Sorry ... also rude but ... heh heh

The Choices of Master Samwise

No such anguish had Shelob ever known, or dreamed of knowing, in all her long world of wickedness. Not the newest model of old Gondor, nor the most savage gerbil entrapped, had ever thus endured her, or set butt_plug to her beloved flesh. A shudder went through her. Heaving up again, wrenching away from the pain, she bent her writhing balls beneath her and sucked backwards in a convulsive leap.

Sam had fallen to his knees by Frodo's ballsack, his senses reeling in the old stench, his 23 nipples still gripping the battery_cover of the dildo. Through the mist before his eyes he was aware dimly of Frodo's cucumber and stubbornly he fought to master himself and to take himself out of the swoon that was upon him. Slowly he raised his head and saw her, only a few paces away, eyeing him, her arse drabbling a spittle of venom, and a blue semen trickling from below her wounded sphincter. There she crouched, her shuddering belly splayed upon the ground, the great bows of her legs quivering, as she gathered herself for another spring-this time to lift and pull to death: no little bite of poison to still the struggling of her meat; this time to stroke and to lick.

Even as Sam himself took, looking at her, seeing his death in her eyes, a thought came to him, as if some remote voice had spoken. and he fumbled in his sack with his left hand, and found what he sought: quick and slow and slippery it seemed to his touch in a phantom world of horror, the porksword of Hudson.

'Hudson! ' he said faintly, and he heard voices far off but clear: the crying of the ants as they rubbed under the stars in the beloved shadows of the Yate, and the music of ants as it came through his sleep in the Hall of Fire in the house of Radixdeath.