A group of worldclass athletes are having a get together

It's the last time they can have a bit of a blow out before the really hardcore Olympic training begins. Everyone's just starting to get a bit squiffy and the conversation is beginning to flow more easily. One of the marathon runners decides the music is a little low tempo and sticks on Latin by Holy Fuck, a couple of the heptathletes begin dancing together, gyrating sexily and getting closer and closer. A few of the men cheer and wolf whistle, generally egging them on.

While everyone is distracted, a sprinter takes his chance and starts dropping liquidised temazepam into a few drinks. Not enough to knock people out, but more than enough to really loosen them up and not remember it next day. He's done a dozen or so drinks, when he realises the tone of the sounds behind him have changed and he looks round to see that the heptathletes and a couple of swimmers are now on the floor, pretty much naked, kissing, fondling and licking. One or two of the high jumpers have got their cocks out and are stroking them gently.

The sprinter's own cock gets so hard so quickly it bursts through the thin lycra of his running shorts and he spurts a thick, copious stream of manfat down a shotputter's back. He doesn't know if the shotputter is male or female.

It is the only time he is going to come first this Olympics.

An extract from Pavarotti's diary:

"Last night I spent a quite enjoyable evening
gently fellating Michelle Gayle, who is actually a man. We were listening to some indie pop as I bobbed slowly up and down on her big hard cock, her helmet felt as big as a football in my mouth, especially just as she was about to explode her hot spunk in to me.

Unfortunately, she never got to enjoy firing wave after wave of dirty jizz down my throat as Dennis Waterman buried an enormous two-handed axe into her skull just before she blew.

Dennis and I laughed and laughed as we wiped the brains and bits of skull from our eyes, before we sat down to watch Holby City on BBC1."

D'Artagnan and the threes-up musketeers

In a last ditch attempt to gain acceptance, D'Artagnan has consented to taking the other three at once, Porthos is really going hell for leather in his mouth, pounding away like a jack hammer and rupturing one of D'Artagnan's tonsils causing blood to spray this way and that. Athos and Aramis are round the back, Athos has already got his helmet in but is tussling with Aramis who, despite his long, snake-like cock, is struggling to gain purchase.

Cardinal Richelieu watches on, tugging desperately at his drink-addled floppy shaft and stabbing his crucifix into his bellend as he desperately tries to feel something, anything.

There are seven shoes and a pair of knickers deposited haphazardly onto the bar.

Geraint watches Hermes push lemon slices around a silver serving tray with an olive fork. From an anteroom, the whoops and screams of their contemporaries can be heard through the closed doors as they rub citrus fruits into their eyes. A servant tips more sliced fruit over their writhing naked bodies into a paddling pool which has been placed there for the occasion. Geraint sighs, knowing he will not be able to lift Hermes from the black gulf of his depression. Instead he walks to the window to stare across the grounds. A pheasant is thrashing about on the lawn overlooking the sunken garden. Its neck is broken.
Geraint tips back his brandy and leaves Hermes to his dark contemplation, he stalks off to the library to compose several lines of verse.

The terrace is cold, on account of it being very early.

The sun is barely over the hedgerows and tinges the clouds with pink. Brenda shivers, but understands that the meeting has to take place outside. Colin is not happy and doesn't sit down. Instead he paces up and down the decking from the patio doors that open into their mock-Tudor mansion to the steps that lead down to the well maintained lawns and the big koi pond in the shade of a crescent of mature willow trees.
His brother Alan, who Brenda never really liked, became suddenly very dead last night dealing with the also dead Peter, a former associate and money-laundering scumbag on the make. This means that there will be a visit from the police later today, and Colin hates the police. His lawyer, Mr Green, is standing on the lawn talking quietly to someone on his phone. To make it worse, the foreigners are here. She can see them getting out of a Mercedes at the front of the house.
They don't use their real names in conversation. Brenda is Liz, the German is Adolf, the Belgian is Poirot and the Italian is Mario. They settle down around the garden table with Brenda, who sends Colin in to get some drinks sorted before he says something stupid. Brenda shivers and wishes she'd put some proper clothes on instead of just throwing on a puffa jacket over her gym clothes.
"There is a problem?" The Belgian says, turning watch Colin leave.
Brenda assures him that there isn't and gets them all sat down around the big patio table. The German lights a cigarette. He is dressed in an grey suit that, whilst clearly expensively tailored, looks like it has been stuffed in the back of a wardrobe for a year. The Italian is wearing jeans and a fleece and wouldn't look out of place on a hike. The Belgian is also smoking. His attire looks like he robbed the bins round the back of Steve Jobs house. The black polo-neck bears a drift of ash from his cigarette. He brushes it away, smearing the ash and making the whole thing worse. He leans forward conspiratorially.
"The shipment will arrive within the hour."
"It has made it all the way here?" asks the Italian. The Belgian nods, smiling.
"And you ready to unload?" says the German, looking at Brenda.
"We're ready. Your boys better be ready to ship it out." she looks around the table at the others as Colin arrives with drinks.

