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Merlin’s Curse Part 3.

August 27, 2012

Previous installments can be found here.

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2) The Rectal Vault

‘Are you quite certain this is the paint you want to buy?’ the store-keep gurgled through a mouthful of vomit while staring aghast at the sample card that Flaps had handed him.

‘Yes, yes,’ Flaps muttered, still slightly dazed by the majesty of the ‘keep’s moustache that had been revealed once he’d finally managed to locate the meringue service desk. It made the window man’s appear to be sculpted by a halfwit in comparison. The figures that twined in orgy across the man’s top lip would have done justice to the temples in Khajuraho. Every act of intercourse was catered for, every hairy orifice was plundered. It even included a mind-boggling donkey-show in the right-hand corner that Flaps considered worth the price of admission alone. ‘Can I please have my paint now?’

The Store-keep did seem genuinely concerned as he safely turned the sample card face-down on the meringue desk and wiped beaded sweat from his forehead.

‘If you paint with this people will not like you.’

Flaps brow started to furrow but when the ‘keep gave a little chin wobble he couldn’t maintain his scowl. The moustache erupted in glorious, hirsute ejaculation and suddenly the urge to paint on cave walls gripped Flaps. Sometimes, he thought, beauty just needs to be captured.

‘If you are certain then.’ The keep finally acquiesced and stepped back from his desk to fumble with one of the more intricate belt-buckles Flaps had seen. ‘I am however legally and morally bound to read you the following prepared statement.’ His fingers flitted across the various dials and buttons lining the brass buckle then went to work on the hand crank on the side. After a blur of activity, he flicked the large red switch on the top and, with a hiss of escaping steam, the smell of boysenberries wafted through the air. ‘Merlin’s curse is not recommended for purchase by this store. Despite its undeniably cool name it has been proven in three different medical trials to cause nausea, vomiting, stabbing pains, internal bleeding, explosive diarrhoea, a low red blood cell count, a general feeling of unwholesomeness and in cases of extended exposure, rectal prolapse.’

The store-keep paused, his hand on the ripcord of his belt-buckle. ‘I ask you again sir, are you certain you wish to make this purchase?’

Flaps’ nod was so steadfast and unwavering that its sheer solemness shattered the meringue desk.

‘Fine.’ With a rueful glance at his ruined desk, the keep yanked the cord and his pants descended in a shower of escaping doves. Confusion on Flaps’ part led to a stray thought of bagels to which the store-keep provided the cream cheese with his explanation.

‘Merlin’s curse is far too dangerous for storage in our usual warehouse. We only tried that once and we’re still yet to get its rectum back in. And we even used sturdier poles than this.’ The Store-keep brandished a large barge pole he retrieved from the shattered rubble of his desk for emphasis. He then turned and presented his buttocks and Flaps gasped in amazement. If Flaps had likened the man’s facial moustache to the Karma Sutra – which on later reflection, he realised he hadn’t – then the man’s rectal one was Sodom and Gomorrah re-enacted for the modern age. ‘No the only safe place to keep it away from prying little fingers is the good old rectal vault, so I am afraid you’ll have to retrieve it yourself. The act of me setting foot in there would trigger a paradox of such cosmic proportions that… well let’s just say proportionately geese would have the upper hand if you get my drift.’

Flaps was pretty certain he didn’t and in fact hated the man for soiling his bagel.

‘Is this going to take long?’ Flaps finally broke the awkward silence that ensued as the store-keep began to lovingly caress his buttocks, carefully separating the vista of carnal delights with a muttered apology to the participants. Flaps could feel their accusing, hairy eyeballs on him and had to resist the urge to splutter, well it’s not my fault he keeps the damn paint in his rectal vault.

‘Be ready in a jiffy… There we go.’

A final caress parted the last of the follicles, revealing a large pucker about the size of Flap’s clenched fist. Flaps found its appearance distasteful in the extreme but before he could complain the Store-keep had wormed his fingers in and eased it apart.

It yawned into a gaping chasm before Flap’s eyes, growing until it was the size of his head, then the size of his torso. The corded muscles in the store-keep’s arms jumped and bobbed due to the strain and a puddle formed at his feet as his pores unleashed sweaty flash-floods. The hole kept growing and growing until Flaps was presented with a fleshy cavern about the right size to admit a midget. A hymen-like membrane was barely visible in its depths, faintly back-lit by an eldritch glow that glittered off a thick layer of mucus  .

