Hello sweeties.

Now I've always made it a rule in life not to talk about myself. I'm very much of the opinion that celebrities should be ethereal gods and goddesses and that nobody wants to know about your genital warts or that time you upchucked a five-course meal all over Anthea Stephenson's feather-cut, blonde-highlighted, sad excuse for a hairdo at 'The Annual Lifestyle & Wellbeing Weeklies & Periodicals Writers Awards'.

Though now that we've got into it, I do feel I was totally justified in guzzling that bottle of Bollinger having been cheated out of the 'Best Weekly Column Award - General Public Interfacing' by Ms 'my legs spread easier than cheap margarine' Rebecca Holsworthy. And Anthea really should have locked the cubicle door before sinking to her knees and offering up mouth to flaccid cock resuscitation to 'middle-management bore of the year', John Boothe.

And breathe.

But anyways, I'm certain that squillions and bazziliions of my dedicated admirers and, dare I say it, fan club have noticed that I have been somewhat absent recently and have probably been imagining that I'd got myself becalmed on an 80-foot yacht somewhere in the Caribbean with only a crew of 20 muscular, oiled, over-endowed man-slaves to attend to my every need. Which is, of course, exactly what has happened. Well, that and the complete mental breakdown.

Oh, poopity-poop-poop-poop. I've got a feeling I wasn't supposed to mention that. Oh well, you can't make an omelet without breaking eggs and you can't get those eggs fertilised without a swollen, engorged cock ramming insistently and demanding into a soaking snatch as you writhe sweat-stained and ecstatic, back arched, muscles tensed, buttocks pulled up from the soiled, fluid-splattered sheets, screaming in near oblivious abandonment as your nails tear scarlet welts down his taut, rippling back.

Talking of eggs. We were talking about eggs, weren't we? Well, Doctor Albright looks just like an egg. Dome-shaped head with just a light dusting of hair clinging to his ears and the back of his skull. A pasty and impermeable shell covering his face as he chews at the tip of his pencil and stares, unblinkingly with cold, dead, fish eyes. I'm not even sure he's a doctor. The court said he was a therapist. Though all the sessions do seem to involve an extensive gynaecological examination and he's allowed to prescribe me pills so I guess he probably has some sort of medical qualification.

Well, Doctor Albright says that it's important that we open up and talk about what is going on inside our heads. That if we don't we'll end up as vitriol-filled, bitter, twisted, and poisonous she-dwarves, wallowing in our loathing and hatred of all humanity. Literally dried-out husks with all the sexual appeal of flatulent warthogs that will never be loved or fucked by anyone. Ever. Especially not by our long-suffering husbands who it seems would rather chastise their unattended member with spiked cacti than thrust it into the arid and selfish, Venus Fly Trap that is our cunt.

Though I'm pretty sure Dr Albright isn't married, is a man, and when he says 'our' really is talking about just me.

So now I'm on the happy pills and really everything is much better with the world. Last week I even went back to see the presiding judge and assured her that I really, really didn't mean it when I screamed in her face that, "I was going to turn her into my anal-only sex toy, whose only pleasure would come from the shower of my golden fluids splashing across her upturned, adoring face," and that I was definitely not being serious when I'd said that I'd, "attach her big, fat teats to an industrial strength milking machine and drain her over-sized milk-sacks until they hung like pointless flesh bags down to her knees."

But all that is by the by because now I believe it is time to go 'to the letter'.

Dear Cumdrops

How are you? I've been worried about you. I haven't seen you anywhere since you tried to show the nation that Sarah Willis isn't a natural redhead. She really is a stuck-up, self-satisfied, obnoxious bitch who needs bringing down a peg or two so it was a bit of a shame that you'd been removed from the studio when they returned from the advert break. Still, definitely the best episode of Celebrity Antique Road Trip ever.

Anyhows. I'm in need of some of your superlicious advice. Like all Good Girls I've spent my life waiting for my prince to come, but earlier this year I had an epiphany and realised that my Prince was already cumming in that stick insect Kate, Duchess of Cambridge, and that it might be best if I had a looksey at what else was available on the shelf.

Well, Cumblebumbles, that shelf was emptier than the supermarket toilet roll shelves during a pandemic but, eventually, tucked away in a dusty corner at the back, I found my Prince.

Now, he's not perfect. A work in progress; what with the halitosis, nose picking, and bogey eating, the ball scratching, the excessive and extremely pungent flatulence, and his rather slapdash attitude to personal hygiene. But, he is MY Prince and we both know that it is a woman's place in this world to suffer endless disappointment in stoical silence... so I'll not hear a bad word said about him.

Now, about a month back he casually announced that he was partial to a bit of dogging. At first, I thought this was an innocent pastime a bit like birding or twitching but involving dogs so I was a bit surprised to discover that it had more to do with lay-bys, copses of woods, used and discarded condoms, steamy car windows, and vigorous hand shanking and that the only breed recognition involved which cum dripping twat belonged to which harlot.

I'm a game bird and I wasn't about to give up on my 'happy ever after' over a little public exposure and group masturbation. Besides, relationships are all about compromise, right? And I was more than prepared to compromise every last ounce of my dignity if that was what was required.