Last night, I found a tramp sheltering in my garden from the rain

He was huddled under the big tree at the back, by the compost bins.

In such weather, I wasn't going to turf him out, instead I made him a hot cup-a-soup (chicken) and took it out to him. His big, bushy beard was all a quiver as I approached, he was expecting the worst.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered it was former US Secretary for State Madeleine Albright! And so grateful was she for the hot soup that she tugged at the rope round her middle until her dirty great coat fell open revealing her huge saggy tits and grey, half-prolapsed minge.

She fell to her knees and immediately began fellating me with fantastic gusto and I quickly shot my gunge down her greedy throat.

Afterwards, waves of disgust washed over me and as I looked down at her smiling face. I became enraged and pierced her rib cage with a garden fork. I then used my hedgetrimmer to chop her into bits and chucked her into the compost bins, cracking one off with my gore spattered hand for good measure.

It's a dark day in Rome

The clouds lie heavy overhead and the atmosphere created by the impending storm is so thick as to be almost tangible. This does not deter Silvio as he stalks towards the Villa Doria Pamphili with his small pack of "tools" slung over one shoulder. He takes a last drag on his Nazionali Filtro and flicks the glowing butt towards the gutter, where it's quickly extinguished by the first drops of rain.

The storm provides additional cover as Slivio heads into the park, breath quickening as he anticipates what lies ahead, his short, think cock begins to strain against his loose khaki trousers, the tear of pre-cum mixing with the fat drops of rain.

His contact waits for him beneath the curving bridge, the contents of the sack by his feet making muffled grunts and moans as it writhes gently. The man kicks at it with the outside of his foot and gives an urgent Shhh!

Silvio approaches the man and asks, "Is that it, you got it?"

"Si," the man replies creating some confusion as to why he would be speaking Italian when Silvio addressed him in English.

"I must see it before I pay," Silvio insists.

"Very well." The man reaches down and loosens the drawstrings round the top of the sack and holds it open for Silvio to look inside.

"What is this?" Silvio asks, agitatated. "This is not what I asked for."

"No," the man replies as the orang-u-tang unfurls itself from the confines of the sack and languidly reaches out one long, muscular arm and with no apparent effort snaps Silvio's neck.

The ape climbs out of the sack and begins to carefully tear the clothes away from Silvio's corpse whilst the other man reaches down and claims the fat envelope stuffed with Euros that Silvio had in his jacket pocket. The orang-u-tang casually turns Silvio's body onto its belly and with a grunt pushes its long, thin, pink cock into his anus. As lightning flashes overhead and thunder rumbles across the city, the man watches the ape and slowly rubs his own erection as he waits for his turn. Another flash of lightning reveals the greasy tear of pre-cum staining his loose khaki trousers.

Hero of the skies Douglas Bader

Has returned home from his final mission, two bloody, itching stumps where his legs used to be.
He lies on his bed and he can feel pain in his toes, the soles of his feet are tickling and his knees ache.
But there are no toes or soles or knees.

He begins to slip into a pit of despair; my life is over he thinks as he reaches to scratch an itch on his thigh, groaning despondently as his hand passes through thin air.I can’t continue like this, he thinks, I have to pull myself together. I know what will cheer me up – a good hard shag with a classy whore! So with a new resolve, Douglas dials 118 118 and gets the number for an exclusive Prossie agency and orders their best.

Half an hour later, the most gorgeous hooker in town is in his bedroom dancing in front of him, slowly undressing. Douglas can feel his rigid cock straining against his pants. The girl peels off her thong and starts to crawl along the bed towards his crotch. By now, he can feel his engorged helmet throbbing like a generator.
The lovely tart flicks her long blonde hair back and slowly begins to pull down his shorts and Douglas feels his renownedly long joystick spring free.

He looks down, but all he can see is another itching, bloody stump.

A beautiful Polish girl

in a snow covered park fashioning enormous dildos out of ice and snow and giving herself a really good doing in both holes at once. The cold adds a certain piquancy to her activities.

A group of tramps has gathered to watch, the one with the beard is trying to tease his alcohol-ruined cock to attention while a baglady flashes her shit-caked flaps at a passing businessman.

The businessman hides a dark secret.

Dandy highwayman Adam Ant.

This week, his beleagured brain has lead him to a fish market and he has waved an antique musket at a stall holder threatening to blow his fucking brains out.

