appreciate your kind words...and your giant cock".

Prisoner 9818783 or Paris Hilton as she was know around here, cowered in her cell as the riot took off. Busi stood at the bars his grumbling fire hose twitching like Lubbock after a belly flop. Busi knew that beneath that Gucci orange jump suit was a pair of tits so small that her cell walls were jealous and a clunge as well thumbed as the lingerie section of a Freemans. Her stylist and PR let Busi into the cell and Paris dried her eyes with a silk do-rag. Kriss knew that The Hilt had seen more mileage than the McCann European Tour but he still wanted in. Up to his ginormous nuts.

Paris knew the drill. She peeled off her Gitmos and exposed a tanned torso that had seen more action on the internet than Pete Townsend and Leslie Grantham put together. Apart from the golden mane that topped her pin like head there wasn't a hair on her body. Busi thought he was looking at a shaved kitten and in a way he was.

Blood filled his plonker quicker than Simon Weston turning on the cold tap. He leapt on her like Hamas on Gazza and thrust his penal colony right up to her stapled stomach. Busi thought he heard a "prison break" somewhere down below but he liked a bit of blood with his pudding. Hilton was open for business and all her rooms were kingsize.

Within hours Krisstopher was on his violent vinegars and let fly with such a stream of knacker lava that Paris's spray tan was stripped from her boney body and for a brief moment the prison riot was quelled - a little in awe and a little in disgust.

Busi rolled up his heiress aerator and watched as the last of his giant spunks flipped and flapped around on the cold stone floor of Lynwood. Regis and Black had gotten a call from Robbie Williams to play football against Rod Stewart up in the Hills. Busi knew that the buffet at these things was always quality so they had no time to lose. And the prison was on fire.

"Good luck Hilt. You fucking idiot. Do your time with some dignity and don't bend over in the showers. Or the internet. Peace out" roared Akabusi with all the might of Brian Blessed with his nuts caught in the Complete Works of Shakespeare.

Busi looked down on the twisted pile of matted blonde hair, hotel reservations, dying tadpoles, rice and tiny tits, bent down on his powerful Olympian knee, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.


Akabusi thumped his hand on the walnut effect table. His brown hammer fist split the table and for a moment he was reminded of Ulrika Jonnsson's well thumbed clunge. This was shit. His rider for this gig had specifically specified specific things like 500 gram Tupperware container of Reggae Reggae Sauce mixed with blue peanut M&Ms. He could clearly see that the fucking M&Ms were fucking red and there was only 450 grammes of the fucking sauce. Promises had been made.

Busi had had a bad few weeks. Him, Regis and Black had accidently burnt down a building in Manchester after a pyrotechnics display for the opening of a new JJB Sports had gone spectacularly wrong. It would have to be the last time they let poor demented OCD riddled Regis buy pyros. Or indeed anything. In the rush to evacute two Make A Wish foundation kids had been left behind and their charred electronic wheelchairs and three British Knights trainers were all that remained. Black had "disappeared" the evidence before the fuzz and more importantly the deputy chief marketing officer for JJB Sports North arrived. They had some pretty major openings in the coming weeks.

Even more depressingly Kriss's ebony pussy plunger hadn't tasted the sweet sticky sauce of a pretty major or minor opening in a while and the grisly pulsating Kaa betwixt his toned thighs wouldn't let him fucking forget. It needed feeding or it would go elsewhere. It also needed bathing but that was another story.

As Busi keyed in his agent Harvey Goldenblum's number into his Raspberry he looked around the table at the most useless eleven counts since he saw West Ham play. Jury service was the last thing he needed and when the Old Bailey celebrity bookers were going to persist in serving up red M&Ms with his sauce he wanted out. And he wanted in. A pussy.

At the moment they were deliberating over some Muslim numpty who had been caught cooking up fertiliser "above the shop". Busi had been called in at the last minute to fill the gap left by Sally Gunnell who had left to perform an emergency opening of a JD Sports in Letchworth. She got all the good gigs. The Old Bailey had made him the foreman and Busi had accepted with open muscular onyx arms. Kriss soon realized this meant he didn't get a fat reducing grill or anything to cook with and he would have to "make notes".

There was only one angry man in this room and it was Krisstopher Akabusi. The other members of the crew or whatever the fuck you called it were sure that Omar Epps was going to blow up Bluewater. Busi didn't give a monkey's clunge in hell, he preferred fucking Lakeside and he was willing to bully the others into a not guilty verdict if it meant he could get off to Cape Canerval where Roger Black and Regis were holed up. This was justice, Akabusi style.