But, and I do have to be honest here Cumbles, I've always been a bit big-boned and car interiors aren't really adequately spaced for the larger lady. Give me a mobility scooter any day; arse cheeks hanging either side of the seat like a pair of saddle bags, belly nicely balanced on my knees, and my squelchy milk bags resting atop the handlebars. Now that's the way to travel. Besides, you don't get any of that awful inner thigh chaffing that you get when trying to put one foot in front of the other.

But, before long, the big day arrived and I donned my favourite mumu, fixed my hair, and smeared some bright red lipstick around my chops before, with an awful lot of squeezing and a fair amount of prodding and pushing from Mr I-can't-wait-to-get-my-dick-out-in-the-fresh-air, I was stuffed into the passenger seat.

Oh my gosh, it was busy. Like a used car sale's lot busy on a Bank Holiday. Vehicles here, there, and everywhere with groups of nefarious gentlemen roaming between them and pressing their faces up against the steamy windows, their hands constantly attentive to their displayed male sexual organs. There was even one car with a female draped naked over the bonnet who was attracting rather a lot of attention as well as copious jism sprays across her writhing flesh. It was all quite delicious, cunny-soaking entertainment.

Whilst I was busy gawping at all the depraved goings-on around me, Mr Impatient-Dick was trying to peel the mumu from my wobbling flesh as well as reposition me anatomically to take best advantage of my fleshy goodness. And I'm not really sure how it happened, because I was rather regretting the last gateau I'd stuffed into my cake hole just before leaving and hoping against hope that it wasn't going to re-emerge into the car interior, but somehow he'd managed to get me all turned around and ...

Gosh, but I'm blushing just at the very thought.

Somehow I ended up mounted on the gearstick, feet in the footwells, my super-sized funbags squished between the two front seats and stuck. Okay, I could move a little. Just enough to rock my squelching cunt up and down and back and forth on the gearstick that was now buried deep within me. Which was when Mr Come-And-See-What-I've-Got- Here opened all the doors and started whooping at the top of his voice.

I don't really want to go into what happened next, Cumdumb. Needless to say, I have never seen that many swollen cocks up that close in my entire life; not to mention the couple of cum drenched twats that decided to smear all their disgusting ooze across my rather reddened and helpless face. And it wasn't as if the cocks were satisfied with using my gaping, drooling mouth. Not at all. There were cocks thrust into my ham-like hands, pressed into flab crevices anywhere and everywhere, rubbed against my blowing cheeks until they spurted into my eyes so that pretty soon everything was a creamy blur. And the creamiest and blurriest part of all of me was my squeezed and endlessly manhandled boobies. Quite how many cockles shot their loads across those babies after pistoning away in the sweaty canyon of my bosom I'll never know.

All of which was utterly amazing but, and here is my question, throughout they all subjected me to the most disgusting and degrading verbal abuse, calling me all sorts of names, and forcing me to make pig and cow noises whenever I wanted yet another cum shower.

And although I've never oinked and mooed so much in my life, on reflection it does all feel rather humiliating and that I was merely an object of their derision. Which is not how Mr I'm-The-Dog-With-Two-Dicks sees it, as he's already giving out invitations in the local pubs to our next appearance.

What should I do, Cumpernickle? Should I subject myself to this torrent of fat-shaming for the incomparable delight of being a well-used bukkake whore?

Yours hanging off your every word,

Felicity Flabberwobble

Well sweeties, there you have it. What a tricksy conundrum. But, I've just popped a couple of Dr Albright's happy pills and spent half an hour contemplating my oneness with the Universe, so let's see if we can help this poor lost soul.

Dear Flabbywhore

Just last week I was slut shamed on Twatter. Allegedly, I was masturbating throughout an interview I did with Nigel Farage on GB News and moaned in orgasmic delight every time he mentioned immigrants. It was also alleged that when he started ranting on about 'them coming over here and taking natural born English men's jobs', that I screamed 'fuck yes, slam that humongous ebony rod into this ivory flesh, big boy'. All of which is complete nonsense because, and let's be honest here, nobody, I repeat nobody, actually watches GB News.

But that's the world we live in Ms Wobbleslut. It's the patriarchy keeping us in our place by shaming us for our every action. Of course, I don't approve of individuals of either sex who can't cut themselves a slice of cake but insist on devouring the entire thing whole, and I've never held much truck with all the plus size clothing that clutters up the sale rails looking like fabric marquees draped over hangers. There really is nothing wrong with being a nice size 8 and if you flab-donkeys had any concern for the environment and the future of our planet then you'd reduce your calorific intake and pay closer attention to the ecological damage that producing the floaty, oversized, tents you use as dresses is causing.

So grow a pair (metaphorically of course), get back out there, and let those perverted jerk monkeys use you for their entertainment. You're a fat bitch so get used to it because if they weren't shaming you for that, you can guarantee they'd find something else to make you feel worthless and inferior.

Yours not really giving a shit any, which, way.

Cum Girl (Mrs)