Panting. Sweating. Bastard. Rotten, brown bastard! I did my routine poo before the gym!
I started running on the treadmill, I could feel it rattling around inside of me, a mini scotch egg inside a balloon. It didn't even feel like an important one.
Fuck sake.
I refused to stop.
My running was crap, frequent stops and fucking swearing. I stomped to the toilets, angrily, slammed the door and slid down my compression leggings determined to not let this bastard ruin any more of my session. My sweaty arse cheeks slid across the seat, ironically quicker than I'd ever moved before, my back whacked against the loo bowl, my legs shot out under the cubicle, my balls slammed against the bottom of the door, and that little brown bastard shot across the changing room like a fucking torpedo.
Matthew (Matty-Bob) Cash is a prolific writer of all sorts of shite and chieftain of Burdizzo Books and Burdizzo Bards. Google that shit and you'll find the fucker
I started running on the treadmill, I could feel it rattling around inside of me, a mini scotch egg inside a balloon. It didn't even feel like an important one.
Fuck sake.
I refused to stop.
My running was crap, frequent stops and fucking swearing. I stomped to the toilets, angrily, slammed the door and slid down my compression leggings determined to not let this bastard ruin any more of my session. My sweaty arse cheeks slid across the seat, ironically quicker than I'd ever moved before, my back whacked against the loo bowl, my legs shot out under the cubicle, my balls slammed against the bottom of the door, and that little brown bastard shot across the changing room like a fucking torpedo.
Matthew (Matty-Bob) Cash is a prolific writer of all sorts of shite and chieftain of Burdizzo Books and Burdizzo Bards. Google that shit and you'll find the fucker
Omg, this is hilariously brilliant.
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