The hot air of this cracking late April day crept into the walnut effect conference room like DJ's into the Walton Hop and found it's way between Busi's polished Texas Gold black body and his fine pinstriped dungarees that Mr Raja had knocked up for him. He could feel the chocolate liono stir as the air caressed his newly shaved rugby ball size balls. All three of his genitalia knew it was summer and knew that outside in parks, Lidos and street corners were women in tight white tops and towelling shorts splashing around in the watery arc of a burst water main. Goddamn, all four of them needed kneeding.

"Right let's get this shit over with" roared Busi as he stood upright like a cock in a fanny shop. "This is not a quarter as exciting as the fucking Phil Spectrum trial and this fucking one isn't televised. I was made promises". The eleven ugly men and true shuffled their papers, some followed Busi's gaze out the window to the frolicking pussy in the street. Some knew his pain, some didn't have a clue about Akabusi and that was their fucking loss.

The verdict in his fist, the twelve strode through the marble hall of the Old Bailey, crims, briefs and nickers parting as justice passed by. Akabusi had requested two drummers to play him in as he entered Court One and surprisingly they were there. As they pumped out the epic drum solo from Nilsson's Jump into the Fire in perfect unison Akabusi felt like a brown Buddha, a chocolate Jesus, a black...gas. But this wasn't about him. It was about Lady Justice.

Lady Justice was the raghead's brief and Busi's slit senses were enlivened and his sperm levels were raised to Severe as she entered the court in her long black cloak, white high collar and horse hair wig. He knew that beneath the apparel of law was an epic pair of bristols so firm you could make them heads of state in North Korea and a clunge so tight it fiddled the electricity.

For over a week Kriss had been asking these guys in gowns to make him a large Mocha with a side shot of espresso but it had turned out these dudes were barristers and not baristas. The law was an ass and Akabusi wanted to part it and plunge his jet black sack attack into it. The drummers stopped and once the screams and applause stopped Busi stood. As he opened his large piano key filled mouth he caught sight of Lady Justice. She had a leg up on a desk and had her gown pulled up to her arse as she smoothed down the creases in her Agent Provocateur stockings.

Busi was instantly harder than Dave Courtney's missus' clit. But without the Liz Duke T Bar through it. The power of his engorged cock tore the pinstriped dungs from his back and he stood naked and horny. He lept over the walnut effect partition and stalked Justice like an elephant at an Indian celebration that got out of hand.

"Erection" cried the clerk of the court. "Overstained!" roared Akabusi with all the might of Andre the Giant farting into a Sennheiser. Justice was up for it and she whipped off her legal gear quicker than Paul Gadd will be back in the ELC. Busi was right. This brief was epic. Her milky white duds had nipples darker than South London and her clunge was wetter than Tony Bullimore's copy of Heat and covered by a horse hair merkin.

Akabusi jumped on her like SO19 on Brazilians and tore into her like a Fitness First bag on the top deck of a bus. To the assembled crowds it looked like a feral chocolate scales of justice was attacking a white gavel of sexiness. Busi was inflicting Zero Tolerance and Maximum Poundage into the defence and she was lapping it up like a cat with diabetes.

Within hours he was was on his violent, volcanic vinegars and he let spray with such a gush of giant tadpoles the Judge fell to his knees and prayed for a Noah's Ark speed boat to pull up. Justice had been served and as Busi rolled up his Persian he thought he might just make the flight to Florida and the hook up with Black and Regis. This was a good day.

"Mr Akabumbumbum, what is your verdict?" pleaded the sodden Judge. "Quality shag. Quality" roared Busi as the twin drummers started up again. "And him? Let the all the fuckers go. It's summer time! Let's get out there."

Busi pulled on the shredded dungs and looked down upon the pile of flipping flapping spermazota, horse hair, fertiliser and torn stockings, bent down, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.


Akabusi didn't have a clue where he fucking was. Nor did Black. And Regis was about as much use as Cassius Clay with a speculum. They were on a boat on the Norfolk Broads and everything looked the same. And all the people looking from the banks looked the same. Horrible. Akabusi wondered whether this was the first time they had seen three blacks on a boat since a slave ship pulled up at Lowestoft. Last week.

Akabusi had been very depressed since part of his £127,675 mansion near Luton had collapsed because of dry rot. Extensive damp had been caused by epic amounts of knacker suds Kriss had splashed around the house in the last five years. Akabusi was crushed. Literally. But weeks of building works and wall irrigation was a small price to pay for the great wanks he had over catalogues, Sunday fashion supplements and a copy of a six year old Loaded that now resembled a solid block of Portland spunk stone.