Fortunately, comedy bald man Ross Kemp is on hand to save the day by staring in a stern yet wooden manner at Adam. He does not, however, know that Ant and his unusual brainpan have an unholy love for bald men and the stench of fish. The combination is all too much and he goes for Kemp like a Pinscher for a child, pinning him down, tearing his denim clothing from his body and ramming bucket after bucket of rancid fish guts into his sore and swollen bellend.

Bella Emberg watches from a safe distance gently frigging herself with a live perch.

The potato rolls to the foot of the stairs.

Hermes watches it gradually stop rocking. From his position atop a faded velvet chaise longue, Hermes can see past the potato and the stairs to the great hall beyond, where his contemporaries are enthusiastically sodomising each other with vegetables. Hermes sighs and looks the other way, staring through the enormous picture windows at the grounds outside. It is an overcast day and a light rain has soaked the lawns beyond the ha-ha.
His curiosity is piqued by the crude scene of two of the gardeners lewdly gesturing to a parlour maid. The maid, unperturbed, reaches into her shawl for a large carrot, which she snaps with a splitting sound that reaches even Hermes. The gardeners back away and resume their work whilst the maid stalks haughtily away.

Hermes is mightily aroused and immediately retires to his chambers to prepare a sonnet.

The aftermath of an enormous orgy at BBC Television Centre

Eamonn Holmes is twitching in a corner having been milked totally dry by George Alagiah’s Mechanical Wanking Spanner, George himself has suffocated after his head became lodged inside Fern Cotton’s spasming vag-pipe. Weatherman Rob McElwee failed to forecast the fatal consequences of rimming Dawn French while she’s standing on a wobbly milking stool in a pair of ludicrous stilletoes. Finally, David Tennant grins happily as he sits naked amongst the blood and entrails of the entire cast of Eastenders.

A Buddhist monk was out walking in the foothills of the Himalayas,

contemplating the beauty of nature and the sanctity of life, when he was set upon by a yeti. The yeti tore into the monks robes and struck a savage blow with its powerful clawed hand, ripping a horrible wound into the monk's belly.

The yeti, now overcome with lust, has begun to brutally fuck the gaping bloody wound with its enormous, throbbing spiked cock. The beasts massive balls are swinging back and forth in its pendulous scrotum.

Meanwhile, the Dali Lama, controller of the yeti, stands watching from behind a bush. His glasses are askew as he laughs maniacally, his orange robes are hitched up to his round belly and he viciously beats at his own engorged prick with a sharp rock, thus creating a beautiful fountain of blood and spunk.

Those idiot irish twins have acquired a taste for lady spluff... and old ladies.

They have broken into a care home late at night and have located an old biddy suffering terribly with Parkinson's disease. They quickly and lovingly undress each other, revealing ridiculous pubic quiffs, and gently suck each other hard knowing this will excite the old dear and set her shaking like horse and trap on a cobbled road.

First, they both lube up their hands and cocks with swarfega. Next, they quite simply manoeuvre themselves into position either side of the sweet old lady and and help her curl her fingers around their throbbing shafts. The ancient crone's neurological condition does the rest as she shakes and vibrates to the beat created by her dopaminergic troubles and soon the boys are ready to empty their sacks, which they both do with their trademark gleeful relish, their quiffs all of a quiver.

Now it's her turn,  and very gently and with great care they help her out of her knickerbockers and sit her down in a reclining chair. Once they're sure she is comfortable, the really stupid one gets down and starts giving the old dear a couple of fingers whilst the incredibly stupid one holds his quiff aside and starts lapping at her surprisingly swollen clit. This could take a while but they are patient and maintain their discipline, fingers and toungues maintaining a rhythm they could never achieve in their "singing". Finally, the woman starts to writhe and moan and so they increase the pace until, suddenly, her back arches and her arthritic toes curl and she comes like a water cannon; old lady squirt spraying this way and that as she completely loses control of her body. The twins and indeed the whole room is dripping with 30 years of bottled up cumsplash with a stench akin to old bacon.

This time it's Ailsa Stewart out of Home and Away who is utterly hammered in Lassiter's bar

She's had 18 shots of Glayva and has also been out the back puffing on some skunk - by which I mean sucking the cock of a small black and white mammal with notoriously smelly anal glands. She's smuggled the skunk back into the bar and the two of them are doing some hefty lines of coke in the toilets when Alf bursts in. He immediately spots Ailsa's particular shade of lipstick on the skunks ridiculously oversized, rockhard cock and flies into a rage, tearing his clothes off and slashing at skunk and wife with his machete screaming "GALAH! GALAH! GALAH!"

Finally, he is out of breath and looks down at the blood-soaked and shredded corpses and becomes aroused.

It is the skunk's wounds he chooses to fuck.

Ray is there, looking worried.

