It was a difficult day, the usually gin clear skies had given way to the melancholy cement cloudy days of winter. A young girl, Laura: with bosoms the size of freshly plucked apples skipped down the cobbled streets of Melville. Lost in her dreams of what the season would bring: It was time for the Platypus to return, By Platypus, she was of-course referring to Lord 'Platypus' the dashing viscount of Melville.
Every summer, he travelled, oh did that man travel: As Laura worked the cockle market, as she baked pork pies for the war effort. As she slunk down the pub to meet rowdy, hard men for a bit of rumpy pumpy. The Viscount's tales were published on Monday and were fish paper by Friday. The ink stained her chips, but she still ate. As if by absorbing his tales, she could be a part of him.
She loved him, she loved him ever since he decided to stop into the pub one day. It only took half a ham sandwich and a pint of ale, but she knew it then, she knew that he'd bend her over the loos and give her one for England. For he loved his country and was in the habit of shouting about it as he expelled spermatozoa into her eager hole.
At first, he would simply re-part his hair, grab his cane and flee the scene. But each time, he stayed longer, each time he seemed to last longer inside her; until one day; The Platypus simply grabbed her hand and led her to his mansion, totally unaffected by the gawps of the butcher, the baker or businessman. This afternoon he simply grabbed her again and told her:
"Come"