The boys had had to move out sharpish. He had more Polish in his mansion than Krakow. The men all had hands and faces like 100 year old bricks and the women were hardly better. His ebony clunge puncher had hardly shuffled as the naked women swung their hammers into his walnut effect flooring. And waking up to the smell of goat meat and decade old sweat was too much. Even for Regis.

Regis had been in a bad way. His nephew had been deadened and since then John's OCD had become exactly 872 times worse than it had been 28,987 minutes before. Roger Black was feeling no better. He was maintaining a low profile after completing some "wet work" in Jamaica. He had spent weeks enticing himself into the world of Bob Woolmar and in the end he'd done it for free, he'd enjoyed killing him so much. In the end "they" had paid him in scratchcards which Black had ripped up in "their" faces.

So all in all it had been a tough time for the gang. They decided to hire a 4 berth cruiser, buy a hundredweight of Greggs Steak Bakes and travel up the Norfolk Broads and kill Bernard Matthews. With extreme prejudice. Yokel Kurtz, as Akabusi had named him, lived in a £314,899 complex in Great Yarmouth and had apparently gone "native", cutting the head of turkeys and dancing around in his yellowing pants wanking on crackers.

Black was at the helm and he was bollocks. They'd killed at least five swans and one window slurper in a kayak who had become detached from his outward bound group. All six of them were in the cooler now and would barbeque a treat later on. Regis was in his element. He loved to waterski behind the boat but as this jalopy only went 2 knots, technically the speed of an old woman chewing a boiled sweet, they just dragged John through the brown water as his skis picked up used condoms, diseased turkeys and his big gob filled with loose turds.

Busi laid out on the top of the ramshackle cruiser and let the cold low sun caress his onyx chassis like an Asian waxing a Nova. His cocoa pussy beater growled as it awoke from it's slumber. It hadn't pushed it's purple head into the wet crack of clunge or an arsehole for a few days and it knew that Norfolk was full of both. It was hungry and it needed feeding. Kriss was engrossed in the latest episode of Tanni Grey Thompson Sex Stories that Redmond had forwarded him via his internet connection. He hated Redmond but these stories made his balls rise like the price of twenty snouts. As he turned over his chocolate plonker pierced the roof of the cruiser. He was as hard as a pikey's sister. They were here.

Akabusi jumped ashore, his brown rudder dragging in the water. He let slip the brass shackles of his camo dungerees and let the fetid air of the Matthews encampment swirl around his diamond hard labia cutter and his heavy balls. Black kept the engine running and pulled out a bumper Suduko book whilst Regis counted the ripples in the water.

Akabusi stalked the perimeter of the compound and anyone looking would have thought he was a huge black panther with an fucked tail. Bernard Matthews was exactly where he Akabusi knew he would be. Snapping turkey necks in his pine effect kitchen. Covered in blood. Naked. Bald. And quoting T.S Eliot. Busi pulled out a hefty machete with more grooves in it than a 70's night at the Roxy. It was from Black's vast collection of life stoppers and it was perfect for carving a fat turkey.

As Akabusi reined in his throbbing erection he stealthily moved up behind the braying Bernard and slipped the knife against his turkey neck. "Mr Abakumii, what the fuck are you doing?" said a voice from behind him as smooth and as fruity as a fart at a Camra meeting.

Akabusi turned slowly holding the machete firmly up into Matthews giblets. "Bootiful!" said Kriss as he spied the smoking hot daughter of the poultry magnet - Bernie Matthews. And she was. Busi knew that beneath her blood spattered white tunic rested a pair of epic bristols you wouldn't be ashamed to crave them up and serve at Christmas and a clunge so open it was letting a draft into the room. Akabusi dropped the twisted fat gristle of Bernard to the parquet effect flooring and pounced on Bernie like a sex offender at the Early Learning Centre.

He tore off her clothes revealing a massive set of breasts so white and creamy and capped by rock hard bottle tops it was like fondling Mrs Unigate. She was so wet Kriss thought he was putting his hand into fresh liver. As he slipped a fat brown finger she tightened, tighter than a ten year old pussy walking past the Pete Townsend Research Facility in Richmond.

He could tell by the way she gulped his king dong down her slender throat that she was from Norfolk. And married to her father and mother to his nephews, nieces and his grandmother. They were a tight family.