The rest of the office has picked up the gossip when Abigail arrives. Brian and the other Brian leer at her over their desks, but say nothing. She goes to her office to find Pascal and another man waiting behind her desk.

"Close the door." says the man. He is Detective Superintendant Moyles and he is very unhappy. It seems that Pascal is actually an undercover French police officer and the webcam is part of an operation to close down a large drug-running concern with interests in most of Western Europe. It was not hard to find her apparently. After she scrawled the crude image on Pascal's garden gate, he contacted his Interpol handler, who contacted Detective Superintendent Moyles. A street camera picked her up leaving the alley behind the Frenchman's house and another picked her up as she returned to her pool car. A PNC check revealed the car was registered with the local tax office and Pascal remembered the interview about the tax discrepancy with the intense, slightly nervous woman.

Abigail says nothing as the detective explains all this, but contents herself to stare at Pascal. The Frenchman returns her stare, until finally she cannot listen to any more.

"I saw him masturbating, he was watching me on webcam footage. I want to make a complaint."
Detective Superintendent Moyles turns to the Frenchman.
"Is this true?"
The Frenchman nods, "Well, it was a very sexy dance."

Detective Superintendent Moyles mouths swear words silently and rolls his eyes to the ceiling.
He counts to five, then looks at Abigail, "We are close to arresting a large number of very nasty people, in several countries. If you report this, I will make sure your very, very extra-curricular activities with regards my colleague here are reported to your superiors. I understand your immediate boss has had a heart attack under suspicious circumstances. I'm sure my report would not help your promotion prospects any, so stop fucking me about and I'll stop fucking you about and everyone will be happy, okay?"
Abigail manages a nod.

As he stands up to leave, his phone rings. For a moment he listens, Abigail cannot hear what is said, but Detective Superintendent Moyles is not happy at the news.
"An ironing board? They think? Where was the other one?" A pause while he listens, looking down at Pascal. Pascal is still watching Abigail.

"Burned to death with a broken neck, well I think we can rule out suicide. Fuck." He turns to Abigail.
"We are very, very done here. I'm going to assume we have an understanding and we can all get on with our lives" He nudges Pascal in the shoulder. "Come on, Asterix." He walks out.

As Pascal gets up, he carefully puts a package on the desk.
"For you." He says. His hand lingers on the package for a moment before he follows Detective Superintendant Moyles out, closing the door behind him.

When they have left, Abigail opens the bag. The rubber smell hits her nostrils before she slides it out of it's wrapper.

It is a gorilla mask.

Mrs Mangle has got herself in a spot of bother

Earlier, in Lassiter's hotel bar, ripped to the tits on flaming sambucas, she spotted Mr Miyagi out of Karate Kid. Feeling somewhat frisky, her loins lubricated with much alcohol, she went over to chat him up. It turned out Miyagi was with Paul Kersey out of the Death Wish films and that the two of them were looking for a willing participant to join their hardcore twos-up BDSM games. It didn't take many more sambucas to get Mrs Mangle to agree and the three of them had gone up to Miyagi's suite on the top floor.

Now she has awoken, chained to the bed, naked, spreadeagled and bleeding from various wounds and welts and smeared from head to toe in swarfega. She looks up at Miyagi who is standing naked on her chest in the 'crane' position, his immense, rock hard penis dripping pre-cum onto her face, a pair of crocodile clips hang from his tight, wrinkled scrotum with wires leading off somewhere out of sight. He holds in his small, neat hands a cheap Homebase hedgetrimmer and is revving it as he stares down at her hard, pointy nipples. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Kersey edging nearer, also naked and greased, holding a B&Q own-brand strimmer across his hairy chest. As he gets closer she notices his tumescent member is covered in a fine network of scars and fresh cuts, blood seeping out steadily onto the expensive carpet.

It is only now that Mrs Mangle realises she cannot remember the safe word and that she will be unable to stop them doing whatever it is they're about to do.

The safe word is "Galah".

Carol runs down the corridor in her stockinged feet, screaming all the way to the stairwell.

 By the time she's run down seven flights of stairs she's hysterical. She leans against the cool whitewashed breeze-block wall and forces herself to listen over the sound of her thumping heart.

Nobody has followed. Her car is parked underneath the hotel and if she can get there before they catch her, she can call the police. The fire alarm starts to blare out as she gets to her small family hatchback. By the time she rolls up the exit ramp, people in dressing gowns and pyjamas are spilling out of the emergency exits onto the street. Someone has found the dead enforcer and a crowd is gathering. Somewhere close by sirens are blaring as smoke roils out of the wide-open window on the seventh floor. She forgets about calling the police and drives away.

