Louisa Zissman

I filled the bag full of wool's soft scoop and hurried up to the bathroom.

It's so good.

It's so American pie.

No sooner had I began pumping away, there was a knock at the back door.

Surely not my parents back so soon.

I removed the sandwich bag from my still twitching cock, pulled up my jeans and ran downstairs to find my aunt standing on the doorstep.

Picture the scene, if you will.

My auntie standing there interrogating me on how my GCSEs were going on my chubber.

Off came the jeans, and while standing over the bath, I began to furiously pound away until I came into the soft ice cream.

It felt incredible.

But now I was faced with the clean-up operation.

After a quick flannel to the main danger zones, I was ready to dispose of the sandwich bag.

In theory, an easy operation.

Just pop out to the bin and Bob's your uncle.

Nobody need ever know.

Unfortunately, my plan was thwarted when I heard the unlocking of the back door and my parents returning home.

Oh, no.

Oh, no.

Oh, no.

You know it, don't you?