Within hours he was on his triumphant vinegars and he let fly with such an epic amount of ball gunk that Bernie was struggling for air like Roy Castle in a jazz club. "I love the smell of clunge in the morning. It smells kippers" roared Akabusi with the power of ten Blesseds and one Biggins.

He slit Bernard's throat letting years of gluttony and several turkeys spill onto the kitchen floor. Bernie was the Boss now and Busi liked it. In the distance he could hear Black and Regis honking the horn. They were desperate to get away to the Monkey World that had just opened in Yarmouth. And so was Busi.

He looked down on the pile of spunk, milky white tits, father's blood and guts and reformed turkey slices, bent down, whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.


Akabusi sat in the Corsa playing with the indicators. He was fucking bored. Since Tanni Grey Thompson had retired he felt a void in his life - he had nowhere to direct his immense hatred for the woman. "Harry Potter in a shopping trolley" was the quote he gave The Times as reporters had surrounded his £126,876 mansion in Luton. Eventually he had been forced to send Regis out to clear them away. Two journalists were killed and for a brief glorious moment John Regis' rampant OCD was replaced with sociopathic rage and violence. One day at a time.

Since then Akabusi, Regis and Black had been holed up in the mansion playing strip Kerplunk and devouring KFC Mum's Week Off Buckets like Yorkshire policemen into a Sheffield crack mum. There were more bones strewn over the walnut effect flooring than an after party during London Fashion Week. After seven days of debauchery and finger licking the boys had decided to get out of the house and visit a local farmer's market. Black loved expensive bread with currants in it and doctors had told Regis that it was healthy for him to mix with other vegetables. Akabusi, on the other giant brown hand, hated the fucking places. "Overpriced cunt soupery" was the quote Kriss had given The Times.

As Busi moved from the indicators to the hazard lights he looked out the window at Black unfolding his Bags for Life and Regis counting the clouds in the sky, he reflected on the real issue of the last seven days. His meaty pussy pounder hadn't felt the rush of blood and the silky touch of a sopping fanny since "The Transformer" had retired. Kriss had sneezed this morning as Black was writing his shopping list and spunked 72 hours worth of man slush out of his large nostrils and onto his granite effect worktop. Maybe the farmers market would throw up a clunge and a bristol.

Akabusi wiped spunk snot from his dungerees and joined the boys. As the gang strolled into the farmers market Busi felt the rancid air of middle class self satisfaction and Safeway Savers potatoes covered in shit waft betwixt the denim of his dungs and his toned onyx frame. He welcomed the twinge that flickered down his resting chocolate plonker and could feel his weighty balls gurgle like Marc Almond in a cock shop.

He followed Black over to a Greek olive stall. Roger had purchased a small plastic container with 4 olives for £25. Akabusi roared with a laugh so long, dark and violent shoppers thought Winston Silcott was back in the area. "You fucking mug, Roge" cried Busi as he popped the four olives in his huge, piano key filled mouth. Kriss was enjoying himself - he loved all the media types struggling to carry bags of forty quid ham and fifty quid bog rolls made of papyrus. There were more weirdly shaped glasses than a Belgian public house.

Akabusi was having so much fun he decided to let free the heavy shackles of his denim dungs and let the low winter sun lick his chassis with all the skill of an office junior on the back of the Queens head. As he stood there as naked and hairless as Britney getting out of a Lambo, he began to sense a stirring his chunky weiny marrow. He needed clunge and he need it immediately. Or sooner.

Akabusi ducked behind a cheese stall and let his colassal phallis smell the air. He'd drunk so much celeriac juice from the Original Organic Celeriac Juice stall that he was bursting for a slash. As he let loose a violent stream of horse piss into a pile of organic satsumas he thought it inevitable that someone would bottle his hot steaming yellow fluid and sell it as cider or vinegar or Akabusi piss at a 500% mark up.

As the last remnants of the torrent sloshed around the floor he heard a scream from beyond the Organic Sex Toy stall. He hurdled the satsumas looking like a horse with three legs to find a young blonde woman being harassed by two hoodies. Before he knew his eyes were all over the blonde like organic flies around shite. He knew beneath the tight white blouson was a pair of bristols so pert you could hang war criminals on them and tucked into the those sprayed on Armani jeans was a clunge as tight and prudent as Chancellor Brown.

Blood filled his meat feast as he dived into action, smacking the two yoofs with his increasingly engorged donger and making wild animal sounds. "You're Kriss Abamjuki innit?" barked one of the knuckle draggers. "I loved you on Gladiators. Safe innit" burped the other. As Kriss's penis reached full erection and his hoodie pulled back into attack mode, the hoodies ran away screaming.