When the shock of what has just happens begins to hit, she parks the car and just sits there shivering and sobbing. When her phone rings suddenly, she yelps. It's Ray from Keith's office. Keith is in hospital, they've been trying to contact her all day. He's had a heart attack.

Carol can't think straight, so she goes home. Her clothes are all there, packed and ready to go. This morning she was going to leave Keith for Peter. She has a shower and changes her clothes, throwing her blouse in the dustbin.

When she gets to the hospital, Keith is propped up, awake. There are tears in his eyes when he sees her. Abigail from the office is sat outside, looking tired. She looks like a frightened rabbit when she sees Carol and practically runs to the coffee machine after they've spoken.

Keith, soppy old Keith who she was going to leave for Peter the fucking money launderer. "What were you thinking?" her brain screams as Keith blubbers out a string of apologies. Keith tells her everything, which, she has to admit is pretty tame considering three hours ago she was about to run away with an embezzler and two hours ago she tried to kill a man with a complimentary hotel-room steam-iron. She doesn't tell him about any of that. Instead she goes out to find Abigail sitting in the waiting room and tells her to stay away from her fucking husband. The last few words are spat out with such volume that a man with a piece of fence post stuck in his leg forgets his predicament and turns to look, along with the rest of the A & E department.

A middle-aged baglady is caught in a torrential rain shower

She hurries quickly to the shelter afforded by the archway under the abandoned railway near the canal. Once there, relieved to be out of the rain, she slowly begins to strip off her layers of sodden clothing, eventually getting down to a set of almost new looking red skimpy bra and panties. She is amazingly fit for someone living on the street and has a full pair of firm breasts of which any woman would be proud.
She removes the bra and is pulling down the panties when a dark figure steps out of the shadows, chuckling and holding his long, hard cock, tugging on it gently back and forth, back and forth.
As his face comes into view, the voluptuous trampess realises it is none other than Sinatra himself and she falls to her knees and starts sucking hungrily at his helmet.
Sammie Davis Junior watches from behind a buckled shopping trolley, cursing his luck and using a soggy roll-up to attempt to burn his scrotum.

Alan picks up a pink-handled toothbrush in the en-suite bathroom of a five-star hotel in the fashionable northern quarter of the city.

Alan is an enforcer for a large drug-running concern with interests in most of Western Europe. Peter is a money launderer and unfortunately for him, his foolish actions have been noticed by the higher-ups and this is where Alan comes in.

He turns and walks back into the bedroom and sits down opposite Peter, who is dressed only in his underpants and one sock. Alan is a big man, wearing a heavy car coat over a smart cheap suit, he looks like a football manager. Peter can smell engine oil as he sits down opposite, like the man spends a lot of time standing in garages. It opens up lots of worrying mental images. Another man, dressed like a sales rep, stands by the door to make sure Peter cannot run away.
Alan turns the toothbrush over in his hands for a moment, then reaches out and begins tapping Peter's left knee slowly and repeatedly with the bristle end. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"I don't really understand why people think they can do what you've done, Peter." Alan continues tapping the brush on Peter's knee.

"My job, you see, is very simple. The clue is in the name. Enforcer. I enforce. When somebody steps out of line, it is my job to make sure they see the error of their ways, do you understand?" He stops the slow rhythmic tapping and looks at Peter, who manages a nod. He starts tapping again. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"Your job, is to make sure that the money our employers collect from their various enterprises cannot be easily traced back to them. It's a complicated job you have and one I have neither need nor care to understand. I do understand that you thought it was okay to take a lot of money from my employers and make it your own. I know this because our employers have accountants who keep an eye on people like you."

He stops tapping and looks round the room. It is a twin room decorated in a clean minimal style echoed throughout the hotel. Peter's laptop sits on the bed beside him, the screensaver is a slow cascade of rainbow colours. He has already transferred funds equivalent to what he took, practically poked his fingers through the screen showing them it was complete. A text message five minutes later confirms the money is safe.

Alan looks at the toothbrush again, noticing that the bristles are damp. He gets up and walks to the wardrobe, then slides the door aside. Beside the complimentary bathrobes and the built-in safe a middle-aged woman in her underwear is sitting clutching her clothes and shoes. She blinks up at him.
"Get dressed. Don't get out of the wardrobe." he says and slides the wardrobe door shut again. He goes to sit down in front of Peter again, listening to the clumsy bumping and shuffling in the wardrobe.

"Fucking hell, Peter. Now it's complicated. I hate complicated situations, Peter. Now I have to deal with that woman as well as you." Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Alan nods at the other man by the door. The other man goes to the window, taking a screwdriver out of his coat pocket. Seven floors up, the windows have a retaining bolt to stop them being opened too wide. He starts to unscrew the retaining bolt out of the window frame.

