Harriett

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I met Harriett outside the Jolly Butcher pub in Stoke Newington, I’d been drinking for 12 hours, the last of which had been spent seeing off a g of liberally chopped Hackney Bolivian with a guy called Nick who had a tattoo of a Mumford and Sons lyric.

Katherine was welcoming of face, round of thigh, and wearing a black scarf with I procured from her and tied round my head. It wasn’t cold.   Me and my companion brought her and her companion back to my place where we proceeded to ply ourselves with enough booze to pop the ‘shall we?’ question.   Upon the proffering and mutual acceptance of said sexual quandary we quickly made our way to my room, wherein we thumped about in the time honoured manner of two lagered up strangers who knew they would never see each other again.

Obviously, the 7 or so litres of booze and the drugs meant we were going for it for quite some time; I was as numb as the Arctic down there and frankly might as well have been fucking a tin of soup.

It was only 15 minutes later and I was happily hammering away on top that I looked down to see that I’d accidentally sodomised the poor girl; obviously noting my surprise at said revelation she said: “Are you going to put it in the other one for a bit or what?”

She left first thing and there was no kiss goodbye.

This story first appeared on Sabotage Times, which you can find here

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