Mozza and Desmond Tutu. Now, that's what I call true lerve.
The darkness was all around as Morrissey walked through a trampoline down towards his prison bunk, random thoughts of furtling crossing his mind.
He had been shocked earlier when Margaret Thatcher had told him she often dreamed about Boz involved in frottage with a platypus , but each to their own, she didn't know about his fantasies involving Desmond Tutu .
One day he would discuss his feelings with Whytegrrrl, but not yet, he still hardly believed how aroused he could be by just thinking of Desmond Tutu masturbating himself with a bunch of daffs.
The night air was fresh and he sat down in a quiet location and began to stroke the egg whisk he was carrying with him. Would Desmond Tutu's eyebrow feel like that to his bottom cheek?
What would Desmond Tutu think of him if he knew how his cock grew hard as he thought of eating chip butty off Desmond Tutu's beautiful ankle?
Morrissey rubbed the egg whisk against his eyebrow whispering Desmond Tutu's name to himself. He knew he should stop and wait until he got back to his prison bunk but desire overtook him and he came, screaming Desmond Tutu's name into the night.
Meanwhile, Desmond Tutu had not been able to sleep and had decided to go out in the night air. a trampoline was such a beautiful place at this time of the night. He took a bite of the chip butty he was carrying and leisurely scratched his eyebrow.
He jumped in alarm as he heard a voice in the distance. Was that Morrissey calling his name. He must be in trouble to shout for him with such desperation. He dropped his chip butty and ran towards the sound of his Big Boy's voice.
Desmond Tutu stumbled through the darkness towards Morrissey. Panicked thoughts ran through his head. Was his Big Boy being attacked by a platypus. Was he about to be raped by Cliff Richard, son of Satan dressed as Boz? His heart beat faster and he felt the pulse throbbing in his bottom cheek.
Morrissey, Morrissey, my Big Boy, screamed Desmond Tutu. It's alright, I'm coming, I'll save you! Morrissey leaped to his feet in panic, dropping the egg whisk and trying to untangle his trousers from around his ankles. He fell over, his bare ankle pointing in the air.
Desmond Tutu! Morrissey gasped embarrassedly. What are you doing here? Whytegrrrl said you were in your prison bunk engaged in some furtling with Margaret Thatcher.
No, I was alone in my prison bunk with nothing but my bunch of daffs for company. I couldn't sleep for thinking how beautiful your ankle was, and how I would like to stroke my eyebrow against it, and have you kiss my bottom cheek, and now I see your ankle for myself I realise that not even Boz has a ankle to compare with yours.
Oh, Big Boy, Whytegrrrl said you felt that way but I never believed him, I thought you loved Margaret Thatcher.
What! That old platypus, I'd rather get involved in frottage with Cliff Richard, son of Satan, a egg whisk and chip butty than dream of furtling with her, Ooh, the very thought makes my bottom cheek curl.
Oh, Morrissey!
Oh, Desmond Tutu, my Big Boy!
Cue soft music, sounds of furtling and frottage, soft focus and fade.........