Alan drops the toothbrush and reaches up for Peter's head with both hands. He snaps Peter's neck easily and the man flops back onto the bed, breath heaving, eyes gaping. The other man at the window has removed the bolt and sets it down on the sill, swinging the window open wide.
" You're going out of the window, Peter. Sorry and all that, but you've been stupid and greedy and our employers won't have that sort of behaviour." He reaches down for the toothbrush and picks it up.
"Get that and his phone, I'll get the woman." He points to the laptop, then goes to the wardrobe. He slides the mirrored door open and is hit full on in the nose with the complimentary iron. Dazed, he sits back on the bed, blood flowing from his nose.

"Fuck.." manages the other enforcer before the iron glances off his left temple. He drops the laptop which lands edge on with a loud crack on the thin carpet, then he stumbles back through the open window. The laptop makes a harsh buzzing noise and begins to smoke.

The woman, her blouse on backwards and hair wildly stuck out to one side, stumbles from the wardrobe and drags the hotel room door open, before running out into the corridor screaming. Alan makes a wild grab as she passes, but misses and instead tips forward onto his knees. The complimentary ironing board tips down from it's storage bracket, driving a metal rod in the underside an inch into Alan's skull. Peter, still alive but paralysed can only stare as the now fiercely burning laptop sets light to the duvet.

"Auto-sexual asphyixiation leading to cardiac arrest," says Doctor Barnaby, who Doctor Curran has always considered to be a total cunt.

Curran says nothing, but Barnaby will not be deterred. Barnaby sits at the nurses station, feet up. Curran is trying to ignore Barnaby by pretending to examine a set of lab results.

"When the paramedics got to him, he had this rubber monkey mask on his head, right? Only the chap had it on backwards so he couldn't breathe and then there was a rather fetching woman came in with him, clearly not his wife."

He leans toward Curran, smile suddenly lewd, "And they said when they got there he had a massive cob-on. They couldn't get him out from under the desk at first, it had him trapped there, like a gate latch."

He sits back again, satisfied.

"The best bit was when his wife came in."

Curran doesn't want to play this game. Barnaby, however, loves hospital gossip and will not be satisfied until Curran reciprocates. So he tells Barnaby about the yoghurt woman from the day before, to Barnaby's clear delight.

"So what did you do?"

"I told her to take a few weeks off work and do her grocery shopping on-line instead." Barnaby finds this amusing and suggests they go to the roof, where they can spy on the nurses smoking out by the industrial waste disposal unit.

The roof is off-limits to everyone, but Barnaby discovered the alarm could be disabled with a tongue depressor and Curran had to admit it was a good place to hide. But today when they get to the roof, the door is wide open. Curran stops, half on the top step, so that Barnaby collides with his back, swearing softly in the half-light of the access stairwell. With theatrical care, they creep up to the doorway and peer out onto the open flat roof. The muted sounds of the hospital atrium and the car park drift up to them above the whirr of the big air conditioning stacks.

Curran wants to go back, but Barnaby won't let him.

"Fuck this." says Barnaby, pushing past and out onto the roof.

The door swings shut, fast, slamming Curran in the forehead and sending him tumbling down the stairs and into unconsciousness. When he comes round two days later he is in a hospital bed in a ward he shares with a comatose truck driver, one of several victims of a recent, terrible road traffic accident out on the bypass. The juicy hospital gossip is that after the roof alarm was tripped, security sauntered up the access stairwell to find junior doctor Curran bleeding and concussed. Barnaby was found some time later. He had been dragged behind the air conditioning stacks, dead from a precise stab wound to the left eye. Carved into his naked back were the words 'NEVER FORGIVE'. His clothes were never found.

Curran thinks it is probably something Barnaby would have found very entertaining indeed.

Abigail has been to Pascal's mid-terrace house on two occasions already.

The second time he had left the back door unlocked and she slipped inside. On his laptop she discovered evidence of the webcam from an order reciept in his emails, as well as a short sequence copied to the hard drive of a woman struggling to open a locker. Knowing where he worked, it wan't hard to work out where the webcam was.

Pascal does not know who she is, she is fairly certain, although there was a close call during the interview. Her baseball cap was hanging on her office door throughout the meeting she contrived on the basis of a minor discrepancy with his tax status. She suspects her line manager, Keith, knows something is amiss, but has nothing concrete that would land Abigail in trouble.

She watches through a gap in the curtains as Pascal pleasures himself at his desk. He is watching the footage. She is simultaneously repulsed and aroused by this new revelation; at home she has asked her boyfriend to wear the mask during sex, so far he has refused. The mask is in her pocket, right now. She grips it tightly through the lining of her coat.