"Mr Akabumbum. You're my hero. How can I repay you?" said the young girl as she wept for her lost pink mobile phone and the clumps of her hair that lay on the ground. "You fucking know how. fucking. That's how" roared Akabusi. "What's you're fucking name lady?"

"Chloe. Chloe Madeley" she purred as she swept the matted blonde hair from her oval face. Akabusi instantly knew what he had on his hands and inevitably on his cock. He had the prospect of plunging his blaxcalibur into Richard and Judy's smoking hot daughter. Pre cum formed on his diamond hard helmut as if to announce the start of a great epic battle.

He tore her blouson from her back revealing the naked product of the unholy union between Dick and Judy. Her milky pert tits had all the weight of the mother and as Kriss ripped off her jeans her glistening paper cut looked like her father - a thin, shaggy haired cunt.

He leapt on her like Rik Waller at a fat finger buffet and went up to the hilt within two strokes. "You say, I spray" thundered Akabusi as his hands explored her body with all the throughness of a OFCOM investigation into phone scandals.

Within hours Akabusi approached his vinegars with all the conviction of a man walking out of Tesco's with a trolley full of wine without paying. He let spray a tsunami of thick creamy knacker soup all over the heiress and flopped to the floor like Stallone's arm at the end of Over The Top. In the distance he could hear Regis and Black pushing over the apple cart and pushing 60 quid melons into the face of farmers and knew that he had to leave immediately. Or sooner. They'd head for the sanctuary of a Nandos.

He pulled on his denim dungs, reeling in his flacid phallis like a Japanese trawlerman hauling in a tuna friendly doplhin. He looked down on the pile of matted blonde tits, empty wine bottles, fashionable stubble and shattered viewer confidence, knelt down, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.


Akabusi tightened his black tie around his bare neck as he wiped down the splashback from 3 Muller Rices he'd demolished from his jet black dungerees. He stood in front of the mirror and examined himself. He felt so sexy he was sure that it was only a matter of time before Lynx named a spray after him. Ebony? Clunge buster? Fanny Patt? Or just simply Akabusi. He made a note in his Psion to call his manager when he got back.

Kriss heard John Regis downstairs checking all of the window locks and counting the pixels on Akabusi's new 14" plasma. The OCD had gotten pretty bad after the "incident" and to help daft Regis through it Akabusi had bought him the first of the "Build your own Bismarck" collection. Only the first one mind, the rest were too expensive. This had kept Regis occupied for about a minute before he'd crushed the fourth rear engine with his mighty hands and eaten it. War is hell.

Akabusi jogged down the stairs of his £126,970 mansion, cleaned up Regis' face with a wet wipe and they left the house and waited for Roger Black to pick them up in his Corsa.

Akabusi could feel the fresh air of the cul de sac racing around the base of his sleeping sliver of pork and encircling his giant hanging balls like dipping a hot hot dog and two cum filled scotch eggs into a pint of Stella. He really wanted to let slip the confines of his dungs and let his hymen hurter find a wet place to live. But in the distance he could see Black cutting corners like the architect in the Towering Inferno. It was time to hit this funeral harder than Boycott on Moore.

There was an awkward silence in the motor on the way. Black had been fucking decent enough to provide sausage rolls, mini kievs, little pizzas, cherryade Panda Pop and a pack of bourbons for the 5 minute journey. Akabusi hated funerals, they made his angry cock wilt and retreat within his bristling ebony frame and it could often only be coaxed out by the prospect of surprise sex or wanking on religious iconography. What made this funeral even harder was he hated the cunt so much.

Richard Blackwood had been killed during Operation Trident last week in Clapham. The Operation had been introduced several years ago to murder Blackwood with a piece of gladiatorial weaponary after Richard claimed he was ready for a comeback. Attmepts with iaculum and manicae in various parts of South London has proved fruitless until an increasingly unhinged Derek Redmond had cornered Blackwood in a "Cummin' Up" kebab house with a trident and skewered the bastard until he was deadened. Redmond was likely to serve the rest of his life in a maximum security prison or be made a Mayor of London - it was that close.

As the rain started pelting off the collection of sportsmen, minor celebrities and Richard Blackwood fan at graveside, Akabusi could feel a stirring within his dark loins that felt like the beginnings of a beautiful and fulfilling erection. His sagging testes tightened like two fists being formed by a market trader on his one night out. Akabusi was confused. Although it was Richard Blackwood's funeral, people were still pretty depressed and there was certainly no pussy worth abusing. Or was there?

