The sunlight that glistened off of France's face was marvelously warm and full of lust. It was lust that turned him on, but not in an erection-y kind of way. It was more like how you get horny when you're bored and end up masturbating for absolutely no reason. It occurred to him that this kind of debauchery usually led to the most unexciting of orgasms, so he immediately shielded his face from the son.

"You'll not have me, Messier Soleil!" France screamed before his statement was cut off by a quiet moan. Somehow, Russia was behind him, and he was still beating his thick Russian sunflower.

"Unf."

~ Unabashed Adultery ~

"L'Amour, what have you done with the basil leaves~?" France asked, his voice tinged with sexual desire. "I need it for my recipe."

"They're in bedroom!" Russia shouted, his words minced by the crunching of potato chips and gulps of vodka.

"Why are they there?" France inquired as he smoothed out the wrinkle on his apron. Hey, if it was the only thing he was wearing, it better look good.

"I was pleasuring myself with their bottle," the other man chortled, "if you can't do it, I might as well have toys that can and will! Cука."

"What was that? Did you just insult me and curse me in your dirty native tongue?" France began to tear up, his eyes becoming wells that dripped pure, unadulterated sadness. This sorrow was unpierceable, it was unimaginable, it was like being in a hot strip club for gay guys only to be entertained by Gabriel Iglesias. Not Enrique. Gabriel. Enrique's Mexican bod is like using butter for lube. And France loved using butter for lube. And similes. But forget that. "If you hate me just come out and say it!"

"You fucked another man and made yourself contract terrible disease!" Russia cried. "I haven't gotten to have sex or get penis put deep inside my manhole in over two weeks. Not only that, but you're pregnant, and I'm not ready to be father!"

France's heart dropped. "Fine! I'll get an abortion!"

"'Kay."

~ The Fiendish Friend Who Didn't Like Him, But Will Probably Help Him Get an Abortion If He Gives Him a Blowjob ~

Ding dong.

Oh, that noise. That noise sounded like what France yearned for. In italics.

"'Ello," the blond man said, still looking at his tea, "if you're selling something, trust me, I already have three of them."

He looked up, and dropped his tea cup; as it shattered, a soul-piercing scream was let out by a cat, 3000 miles away in India. This is a coincidence and holds no consequence to the story.

"What the bloody hell do you want, France? Can't you see I'm in the middle of my squibbly-squabbly tea for the afternoon tiddly-winks. Bloody hell, I'm English as fuck!"

The clothes hanger in France's hands shuddered.

"Abort." France said. "Abort. Abort. Abort."

"What the flibbity-flobbidy do you bloody want you right-o bloody poof? I'm tryna shove me willy-popper into this chicken's shobbidy-coot. If you don't bloody mind, me Big Ben is gettin' all floppity-flim witchu standin' there, so get on with ya charade or be movin' off me bloody lawn. Sweet Mary and Joseph, ya pit stink is killin' me petunias." England took a deep breath. "The Queen's old as right-done bloody hell, she is, but I think ye shobbidy-coot is less rose-like than hers. Hope ya don't take none affense, guv'nor, but ya need to be movin' your bosom before I call the bobbies to come and git ya."

France dropped to his knees; he didn't know what to do, so he made up for his lack of creativity by attempting to suck off his acquaintance of mutual hatred. As soon as his hands his the Englishman's zipper, and beefy hand slapped his fingers away.

"Git ye bloody fine-o mouth away from me bobbin'-lucks. I swear, I never felt so violated in me entire life. Not even when that down-up flobbidy-coot-McDonalds-kully-knobbidy-Jane-Tarzan-ho tried to slight me fish and chips with a bit of date rape. She wanted me D, she did, but I wouldn't right let'her have it cause I was tryna be celibate for Lent. You feel me, non-Protestant coot?

"But I just wanted an abortion and some rancorously promiscuous sex with a near-stranger!" France moaned as he once more made for England's penis. "Please!"

"Right-o, I'll give ya a good dickin' if ya promise not to be too rough with me tally-wagger. I got me a right-up slut in me trunk and I want to save me energy for 'er."

~ One Awkward Abortion-Sex-Act Later ~

"Father, I don't believe I've ever been in a confessional before," France said, ringing his hands in the dark closet-like space. "I don't know if I like it."

"No one likes it here," the priest said, "who wants to talk about lust with an old man anyway?"

France suppressed the urge to admit to his sagging skin and dark rooms fetish for fear that he might offend the poor man next to him.

"Are you ready to begin?" the priest prodded.

"Yes."

France began to knit his tale of centuries of debauchery, stealing, killing, and taking candy from babies to the priest. It took more than three hours for the Frenchman to finish.

". . . came on my cousin's blanket, I killed my sister's goldfish and blamed it on the dog, and just today, I got an abortion."

"An abortion?!" the priest gasped and nearly fell from his confessional chair. "It will take more than me to absolve your sins, you baby-killer! I knew Romney should have won!"