‘Now you’ll want a running start to break the membrane.’ The store-keep’s voice wavered with strain.

Obediently Flaps paced one out, looking back in concern at his peaked buttocks and sending out a silent prayer that they wouldn’t chafe too badly upon entry.

He moved with the slick grace of a torpedo in his mind, executing a smooth run-up and a sleek lengthening into a perfect dive. The reality was far less graceful and it was a bruised and battered Flaps that burst through the membrane, blood seeping from every orifice, the howls of the store-keep’s agony ringing in his ears. He tumbled forward until he wedged tight in the narrow, pulsating passage and was forced into a serpent-like slither to progress along its slimy walls. As he clambered forward, Flaps could feel the muscles in the fleshy wall gripping him tightly and the first doubts began to creep in. Is it really worth it?

He only had to thin Mer… and he knew without doubt it was.

At least someone’s made an effort to cheer the place up, Flaps thought feeling grateful for the warm glow cast by the fairy-lights pegged down the length of the sombre tunnel. Despite the clear faecal matter that streaked the fleshy walls, the only smell that assailed his nostrils was the becoming one of boysenberry. Flaps made a note to ask the store-keep the trick behind this – in his mind he pictured the most joyful larking with fruit-salad farts.

After a decent smearing, Flaps, feeling thoroughly unclean and more than a little aroused, pushed through another membrane and the tunnel opened up into a wide chamber with a dainty cobble-stone path leading to a door at the far end. The chamber was lit by an elaborate chandelier whose ostentatiousness immediately had Flaps planning his accusation of showboating when next he saw the store-keep.

He was halfway through wording the first line when a segment of the fleshy wall suddenly separated and lunged at him, brandishing a spear.

His life flashed before his eyes in a series of awkwardly told fart jokes but just when death appeared to be upon him, the spear’s wickering path halted a bare centimetre from his shoulder gland.

‘Sorry,’ an urgent voice whispered. ‘I thought you were one of them. They’re on the march you know.’

Flaps took side-long glances to new heights with the one he cast upon the interloper. He was undecided as to whether it pleased him that the section of wall was in fact a man like himself, only smeared head to toe in brown sludge.

‘I never thought I’d see the day!’ The man began to gibber with excitement. ‘You’re here for the paint aren’t you? Yes surely you are. No series of wrong turns, no matter how complex could have brought you here otherwise. No, the store-keep pants are cinched far too tight for that sort of caper…’

The smeared man saw Flaps skittering glances towards the spear and did a double take as though he himself had just realised he held it.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It’s just they are on the march again.’ The man yanked the spear away and began sucking its tip like a lollipop. ‘But they won’t catch me off guard again. This used to be my desk but I whittled it down after the first attack. It’s only meringue but it does provide ample pricking capabilities. Of course now I am unable to requisition any food as I have no desk on which to fill in the forms and am thus reduced to eating my only form of defence but I have no regrets. A lick a day and this puppy will still last me a near lifetime.’

Flaps found himself ruminating on how long the man had been locked down here. It only took him a second to realise he really didn’t care. Procuring his choice of paint was taking fair longer than it had any right doing and if he didn’t get it shortly there would be a good chance Mrs Nub would awaken from her induced spasm and, in all likelihood, spitefully deface his witches hats. The thought filled him with alarm. She had no concept of ratio. Her scrawled phalluses were nearly ninety percent ball.

‘I demand you give me my paint!’ Flaps panic made him abrupt but the smeared-man was already in motion, hobbling over to the door, gibbering away at Flaps over his shoulder.

‘I’ve spent a long time waiting for this day. They said I was useless to them, that no one would buy paint from a man with a ‘stache like this.’ The man jutted a finger at what looked like a preschoolers attempt to draw a vomiting donkey on his upper lip. ‘But I’ll show them. Executive paint stockman. That’s what the position description said. Never said nothing about the fact the only paint I’d be stocking would be that hideous hue… but that’s all in the past now. You’re here… you are here for the paint, aren’t you? Of course you are. My first sale…’ The smeared-man shot fawn eyes at Flaps. It was a look that intimated a mounting mightn’t be far off and as they walked, Flaps surreptitiously primed the boobie traps around his sphincter.

They paused outside the door and the smeared man retrieved a key from the wrinkled skin at his elbow.

‘You might want to brace yourself.’ He warned as he slotted it into the lock.

Next time: The Sad Tale of the Semenal Skylarker and Cosmic Bang.

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