by Amy Woods
Inserting a number of chillies into my cum dumpster got me spattering shrimp sap faster than a greased weasel shit. The plowing makes me splurge my clunge gunge all over his thrill drill. The unrelenting orgasms from his wensleydale wand raiding my birth cannon made me come so hard, I began sweating like a midget nun at a penguin shoot. He munched on my spam castanets, even though I'd been on the rag for the best part of a week. The slamming of my turd-herder was so vigorous, he soon found his family jewels joining his pink tractor beam deep in my balloon knot. With my purple cabbage now much like a bulldog licking piss from a thistle, he thought it was time to start shoving my shit winker. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cop a sewer trout, I wondered? Within no time, I could feel the shitty gentleman's relish dribbling from my fart valve and all over my meaty hangers. The feeling of his cock snot seeping down my throat got my spaff flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. Some girls are happy just to study english cliterature when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a barbie doll in my birth cannon and a gerbil up my fart valve. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his huge penis probed deeper into my chocolate starfish. The seemingly never-ending streams of ectoplasm emanating from his blind butler soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. With his tenderloin truncheon hammering deep into my soft-shelled tuna taco, the sensation of his womb ferret smashing my cervix made me quake like a rat on acid. I awoke the next morning with my Quimcy, M.E. still frothing. I thought it was over but his Ocean's 11 Inches had other ideas. There was cock snot slobbering from his one-eyed monster and I was wetter than a spastic's chin. We were ready for more. When he removed his cream reaper from my other vagina, he was pleasantly surprised to see a footlong fudge bullet staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to consume the footlong fudge bullet off his bugger king. Hours of plowing like this would leave any girl's open-faced ham sandwich looking like that bathroom door in The Shining, and I was no different! My spunk dungeon was trembling like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. It was bliss having his blind butler rammed inside me again; stuffing my split peach with a barbie doll just didn't get my quim squirting like it used to. Now, I've taken more poundings than the Somme, but the sight of his gristle missile made my minge mucus slime like Wayne Rooney's dick in an OAP home. By now, my meat purse was seeping like a slavering dog. If I don't fish for pearls to get my minge monsoon seeping from my chlamydia canal, his chubstep is going to leave my panty hamster resembling a bucket of smashed crabs. My cake hole was so full of jade rod and creamy load, the steamin' semen was seeping down my chin and onto my tatas. After having my hatchet wound raided, he then proceeded to hammer my balloon knot. I can't wait to suck the penis pudding from his Nelson's Column. He pinched off a giant sewer trout on my tatas just so he could suck it up like a hungry hungry hippo.
He munched on my open-faced ham sandwich, even though I'd been on the rag for the best part of a week. Inserting a squash into my quim got me flooding flange custard faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. The fucking of my ring piece was so vigorous, he soon found his chin pounders joining his flesh gordon deep in my rusty bullet hole. He arced a giant stink pickle on my chest puppies just so he could lap it up like a bulldog eating porridge. I can't wait to gobble the cock custard from his greasy kebab skewer. It was bliss having his greasy slimelight stuffed inside me again; stuffing my tampon tunnel with a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster just didn't get my cum dumpster pouring like it used to. I awoke the next morning with my penis pothole still leaching. I thought it was over but his jade rod had other ideas. My spunk dungeon was trembling like a shitting dog. Some girls are happy just to stimulate the genitals through phalangetic motion when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a gerbil in my Quimcy, M.E. and a number of chillies up my marmite motorway. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus probed deeper into my cocoa channel. The mixture of stink pickle and steamin' semen in my cocoa channel created the delicious porthole pudding that he was so fond of. Now, I've seen more pricks than a second hand dartboard, but the sight of his disco stick made my spaff dribble like Adele waiting for Greggs to open. If I don't play the clitar to get my flange custard weeping from my slime hole, his balony pony is going to leave my vertical garden resembling a stamped bat. When he removed his wensleydale wand from my marmite motorway, he was pleasantly surprised to see a hardened fudge nugget staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to lap the colon cobra off his sperminator. By now, my birth cannon was sliming like a slavering dog. My throat was so full of love muscle and Da Vinci load, the ectoplasm was sliming down my chin and onto my top bollocks. With his skeleton king slamming deep into my quim, the sensation of his skeleton king smashing my cervix made me quake like jelly. The feeling of his magician's wax trickling down my throat got my tuna tunnel tears flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. Within no time, I could feel the shitty creamy load frothing from my brown eye and all over my fishy flaps. The seemingly never-ending streams of cock custard emanating from his master of ceremonies soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. The hammering makes me eject my sex wee all over his veiny quim prod. With my lunchmeat now much like a bucket of smashed crabs, he thought it was time to start ramming my soft tight anus. Is now the time to tell him I really need to launch a hardened fudge nugget, I wondered? There was man fat haemorrhaging from his huge penis and I was wetter than a bathmaid's elbow. We were ready for more. Hours of thrusting like this would leave any girl's meaty hangers looking like a motorway pileup, and I was no different! After having my cock holster hammered, he then proceeded to plow my fart valve.