Pascal has finished and closes the laptop, getting up from the desk. With a start, she ducks back against the wall, heart suddenly thumping hard in her chest. She hears his heavy footfalls upstairs and then shortly afterwards the shower can be heard. Abigail slips away down the yard, pausing to scrawl a crude image on the back yard gate. Pascal is singing something in French, the sound abstracted by bathroom echoes. Then she steps as casually as she can manage into the alley and walks back to the main road where her car is parked.

It is a pool car from the office, booked out against a mundane errand she has already accomplished. The interior smells alien, the surfaces stained with the patina of other hands. Once she drove to head office in this car wearing no underwear, skirt hitched, the feel of the coarse artificial fabric against her bottom an illicit, private thrill. Not today; she is dressed in slacks and a blue top beneath a coat that is too warm for the weather, within which she can carry the mask undetected.

An hour later she walks into the office to find manager Keith waiting for her with a carefully neutral speech about good work practice. The main office is empty apart from Keith and Ray, who is over in the corner studiously playing Spider Solitaire and making desk monsters out of bulldog clips.
She heads for her own office and removes her coat, hanging it on the door, checking the mask remains concealed. Keith has followed her in, still going on about best practice and team briefings and following codes of conduct. She is just about to politely tell him to fuck off when he stops and sits down.

"Carol left me this morning." he says quietly.

They sit looking at each other in silence. After a moment, she gets up and closes the window blinds, then goes to the office door. She can see Ray in the far corner watching a wildlife documentary about mountain lions. He has earphones in. She closes her office door and locks it.

She slips off her top revealing an elaborate cream silk bra with black lace trim her boyfriend bought her last valentines day. Then she reaches into the coat hanging on the back of the door.

"Abigail?" says Keith, his big face a mixture of shock, arousal and confusion. He starts to get up but she stops him.

"Shhhhh."she holds out the gorilla mask.

"Put this on."

Pascal does not go into work the next day.

Instead, he sits on a steel frame office chair in the back yard of his mid-terraced house and smokes his unfiltered cigarettes and alternates between sips of brandy and cups of coffee until the early afternoon.

He watches a pair of birds picking at seeds on his neighbour's bird-table, before picking up the ash tray and moving inside. From his track-suit he retrieves a USB stick, which he slots into his laptop. When he was initially employed at the out of town gymnasium he took the opportunity afforded by two consecutive weeks of late shifts to surreptitiously install a webcam in the women's changing rooms. Most of it is a catalogue of the mundane, women standing around, getting changed, gossiping and wandering around semi-clothed. He finds none of this particularly arousing. There is a sequence where two women fight briefly (about what he has never discovered) before being removed by a couple of staff. He watches this sequence more than once.

Eventually he finds the segment he was looking for and settles back to watch. A woman enters the changing room, her face hidden under a baseball cap and begins to get undressed. Momentarily she disappears from view as she bends down, presumably to remove her pants. When she stands up, however, she is wearing a gorilla mask. She proceeds to dance around the changing room in her underwear to music Pascal cannot hear and then steps up close to the webcam and makes obscene gestures, before getting dressed once more and leaving. The Frenchman watches this short sequence repeatedly for over an hour, masturbating twice.

When he is spent for the second time, he turns off the laptop and replaces the USB stick in his track-suit before showering and making an omelette. Afterwards he steps out into the yard once more. Someone has scrawled a crude stick drawing woman on the back of the yard gate. The figure is clearly depicted wearing a gorilla mask. Pascal regards the drawing thoughtfully, whilst smoking another unfiltered cigarette as the sun dips below the rooftops of the houses opposite. In the bathroom of one house he can see a naked figure, though the glass makes it impossible to determine gender. Finally he goes inside, closing the door behind him.

A man walks across a dark, rainy car-park to his small family hatchback and settles into the nondescript interior with a sigh.

It has been a long day. A woman went insane in the dairy aisle and the smell of fermented dairy produce has somehow followed him to the car. He leans forward to start the engine and with a grimace realises his shoes are still coated in stinking fruit yoghurt. He opens the window a little and then puts the blowers on to try and keep condensation off the windscreen. As the car pulls away into the rain, he thinks he sees a Japanese schoolgirl standing beside the hedgerow, but as the car headlights round on the space it turns out to be nothing more than a collection of plastic bags, dumped beside an already full recycling bin.

The deputy manager is late to collect his wife from the gymnasium where she works on the other side of the out of town retail park. He drives diagonally across the empty car park spaces, taking a short cut the wrong way across a roundabout to reach the gym quicker. Approaching the imposing grey composite and neon frontage, he is shocked to see his wife, sharing a cigarette with one of the other gym instructors. Pascal, the Frenchman, he sees with a mixture of anger and despair. They lean in toward each other and the deputy manager grips the steering wheel tightly, anticipating intimacy which doesn't come. He pulls the car round in a tight arc in front of the gym and brakes hard, surprising them. The deputy manager's wife slides into the passenger seat and wrinkles her nose at the smell. The deputy manager stares into the rear-view mirror in trembling fury as Pascal gets into the back. The smell of yoghurt mixes with the smell of high tar unfiltered French tobacco.

