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.