No. Turned out there wasn't. He'd spotted June Sarpong MBE leaving the funeral just before Vaz Blackwood (no relation) stepped up to rap a eulogy. She was a cunt of the highest order - Akabusi had described her as a black bin bag stretched over a skeleton on his blog - but he would have loved to slip his meat python down her throat and then pull his own cock out of her sealed up arsehole. Maybe at the TV Quick Awards.

As Kriss, Roger and John kicked dirt onto the coffin the crowds dispersed and the pimped out Corsas started collecting the guests to bring them to the afterparty at the ice rink in Streatham. Akabusi peeled off from the gang and returned to the grave. He was busting for a crap and he knew this was a great opportunity to finish the day.

Before he positioned his big toned arse over the edge of Blackwood's grave he let the shackles of his funeneral dungereess slip and exposed his naked onyx chassis to the dead people who lay all around. He felt like a Titan - more vital and alive than anyone around. Who were all dead. As he felt the turtle rising he roared with a laugh so loud, dark and evil corpses turned in their graves ever so slightly.

As his giant man size plop hit the walnut casket, the impact smashed the coffin to pieces. As Akabusi check wiped he looked down at the twisted form of Richard Blackwood entwined with excrement, splintered wood and copies of his "single" which he had demamded be buried with him - "for the ferryman, man". Akabusi was so aroused his plonker filled with so much powerful, dangerous liquid he knew what it was to be George Best's liver. The erection was so intense it had drawn all the colour and life out of his body so he looked like Mr Bean impaled on fresh lumber.

"Mr Abbakumi, what the fuck are you doing shitting onto the coffin of my deadened cousin?" said a voice from behind him. The accent was as rich and as false as Lady Madonna of Gloucestershire. As Busi turned slowly around his Malteser eyes rested on the skeletal form of supermodel and nut job Naomi Campbell. Akabusi knew that this was about to become the biggest black on black crime he'd ever witnessed.

He knew that beneath the impeccable styling, giant sunglasses and lady like demeanor were a pair of cracking black bristols and a clunge as filthy, dangerous and inviting as an inner city canal. Akasbui wanted to throw his shopping trolley of love into her as quickly as humanely possible. And it seemed Campbell agreed as before he could tear the Gucci from her back, Naomi had a PA carefully remove her garments and fold them up.

Akabusi plunged into her like a caretaker into a bombing campaign. It wasn't long before he was so far into the mouthy bitch that his balls slipped into her leg cavities. His hands were all over her and the friction caused by these two jet black specimums would surely burn this graveyard to the ground.

Within hours Busi was on his big vinegars and pulled out a diamond encrusted mobile phone which he repeatedly hit Campbell around the head whilst he came so hard he thought he was in a pussy car wash. "See how you like it, you jumped up fucking clothes horse" Kriss roared as Naomi's PA returned with twelve mochas and a Wispa bar with all the bubbles taken out for Campbell.

"Run free you stupid cunt" shouted Kriss to the PA as he pulled out his Andre cock out of the shattered floppy torso and slipped his dungs on. He better get to that after party before Regis sunk his Bismarck into the punch.

He looked down on the twisted pile of giant spermazota, magazine covers, shiny tits, a copy of her "novel" swan and clunge suds, bent over and whispered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.


Akabusi sat in the bog reading Tanni Grey Thompson's autobiography - "Wheels on Fire". It was shit. Her sense of pace and character left a lot to be desired and her description of him as "a massive spade" had made him a little angry. The next time he saw her, and as sure as his ebony clunge buster was huge he would, he was going to slash her tyres and push her in a pond.

The ice cold porcelain of the toilet stung his toned arse like a party at Kevin Spacey's house. He'd been sitting here for about 20 minutes trying to push a brown baby's leg but to no avail. Akabusi had eaten too many Steak Bakes on the journey and had tried to show off to Roger Black by eating fifty six hard boiled eggs.

As the cold air crept into the lav like Paul Gadd into Mothercare it brushed against his proud black member as it hung over the bowl lapping at a bowl of water Akabusi had given it. He had gotten to the middle pages of Tanni's shit sandwich and had seen a picture of Judy Oakes in a latex body suit. The tightness of the fabric had pushed her humongous clit into the shape of a Chinese man size cock and balls. He could feel his heart quicken as it pumped blood into his rapidly engorging onyx Methuselah and gasped as it stood before him as powerful as a veiny, pulsating Dr King.

