It
was just the kind of party to be seen at and Nigel Ferranti was extremely keen
to be seen. His hush puppy soles gripped the expensive Swedish decking, a well-sourced
surface he intended to praise to the hosts later on, whilst his tight bottom
clenched and his tiny mouth pursed and puckered ready to meet and greet anyone
making it his way. For an hour, his risqué Sex on the floor cocktail in hand, Nigel Ferranti waited but no
partygoer strayed near.
Nigel
Ferranti re-checked his fly, straightened his tie, and secreted a hot mint
freshener under his tongue. He smiled as best he could with such a tiny mouth
but he was aware his attempt at friendly frivolity, whilst sipping from under a
pink umbrella, could in such a dim party light look like the obscene tears of a
grimacing bottom hole. So instead he closed his mouth tight to affect a sullen
look, and to hopefully appear a little mysterious. But still no soul ventured
near, and another hour passed.
Nigel
Ferranti shifted position to show his better side, re-checked his fly,
straightened his tie, and secreted a glycerine suppository capsule into his rear
end. The effect was startling and immediate, and the bottom of his trouser
shook and cavorted as if there was a private party going on inside his pants.
The beautiful hostess of the party came over to see what was happening.
‘Are
you okay?’ she asked.
‘Hello,
I’m Nigel Ferranti. I like you. Do you like me?’
As
Nigel Ferranti offered her his hand, his bottom and mouth belched and farted in
unison. The beautiful hostess let go an ugly scream, and the rest of the
partygoers drew near to see what was happening. They all looked at Nigel
Ferranti and his bulging party pants. Though a little sheepish about the
attention he was receiving, his bottom grinned, and his mouth managed a small,
shy public smile.
‘Fame
at last,’ he exclaimed. ‘How sweet it is!’
