I’ve grown quite accustomed to all manner of creatures rooting around my orifices, sexual and otherwise. My wife and I both have discovered some hygienic failings and bodily delights in ourselves thanks to the curious investigating of our nightly menagerie.

Particularly, the truffle pigs.

Sharp as a whip crack and twice as quick, their sniffing snouts snort and search every square inch of our naked, huddled, bulging bodies. I swear their noses are prehensile as they peel apart our girthy folds, squealing when they’ve discovered another fungus, a precious fruiting body. It’s their reward, Lucy and Stu. When they grind the coarse hairs at the tuft of their head against our soft, flowing neck flesh, they awaken us, wriggling with excitement, prodding their tender noses against their prize.

Grand, flabby beasts that we are, I need my wife or she needs me to fish into her folds and creases to pluck loose the fungal growth. Sometimes these mushrooms are stubborn and require a small pry bar to wrench free, the thousands of delicate, thread-like mycelium tugging away at pink meat. The relief is immense. Though it is ultimately the truffle pigs who greedily gobble their treat, it is us who luxuriate in the post-pluck pleasure.

We didn’t start with truffle pigs, of course. We had lived in somewhat blissful ignorance in our own filth and flesh. Our grubby bodies scooted and rolled throughout our cluttered home sticky with grime, clinging to debris and detritus, rotten things, broken garbage finding its way into mucky sockets.

One night, I felt those most wonderful pleasures deep in one of my fetid crevasses. Half asleep, I assumed my wife had become overwhelmed with sexual desire and quite naughtily began to worm her sluggy fingers about my body. Imagine my shock when I opened my eyes and saw her slumbering mass gently rising and falling. Following the awesome tickling, I eventually uncovered a rat-like rodent gnawing at some bulbous polyp. It scurried along upon being found, guilty conscience no doubt, but it didn’t scurry fast enough. Though corpulent I may be, my movements can be slick and decisive, and using my dexterous grubbers, I nabbed that wriggling rodent.

Firmly in my clutches, I focused on the eaten inch of skin this vermin had left me with and reveled in the newness of the feeling. I hatched a plan. If this little fellow was so happy to exhume buried filth from my flesh, then it would do the same for my wife. I set the greasy thing upon her greasier body and urged it with gentle eyes to do what it did for me. And it did.

My wife giggled in her sleep, a bubbling gurgle of nigh-orgasmic tittering. She woke the next day blathering about how clean she felt, how much of a good mood she was in.

It wasn’t long after that that we had weasels and birds scouring our bodies, tickling us clean, peeling away the muck and mire of our lives, but it was the truffle pigs who really changed us.

They’ve consumed so much fungus and delighted us so completely while doing so. We’ve taken to growing fungus, yes. We induce fungus, bathe in the spores, keep our home damp and dim. A cloyingly sticky sourness surrounds us. We want the pigs to root through us. Our dream is to be entrenched in fungus, encrusted, enveloped. Lucy and Stu. Oh, you’ll know pleasures no pig has even known, and unwittingly, you’ll be returning the favor.