Adopt A Bill
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RoseMaree
20.00 USD
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Mucky Sandwich made with what ever your mind desires or lucky dip of what ever i feel like Want your own personalised Video of your special parcel being made ? + £10 I made your lunch! Not in the kitchen... don’t be ridiculous. Your food’s way too revolting for my countertops. So I took it out to the field, where you belong. Found a nice, wet patch of mud and made you something extra special. I threw two slices of bread down, but the mud splashed up on my boots. My boots!!! The ones you’re not allowed to touch, let alone get dirty. How dare you get them muddy. Apologize NOW! Too late... I wiped the filth clean on your bread. Perfect, now it’s seasoned with your shame. Then I grabbed some dog food. The cheap, nasty kind that smells foul. It had been sitting in the sun for hours. I gagged when I opened it. That is your fault too, for making me suffer that smell. I sp**ned it out at arm’s length, dropped it onto your bread... but it splattered, of course. Chunks of it bounced off into the mud. So I did what you deserve. I kicked it back in. Right back into the sandwich. With my boot. That’s two offenses to my footwear. Congratulation Loser! Then I opened my bag of goodies. Oh yes. I’ve been saving these for you. I pulled out a wad of bin sludge I scraped from the bottom of my bin. No idea what it was, but it was wet, sticky, and absolutely disgusting. I scraped it out with a stick and smeared it on top like a garnish. And just when I thought it was perfect... I spat on it. A thick, slow string of sp*t, right into the center. But you know what? I still wasn’t satisfied. So I stood over it. Pulled my panties to the side. And pi*sed... Right. On. Your. Sandwich. Warm. Sharp. Soaking straight into the layers. It hissed as it hit the mud warmed bread. Ran down the sides...Dripped off the crust. I picked up the other piece of bread, already soaked with mud from earlier. It was limp, soggy, pathetic, just like you. I dropped it on top. Then I sealed it shut. I raised my boot, the one you dirtied and brought it down firmly. Heel first. Then I pressed. Slow. Deliberate. I twisted my foot slightly, grinding it in, until the sandwich squelched under the weight. You could hear it compressing. The juices squeezing out. It splattered a little at the edges. Perfect. That’s how you close a sandwich made for someone like you. Not with love. Not with care. With force. With contempt. With the same boot you made filthy. And now? You’re going to eat it. Not because it’s food. Not because you’re hungry. But because this is what you are now. A sub who eats whatever filth I create. Because your pride rotted out long ago, just like the contents of this sandwich. Postage £4.50 - UK 24 hour delivery via Royal mail
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