Dr Hildegard Fotzenficker had had a hard couple of weeks. “Fucking overagers, fucking Undesirables, fucking escapees – fuck the whole fucking lot of them!” she grumbled to herself, as she sat at her large oak desk in her office at the Princess Asshole Hospice. “To ruin that whole funeral party – and to force me to implement Emergency Measure Number Six – ungrateful fucking fool! He could have gone in the ecstasy of plea...

  Ich komme, ich komme, grünende Brüder… “I am coming, I am coming,” I sing, as my soft arms extend heavenwards – curling, flexing, fashioning out of my imagination leaves, vines, boughs of ash and laurel – as I embrace the gift of mother-goddess to water-nymph. Below me, strings churn and gambol, myriad-divided, like the viridescent light which shines dappled through my branches. Sinewy lines of unseen woodwind twist and...

  Alison trudged despondently homeward-bound up Tottenham Cunt Road. She was numb, bewildered, livid. “FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK!!!” she screamed. There was no reaction from any passers-by, for whom the word, in Enlightened Europe of the twenty-first century, was mere background noise. “WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE, CLAIRE?” Alison shouted into the middle-distance. “WHAT RIGHT DO YOU HAVE TO FUCKING…” – she quietened...

  “You can’t wear that!” exclaimed Alison. “Why not? Isn’t it sluttish enough?” replied Claire. She was proudly showing off her tight black wet-look PVC one-piece dress, which barely covered the distance between her nipples and her ass. Her cunt lips peeped out cheekily from underneath. “It’s too sluttish! This is an old-style religious service we’re going to: you’ve got to look modest and chaste and stuff – like they dre...

  Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God. Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love. This is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins. Dear friends, since God so loved us, we also ought to love one another. No one has ever seen God; but if we love one another, God...

  “Where’s Claire?” asked Dick-Dick – for indeed, Claire was missing. “She was with Danica and Johnny,” said Alison. “I think she wanted to catch the beginning of their lecture.” “Ah – excellent idea,” said Dick-Dick, “but I hope she isn’t late. We all have to go in as a group here.” It was nearly three o’clock, and Dr Dick and the NDF students were gathered in the lobby of the Princess Asshole Hospice on Oxfuck Street. “...

  Claire was delighted to see Alison back at the Academy, and gave her a long sloppy tongue-suck the moment she reappeared in the Money Lab. That she appeared hand-in-hand with Eva was a shock, and elicited a twinge of jealousy at first – but Alison deflected it with another of her mother’s unassailable moral aphorisms: “The fruits of fucking are joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, gentleness…” “Oh shut up, Al. H...

The honeyed one speaks, dripping nectar with every syllable, oozing sweet seductive nothings which captivate me according to her every whim. The puckered one – perhaps no bitch, but certainly too often unkempt and neglected – blows a jealous indignant raspberry. Determined to reconcile the warring sisters, I respond stiffly to their respective summonses, letting each in turn welcome me warmly in. “See, you are both belove...

  Charlie had had a productive day, by his standards. He had finished sequencing another song, and was now sitting at his desk in his study sorting out some sundry paperwork. He was surprised Tracy was wasn’t back yet – it was nearly five o’clock. And after all she had been fired from her last job, hadn’t she? And it was just a job interview this morning, wasn’t it? Oh yes, she’d been in a bad mood first thing, hadn’t she...

  ‘Number One Ladies Detective Agency’ – so it actually exists, mused Tracy as she read the brass plaque on the door. Wasn’t there a TV programme or somefink? Oh, what the fuck… She rang the doorbell. It was answered by a strikingly attractive black woman – older than Tracy by a few years perhaps, but slender, glamorous, and with large breasts straining at the jacket of her rather fine red skirt suit. “Tracy? Come in. I’m...

  Tracy liked to smoke. And she liked to fuck. And she liked to smoke and fuck. And fuck and smoke. In fact, she loved smoking and fucking so much that fucking without smoking just wasn’t quite the same. Though smoking without fucking was still pretty fucking good. The only problem was, Tracy’s boyfriend Charlie didn’t like smoking and fucking. Don’t get me wrong – he liked fucking. But he didn’t like smoking. And he didn...

“Father Antonio!” smirked 16-year-old Giovanni as he arrived for liturgy practice. “Guess what? Those two sisters from the convent – they were touching each other at communion!” The young priest smiled knowingly. “Best not to snitch, Gianni. We have secrets too – remember?” The boy’s eyes dipped. “Sì, Padre…” Wordlessly, mindlessly, he turned to lean over the sacrarium, eyes hollow with anticipated humiliation. He heard t...

“Sangue di Cristo,” intoned Padre Antonio, as full-bodied Suor Dolcina drank deeply from the silver chalice, Precious Blood rich and honeyed on her tongue. “Amen.” A crimson droplet trickled across her lower lip. She savoured it, and saved it, gently touching a plump finger to her mouth. As she shared a kneeler with Angelica, her scarlet digit intruded under the folds of her fellow novice’s habit. And where she touched he...

His loins spent, Anna dismissed, Padre Antonio deliberately left his hands unwashed so that, at evening mass, between collect and acclamation, he might furtively enjoy that heavenly-hellish aroma which lingered so powerfully on his lips and fingers: sweet, pungent, rich as treacle. “Corpo di Cristo.” “Amen.” Kneeling to receive, bewimpled Suor Angelica recognised that scent too – similar to her own, yet subtly different,...

“Corpo di Cristo.” “Amen.” It occurred to young Padre Antonio, as he distributed communion at first mass, that he really should have washed his hands first. His fingers still felt slightly viscous, turning claggy on the hosts. He swore silently, simultaneously praying forgiveness both for his profanity and for his solitary cockcrow concupiscence. Donna Anna, mantilla-clad and luscious, widowed at thirty, knelt at the alta...