Almost immediately he felt his april tense and tear as an De Mille size richard slowly slipped out and dipped it's head into the cold water of the toilet. Anyone walking in at that moment would not only have a got a huge gush of spunk in their eye but thought they were looking at a giant brown X. Akabusi snapped the jumbo bum cigar half way and heard it scream as it thrashed around in the now decimated bog. He eased out it's identical twin and watched as they clung to the sides of the crapper as he ruthlessly pulled the flush. If he had been clever he would have snapped their necks and carved them into canoes and used them but he wasn't clever and he was fucking horny.

Kriss ripped Tanni Grey's book apart with his giant paving slab teeth and applied "My Troubled Childhood" and "My First Puncture" to his arse to mop up the remnants of his most recent and most tragic creations. He used the picture of Judy Oakes to wipe his weeping plonker as he pulled up his camo dungerees and left the demolished toilet and rejoin the camp.

Akabusi had been roped into by Black and John Regis to bring a bunch of primordial dwarves on an outward bound trip to the Brecon Beacons. He hated doing these charity gigs, someone always ended up dead or worse, but if it meant he got a knighthood it was worth putting up with a couple of window slurpers drooling on his medals and Record Breakers annuals.

The dwarves had been particularly annoying on the trip from Luton, their squeaking voices making his growling dodgepeice retract into his honed, carved from jet torso. Regis had been a cunt too, stopping every 33 miles for a horse piss in a Little Chef. John suffered terribly with incontinence and OCD and this was as much a trip for him as it was for the whining midgets.

Akabusi and Blackie had set up zip wire between some trees and the freaky smalls (and tragically Regis) were lapping it up like black girls on welfare. A momentary lapse of concentration by Roger had left two of the half bloods hanging like fucked testicles over a footballer's wife's gaping cum filled mouth. Regis had ran the 317 steps and climbed the 26 rungs of the rope ladder to cut them free and let them fall to the hard concrete below. It was unlikely that they would be found for some months so the guys headed back to the log cabin for a Max Strength Lemsip and some bourbon biscuits.

On the way back as the huge moon hung in the darkening sky like Bella Emberg with a mastectomy Akabusi spied some of the others preparing for bed in another cabin. Two of the dwarves, who were actually 21, were changing into some plastic pajamas before slipping into their plastic covered beds. Akabusi couldn't draw any of his three bulging eyes away from the pint size honeys and he could feel his brown birch rise like a spunk filled Dracula from his dungeree encased coffin.

Tiny tits, tiny hands and tinny voices filled his head as he let slip the shackles of his denim dungs and let the cold Brecon air encircle his ebony opus as he climbed up the side of the cabin to get a better look.

"What the fuck are you doing Amberkusi?" a voice said behind him as his diamond rough cock pierced the cabin wall and left him hanging like a rusty nail. As he strained to look behind him he saw the mother of one of the itty bitty titty he had his greasy eye on.

He pulled himself down. Before him was a smoking hot blonde yank wearing a tight blue jumper which make her areola look a relief map of the Andes. He knew that beneath that Uniqlo cashmere top were a pair of epic bristols and packed in behind her faded denim jeans was an American clunge as an open and awe inspiring as the Grand Canyon at dawn.

"Where did you buy those little fakers? I want one." roared Akabusi with a laugh as rich, fullbodied and dark as Oprah. He didn't wait for an answer and ripped the clothes from her back like a wrapper of a Quality Street. As he suspected she had a pair of cracking tits but with more stretch marks than Elton John's april. Her pussy was as hairless and threatening as a returning squaddie with Gulf War syndrome but he wanted in and he wanted in deep. fucking deep.

He leapt on her like Littlejohn on immigrants and tore into her glistening paper cut like Rik Waller at a hotel buffet breakfast. As the two mini milks looked on from the window at their mother being ravaged by a chocolate werewolf, Regis was busily counting Akabusi's deep, power tool thrusts.

Within hours and after 8067 thrusts according to Regis, Akabusi was sated and pulled out of the yanks sodden crevice like troops out of Kandahar. The yank midget maker lay twisted, soaking and mangled like an old flannel, seed dripping from every pore and her epic orgasm rendering all her bones as useless as a nun's clit. Akabusi leapt up, rolled up his brown persian shag and slipped on his camo dungs using the clunge suds on his fingers to wax down his mustache.

Regis told Akabusi that they had exactly 214 seconds before the police, the primordial dwarf protection team and a Channel 4 documentary team would be there. John ran off making sure to avoid the cracks in the patio slabs and got Black up from his Lemsip haze. They'd have to get out of her quick. They were going to head to Manchester where the gang were booked to be the star turn at the new Super Casino and Regis would be able to count cards.