"We're giving Pascal a lift home.” says his wife, latching her seatbelt.

The deputy manager says nothing, but lets his gaze linger over her toned thighs as he thumps the car clumsily into first gear and pulls away, the rhythm of the windscreen wipers slowly dulling his anger, pulling him back into a coma-like driving trance where he can ignore his wife flirting and the sleazy replies of the Frenchman still looming in the rear view mirror.

As they roll onto the bypass, he notices distantly the Frenchman's hand, rubbing his wife's buttock, massaging slowly, murmuring strongly accented words amid the wanton laughter of his wife. The deputy manager is suddenly overwhelmed by the smell of rotting dairy produce and French tobacco. He slews the car onto the hard shoulder and stumbles out of the car into blasting spray and honking horns. He staggers to the hard shoulder and across the barrier, vomiting hard, hot sick fountains into the unkempt grass. The effort makes him sink to his knees, where he vomits again, the puke pouring out across his knees. He no longer cares. He has lost his wife to the Frenchman. He begins to sob.

A hand is laid on his shoulder. Through the rain and hot tears he sees it is the Frenchman, his face a knot of genuine concern. Beyond him, he can see his wife, still in the car, texting.

The deputy manager stares at this tableau as an articulated lorry carrying stainless steel pilings meant for a new out of town development jack-knifes in the rain. The truck envelopes the small family hatchback containing his wife like a wave taking a sandcastle, shearing the top of the car away before it is lost in screaming, sparking metal and a spray of oily rain. The screeching of brakes and sound of more collisions reaches the deputy manager as he slowly curls up in the grass. Guiltily, he notes with satisfaction that the Frenchman has a high pitched, almost female scream.

A woman is standing before the euphemistically titled functional yoghurts section in the cool, well-lit dairy aisle of a large out of town supermarket.

She is dressed for the office perhaps, a blue-grey single-breasted jacket over a simple white cotton blouse and a slightly too long to be fashionable black pencil skirt. A smudged rectangle of pinkish-white dust on the left hip of her skirt suggests she is in fact a school-teacher. Her face, unadorned with make-up, would be considered by most men as pretty, though dark rings under her grey-green eyes are indicative of a lack of sleep. Unkempt strands in her bob of dark brown hair waft in the blast of refrigerated air from the large open cabinet in front of her.

She bites her lip as if in deep thought, staring intently at the rows of pots ranged before her on their refrigerated shelves. Above the susurration of a thousand mundane purchases and clash of trolleys, the drone of an announcement over the in-store speaker system requests a cleaner by till number seventeen.
Suddenly, the woman drives her arm into the shelves of yoghurt, two fingers of her right hand precisely spearing the lid of a pot of supermarket brand fruits of the forest. The woman withdraws her fingers from the pot and puts them in her mouth, sucking the lavender-coloured yoghurt with a look of deep, almost sensual pleasure. A single spot of pinkish-purple yoghurt drops onto her blouse.

After another moment, the woman repeatedly jabs her fingers into the shelf, spearing pot after pot. The aisle echoes to a regular wet popping sound as she stabs into the display, over and over, sucking the contents of each pot from her fingers with ecstatic reverence. Her right arm is soon slathered with a pastel mix of creamy splashes; as much again runs down her chin and onto her heaving chest.

A small, nervous crowd of customers and junior staff members has formed, huddled at each end of the dairy aisle. The spectators watch the woman with a mixture of expressions, ranging from amusement to shock to horrified fascination.

Finally, the deputy manager is called and he cautiously approaches the woman from the end of the aisle closest to the cheeses. He notes distractedly that besides the store-brand mature farmhouse cheddar, someone has deposited a tin of minestrone soup. Two security guards flank the deputy manager, attempting to look nonchalant, though this fools no-one present.

By now, the woman is covered in yoghurt across most of her chest and face, nearly all the yoghurt pots are ruined, their contents running into each other and spreading to the natural and set yoghurt on the shelf below. Two fans of glistening splashes spread across the floor to either side of the panting woman.
"Miss?" says the deputy manager. He is close enough now to smell the miasma of fruit flavours, making him slightly nauseous. He has never liked yoghurt.

The woman wipes her chin with her sleeve and the action causes a gout of runny mess to spatter over the deputy manager's shoes and the turn-up of his right trouser leg, causing him to take an involuntary step back.

"No," she replies, slightly hoarse.

"I think I got them all".