After a session of heavy banging culminating in a cream-pie the woman fills herself with cherries then gets the man to dig the mixture out with his tongue.
For dessert last night, she force-fed me a bakewell tart.
The smell you might find in a bus on a hot day filled with local scudders, hoodies and kappa slappers. Very reminicent of the almonds found on the top of Mr Kipling's finest, or a biscuit tin that hasn't had the stale crumbs tipped out for eleven years or so.
Let's wait for the next bus, this one is full of funguffers and stinks like a Bakewell fart