The unrelenting orgasms from his flesh gordon pounding my mound of love pudding made me come so hard, I began sweating like Mike Tyson at a spelling bee. By now, my kipper dinghy was foaming like a jizz waterfall. With his disco stick pounding deep into my kipper dinghy, the sensation of his meaty member smashing my cervix made me quiver like a shitting dog. It was bliss having his spam javelin slid inside me again; stuffing my vibrator crater with my fist just didn't get my chlamydia canal splurging like it used to. The mixture of toilet twinkie and love piss in my old dirt road created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. Inserting a 15" spiked vibrator into my one slice toaster got me spritzing clunge gunge faster than a greased weasel shit. After having my mound of love pudding thrusted, he then proceeded to slam my brown eye. The feeling of his baby gravy foaming down my throat got my minge mucus flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. Hours of thrusting like this would leave any girl's hairy goblet looking like a manatee in yoga pants, and I was no different! I awoke the next morning with my fuck trench still flowing. I thought it was over but his love muscle had other ideas. My kipper dinghy was trembling like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. Some girls are happy just to finger blast when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a 15" spiked vibrator in my kipper dinghy and a gerbil up my fudge factory. He dropped a giant sewer trout on my chesticles just so he could chow down on it up like a bulldog eating porridge. He munched on my vertical smile, even though I'd had my redwings for the best part of a week. When he removed his love lollipop from my mud flap, he was pleasantly surprised to see a colon cobra staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to suck the toilet twinkie off his battering ram. I can't wait to suck the cock snot from his pink tractor beam. The seemingly never-ending streams of man fat emanating from his gristle missile soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. Within no time, I could feel the shitty magician's wax leaching from my chocolate starfish and all over my velcro triangle. Now, I've seen more foreskins than a rabbi during a baby boom, but the sight of his greasy slimelight made my tuna tunnel tears seep like a George Foreman grill. With my piss flaps now much like Brian May's plughole, he thought it was time to start sliding my brown mile. Is now the time to tell him I really need to drop a butt nugget, I wondered? The hammering makes me pour
my fallopian fish stock all over his master of ceremonies. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his blue-veined custard chucker probed deeper into my Mavis Fritter. There was magician's wax foaming from his one-eyed milkman and I was wetter than an Italian cruise ship. We were ready for more. The slamming of my other vagina was so vigorous, he soon found his man marbles joining his chubstep deep in my shit winker. My cake hole was so full of timed slimer and cock snot, the man fat was leaching down my chin and onto my mosquito bites.
Some girls are happy just to flick the bean when they're alone, but I can't get off without having an egg timer in my cum dumpster and my fist up my black hole. Within no time, I could feel the shitty cock snot haemorrhaging from my Mavis Fritter and all over my piss flaps. The seemingly never-ending streams of cock snot emanating from his tallywacker soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his greasy slimelight slid deeper into my poo pipe. I awoke the next morning with my hatchet wound still flowing. I thought it was over but his slut slayer had other ideas. When he removed his love muscle from my ring piece, he was pleasantly surprised to see a hardened fudge nugget staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to consume the toilet twinkie off his meaty member. Inserting a 15" spiked vibrator into my hot pocket got me spritzing fallopian fish stock faster than snot off a whip. The pounding makes me spit my vertical moisture all over his blind butler. After having my fuck gutter hammered, he then proceeded to slam my puckered brown eye. The mixture of toilet twinkie and love piss in my black hole created the delicious sphincter sauce that he was so fond of. I can't wait to suck the penis pudding from his muffbuster. The unrelenting orgasms from his Ocean's 11 Inches fucking my soft-shelled tuna taco made me come so hard, I began sweating like a fat slag in a disco. If I don't fluff the muff to get my shrimp sap frothing from my quim, his love lollipop is going to leave my velcro triangle resembling badly battered road kill. He munched on my panty hamster, even though I'd had my redwings for the best part of a week. My vibration station was trembling like a rat on acid. My throat was so full of bugger king and cock snot, the baby gravy was flowing down my chin and onto my chest puppies. Hours of hammering like this would leave any girl's vertical garden looking like a bulldog in a windtunnel, and I was no different! It was bliss having his one-eyed monster rammed inside me again; stuffing my calamari cockring with a gerbil just didn't get my Quimcy, M.E. flooding like it used to. Now, I've seen more pricks than a second hand dartboard, but the sight of his meaty member made my clunge gunge ooze like Augustus Gloop's mouth at the sight of Willy Wonka's chocolate river. The thrusting of my marmite motorway was so vigorous, he soon found his chin pounders joining his spam javelin deep in my brown mile. There was gentleman's relish oozing from his wrist-thick wand and I was wetter than an otter's pocket. We were ready for more. With my spam castanets now much like a twisted slipper, he thought it was time to start sliding my cocoa channel. Is now the time to tell him I really need to crown a hardened fudge nugget, I wondered? With his turgid terror truncheon hammering deep into my stench trench, the sensation of his womb raider smashing my cervix made me quiver like a tasered slab of chopped liver. The feeling of his steamin' semen frothing down my throat got my flange custard flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. He pitched a giant Mr. Hanky on my fiery biscuits just so he could devour it up like a pig at a trough.
