“Timotriel the Elven Prince of Lothlórien danced naked in the pale moonlight for his hobbit lover, Paulbo. His jet black hair shimmered like a mane of pure liquid cobalt as it cascaded down his slender shoulders.
After writhing and flitting about in and around the tall, penile trees in a sensual, brazen display, Timotriel sank to his knees in front of Paulbo and the tiny, hairy halfling grabbed onto Timotriel's massive, throbbing, and rampantly proud cock. The cock flowered under the tender ministrations of Paulbo's tiny, hairy hands and lips,” Tim took a deep breath to quell the laughter.
“FLOWERING COCK?? A COCK THAT FLOWERS!” interrupted Paul, shaking with laughter. “Oh Jesus fuck, that's going onto the backdrop. He shifted over to a blank part of the canvas and started to paint something rather hideous.
Tim cleared his throat, wiping away a slight tear from his eye, “What worries me about this is that Timotriel isn't the correct form of an Elven name. Clearly this chick wasn't paying attention to the book.” He checked the postmark on the envelope, "Nimbin. Thought so. All that dope's mangled her brain."
From his section of the canvas, Richard flicked some paint and laughed, “Write her back and tell her that. You know, in all these letters like this, it's just you two fucking. I never get any action. I'm most offended.”
Tim leafed through the letter. “There's six pages of this stuff. Oh, here you go, Rich. You're an Elven troubadour and get to play off the Elven troops to war. You get killed three verses into a twenty seven stanza battle song. Then Paulbo and I fuck in your honour. Well, that's something at least. Next letter, a story about me fisting Paul's pustulent and diseased anal sphincter. Niiiiiiiice, ” he smirked.
“I'm shocked, I just don't know where these young kids learn that sort of thing. Shocked, I tell you,” Paul wagged his brush, sending paint splattering onto his face.
“This one's good. Actually good. Art school good. She's drawn all of Paul's haircuts, including the dreadlocks of doom.” He held up the drawing for the others to admire. “She also thinks I'm gorgeous, too. Such good taste, if I say so myself,” purred Tim.
“Timothy, vomit is not a good match for this backdrop's colour scheme. Next letter, please,” Paul hissed.
“Woah, this one's got it bad for Richard. Wants to do filthy, filthy stuff with you, my lad. There's a nude photo attached, too,” Tim laughed as he waved the Polaroid in Richard's face.
Richard wrinkled his nose in disgust and groaned, “That's a guy! His cock's tied into a knot!”
“Don't knock it until you try it,” Paul retorted. “Are there any normal fans in amongst that freak show? Does Con the Fruiterer get letters like this?”
Richard shrugged, “He would if he sang about fucking dogs, I suppose.”
Tim stretched like a cat and licked his lips, “I could murder a hot-dog. Anyone want a burger, something like that?”
Lunch orders taken, Tim wandered off and a quiet settled in between Paul and Richard as they finished the art-work. Paul was lying on his stomach and gently swinging his legs back and forth in the air, a look of tranquillity and concentration on his face. Richard loved to watch Paul paint, the weirdest and most grotesquely beautiful creatures could appear after just a few deft strokes.
Paul glanced up, catching Richard's eye gave him a genuine, warm smile. No words needed to be said between them.
Pre-show drinks to help unleash the beast within. Tim sat down and deliberately wedged himself at an odd angle against Paul.
“Fuck, you're bony. Do you have to do that?” Paul asked, irritated.
Tim's mock innocence was easy to see through, “Oh, sorry mate. That annoying you?”
“God you shit me sometimes, Ferguson,” Paul muttered, making absolutely no attempt to move, despite the discomfort. He continued, insisting, “I can see exactly what you're doing, trying to wind me up. It won't work.”
Tim smiled and shrugged, slipping a hand over Paul's thigh,“Makes for a great show, though. Shall I dance naked for you?”
“Try it out on the punters first, then I might let you do a private show,” Paul replied, barely hiding a smirk.
Richard walked into the dressing room waving a camera, “Someone wanted a photo, guys. Up for it?”
Paul gave an evil laugh, “I pity the poor photo developer.”
Tim stood up, adjusting his trouser fly down, “One day, someone should track down all these photos and hold an exhibition.”
Richard intoned, “Ladies and gentlemen, a special gallery of obscene and microscopic proportions. I give you the exhibit, What Was Once Seen Can Never Be Unseen! Smile everyone!” CLICK!
Post show, the adrenaline was still pumping through the system and the last of the booze was quickly finished off. The performance beast wasn't ready to go back in the cage just yet, though. There was still fun to be had, and Paul and Tim drifted off and huddled together in a corner, plotting.
After packing up his guitar, Richard was mildly annoyed that Paul and Tim had seemingly sodded off without saying goodnight. He sighed and thought, oh well, and started out to wait for his taxi. He rounded a corner and was immediately set upon and dragged into a small, gloomily lit storage room.
Pinned in the arms of one of the men, Richard struggled a little, then realised his two assailants smelt of a very familiar combination of sweat and beer.
He relaxed and sarcastically remarked, “Very funny. I haven't played Murder in the Dark for years.”
From somewhere near Richard's crotch came Paul's voice, “Our version's much more fun. It's called Buggery in the Dark!”
Something poked Richard in the small of the back as a hand stroked across his arse, as another slid over the front of his trousers, unzipping them,“This is one of those write your own adventures. It won't just be me and Paul fucking. Trust me, you're most definitely getting some action, Rich.”