Akabusi looked down on the pile of spunk, small hands, little chins, scotch eggs and piless and bent down over her, whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.


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 helmut 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 ot 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 sh*t, 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 sh*t 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.

The End.


Akabusi sat in his Corsa in a layby on the A12 demolishing a king size Toffee Crisp like a heavyweight boxer fighting a spastic. He was pretty depressed. A personal sex tape he had made with his running mate Colin Stagg and a couple of Somalian girls in a Travellodge near Heathrow had leaked onto the internet and his performance had been less than Olympian.

To cheer himself up he decided to drive down to Canning Town and collect the rent from one of the 14,000 houses he owned in the area. Akabusi and Linford had been put onto the area by Lord Coe way before the Olympics were even mentioned and they were in line to make a killing. Akabusi kept a low profile but Christie had been seen walking around the streets dressed in ermine and putting his diamond encrusted lunchbox through letter boxes.

There was one cunt that owed him £20 in arrears and lived on the site of the future Richard Rogers designed Olympic Darts Village. Akabusi wanted to break ground on this site within six months because the foundations to hold these fat bastards had to go over 100 feet down.

He wiped off the chocolate crumbs from his "collecting rent" dungerees as he knocked on the door. He loved collecting money and pushing people around so even now his ebony one eyed titan was twitching like a sexy dying black man. When the door opened his mounting erection shrunk from the size of the large Krankie to the size of the weird woman/boy one.

There before him was a Muslim woman dressed from head to toe in a naqib. He could see nothing except a pair of eyes that looked like day old Maltesers in two small dishes of spunk. He knew that underneath the thick cloth lived an epic pair of creamy bristols and a clunge as untouched as Cliff Richard's cock. He wondered briefly what it would be like to fuck a jet black post box as he barged into the terrace property.

Akabusi pulled religious iconography from the walls and threw them into the fireplace, roaring with laughter like man possessed. Before long he let slip his dungerees and felt the damp, stale air of the crumbling property encirle his behemothic, onyx form like flies around shite. He looked across at the cowering woman in the corner - her eyes showed more fear than a Brazilian running for the Tube - and he felt his cock grow to vast proportions. The starless night of his pulsating hymen killer took his breath away and most of the blood in his body. His helmut was so hard he thought about patenting it and selling it to the army.

He stood in the room looking like a shiny charcoal crucifix with a one of the arms sawn off. He approached the woman. She needed no encouragement - she ripped off her naqib and revealed a pair of tits that men would travel miles to worship and have a tug under. Her pussy was covered in hair so black and dense Akabusi thought he was looking at Richard Blackwood as a child. She wore stockings and suspenders and a pair of 6 inch heels with a stilleto so long and sharp that Akabusi felt sure he could use it to clean out the munge in his battered Japs eye.

"Mr Abbakumi. I must insist if you are to take me, that you wear a condom, please, thank you" said the newly eroticised young woman. "fuck off, even if I could find a johnny big enough to encase this giant cock, my sperm are so vital they would chew through it and eat your eggs" cried Akabusi.

Before he knew he was up to his giant nuts in the girl who was taking to this fucking lark like a pig in shit. He smashed in more back and front doors he felt like S019. Within hours he spunked a road map to peace all over her back and rubbed it into the gentle down that covered it. As he stood over her, his cock now an empty shell and his balls hanging like punctured leather footballs, he felt he had made siginificant steps in bridging religious divides. And getting his knob wet.

"Thanks for the bunk up lady. But I Mustafa my rent by next week!" roared Kriss as he pulled on his dungerees and popped his cock into a special denim pocket his mum had sewn in for him. He pulled a gold statue of some god or something from the mantlepiece and pocketed it. "That'll do. For now".

He bent over the pile of spunk, formal Islamic clothing, minge hair and smashed icons and whisphered "Awooga" in her ear and patted her on the fanny.

The End.


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 wank. 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.


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 wan 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.

The End.


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

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.


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 wank 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.

The End


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 fucker, 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


Akabusi had had a shit day. He'd spent the morning with his accountant Harvey Goldenblum and to put it bluntly he was fucked. 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 cock 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 runwank in the park he decided to go to the zoo. He loved the zoo, it was full of animals throwing their own shit 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 fuck out of the elephant enclosure, you fucker".

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 cock. "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. “fuck the tax man!” he thought. If he wanted to fund another musical based on the life of Daley Thompson he fucking would. He wrestled his seeping cock 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 “Awooga” in her ear and patted her on her fanny.