It’s a warm autumn day and I just got laid. It is in this moment that I see that shining eggspanse of Fraser Anning’s forehead — so beautiful, and so smooth. And suddenly, I feel myself getting hard.
I want Fraser Anning to run his hands down the shining curves of my shell and stroke my hard exterior. Inside, I am all runny already. I want to rub my inner membrane against his bald head and have him dip his fingers into my yolk and raise it to his lips.
“See how you taste?” Fraser whispers. “Your yolk is so soft. So thicc, and so salty.”
My yolk quivers.
Does he like his eggs scrambled or fried? Or does he like them hard-boiled?
“Gag me,” I whisper into his ear.
“Gag you? How? You’re an egg,” he says.
“Please… whisk me!” I moan. “Whisk me away! Yes, yes!”
“Yes what?”
“Yes sir!” I whimper, struggling against my restraints. Damn this eggshell. I am helpless, caged against my will, so hot that I am frying inside. I want him to break me, free me from this eggsquisite torture.
“You eggsotic omelette,” he whispers in my ear, and I feel my inner walls pulse as they eggspand and contract.
I know these thoughts are sinful. I don’t want to be eggscommunicated from the Catholic Church, a noble institution of which I am a proud quivering member. But I think I must make an eggception for this devilish egg.
“Shall I make you… come?”
“I can’t come, I’m an egg,” I find myself whimpering in eggstasy.
“I want to fuck you egg! I want to be buried inside you!”
“Fraser,” I yelp. “Eggscavate me!”
And with a cry, I launch myself into his embrace.
“I’m cumming!” I scream, despite being an egg.
And then—
I eggsplode, my white essence splattering all over his face.