There was ectoplasm seeping from his stilton sword and I was wetter than a spastic's chin. We were ready for more. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his tenderloin truncheon shoved deeper into my Mavis Fritter. The feeling of his cock snot dribbling down my throat got my flange custard flowing quicker than snot off a whip. Hours of thrusting like this would leave any girl's roast beef platter looking like a rabid baboon's arse, and I was no different! The thrusting makes me spray my clunge gunge all over his ramrod. If I don't audition the finger puppets to get my minge monsoon slobbering from my split peach, his washington monument is going to leave my fishy flaps resembling a blind cobbler's thumb. The unrelenting orgasms from his giggle stick slamming my depravity cavity made me come so hard, I began sweating like a pregnant nun. It was bliss having his chorizo howitzer probed inside me again; stuffing my shame portal with a gerbil just didn't get my cod crater ejecting like it used to. I can't wait to gobble the creamy load from his cream reaper. The mixture of butt nugget and man fat in my brown mile created the delicious porthole pudding that he was so fond of. With my spam castanets now much like a badly wrapped kebab, he thought it was time to start stuffing my brown eye. Is now the time to tell him I really need to ease a stink pickle, I wondered? He blasted a giant stink pickle on my superdroopers just so he could gobble it up like a hungry hungry hippo. My tampon tunnel was trembling like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. He munched on my furburger, even though I'd had my redwings for the best part of a week. Within no time, I could feel the shitty man fat frothing from my balloon knot and all over my fishy flaps. By now, my cod cave was dribbling like a rabid dog. My mouth was so full of one-eyed monster and baby gravy, the creamy load was oozing down my chin and onto my chesticles. After having my gaping clam cavern pounded, he then proceeded to pound my ring piece. Inserting a barbie doll into my ground zero grotto got me spattering vertical moisture faster than snot off a whip. When he removed his skeleton king from my old dirt road, he was pleasantly surprised to see a toilet twinkie staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to consume the stink pickle off his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon. With his greasy kebab skewer slamming deep into my sperm socket, the sensation of his blue-veined custard chucker smashing my cervix made me quiver like a tasered slab of chopped liver. I awoke the next morning with my clearing in the woods still sliming. I thought it was over but his love lollipop had other ideas. The plowing of my tradesman's entrance was so vigorous, he soon found his wrecking balls joining his wensleydale wand deep in my balloon knot. The seemingly never-ending streams of creamy load emanating from his thrill drill soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. Now, I've seen more action than Helmand Province, but the sight of his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus made my tuna tunnel tears foam like someone had poured fairy liquid into Niagara Falls.
Now, I've had more hands up me than The Muppets, but the sight of his skeleton king made my beige slime dribble like a slavering dog. The seemingly never-ending streams of man fat emanating from his skin flute soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. He munched on my open-faced ham sandwich, even though I'd had my redwings for the best part of a week. I can't wait to suck the love piss from his sperminator. With his jebend plowing deep into my fuck gutter, the sensation of his devil's bagpipe smashing my cervix made me quake like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. The slamming makes me spritz my minge monsoon all over his brie baton. Inserting a gerbil into my Quimcy, M.E. got me splurging fallopian fish stock faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. He eased out a giant stink pickle on my sweater puppies just so he could gobble it up like a hungry hungry hippo. My throat was so full of love muscle and penis pudding, the love mayonnaise was leaching down my chin and onto my chesticles. With my lunchmeat now much like a twisted slipper, he thought it was time to start probing my balloon knot. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cut a stink pickle, I wondered? There was love piss draining from his spam dagger and I was wetter than an Italian cruise ship. We were ready for more. Within no time, I could feel the shitty creamy load leaching from my turd-herder and all over my flappy meal. The unrelenting orgasms from his washington monument thrusting my cock holster made me come so hard, I began sweating like a pregnant nun. Hours of slamming like this would leave any girl's beef curtains looking like a twisted slipper, and I was no different! Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his veiny quim prod plunged deeper into my balloon knot. The feeling of his penis pudding slobbering down my throat got my pussy batter flowing quicker
than a greased weasel shit. I awoke the next morning with my quim still sliming. I thought it was over but his cunt plunger had other ideas. The thrusting of my shit winker was so vigorous, he soon found his man marbles joining his greasy kebab skewer deep in my fart valve. My clunge pool was trembling like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. If I don't fish for pearls to get my vertical moisture sliming from my vaginal bacon buffet, his one-eyed milkman is going to leave my piss flaps resembling a shot cat. Some girls are happy just to strum the banjo when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster in my kipper dinghy and a gerbil up my poo pipe. When he removed his flesh gordon from my vintage golf bag, he was pleasantly surprised to see a Mr. Hanky staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to consume the butt nugget off his thrill drill. After having my cod crater plowed, he then proceeded to thrust my vintage golf bag. The mixture of Mr. Hanky and baby gravy in my brown mile created the delicious sphincter sauce that he was so fond of. It was bliss having his meaty member shoved inside me again; stuffing my front bum with a number of chillies just didn't get my depravity cavity pouring like it used to.
