by Amy Woods
The feeling of his baby gravy frothing down my throat got my tuna tunnel tears flowing quicker than snot off a whip. My vibrator crater was trembling like a shitting dog. There was cock custard trickling from his bald-headed yogurt slinger and I was wetter than a well diggers arse. We were ready for more. The mixture of Mr. Hanky and love mayonnaise in my mud flap created the delicious rectal stew that he was so fond of. The plowing of my fart valve was so vigorous, he soon found his clock weights joining his chubstep deep in my poo pipe. Now, I've seen more foreskins than a rabbi during a baby boom, but the sight of his womb raider made my flange custard leach like a George Foreman grill. When he removed his purple beaver buster from my tradesman's entrance, he was pleasantly surprised to see a corn-eyed butt snake staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to gobble the corn-eyed butt snake off his bugger king. My cake hole was so full of timed slimer and cock custard, the love mayonnaise was dribbling down my chin and onto my superdroopers. The slamming makes me spout my flange custard all over his stilton sword. By now, my cock holster was leaking like there was a midget inside me with a super soaker. Within no time, I could feel the shitty cock custard leaking from my turd cutter and all over my clap flaps. He launched a giant Mr. Hanky on my chesticles just so he could consume it up like a bulldog eating porridge. It was bliss having his greasy slimelight rammed inside me again; stuffing my oyster ditch with a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster just didn't get my birth cannon squirting like it used to. Hours of raiding like this would leave any girl's roast beef platter looking like John Wayne's saddlebags, and I was no different! Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his one-eyed milkman rammed deeper into my old dirt road. He munched on my furburger, even though I'd been up on bricks for the best part of a week. With my velcro triangle now much like a clown's pocket, he thought it was time to start probing my ring piece. Is now the time to tell him I really need to drop a hardened fudge nugget, I wondered? After having my ground zero grotto pounded, he then proceeded to raid my rusty sherif's badge. I can't wait to lap the love mayonnaise from his all-beef thermometer. The unrelenting orgasms from his muffbuster thrusting my hatchet wound made me come so hard, I began sweating like a gypsy near an unlocked shipping container. If I don't play the clitar to get my shrimp sap oozing from my meat purse, his cumtree is going to leave my roast beef platter resembling a badly wrapped kebab. With his slut slayer pounding deep into my furry cup, the sensation of his stilton sword smashing my cervix made me quiver like jelly. Inserting a number of chillies into my ground zero grotto got me spraying sex wee faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. Some girls are happy just to flick the bean when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a lightbulb in my gashtray and a barbie doll up my fudge factory. I awoke the next morning with my sperm socket still seeping. I thought it was over but his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus had other ideas.
Some girls are happy just to fish for pearls when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a barbie doll in my oyster ditch and an antique doorknob up my fudge factory. Inserting an egg timer into my kipper dinghy got me surging spaff faster than a greased weasel shit. When he removed his disco stick from my marmite motorway, he was pleasantly surprised to see a toilet twinkie staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to devour the hardened fudge nugget off his skeleton king. If I don't finger blast to get my beige slime weeping from my Quimcy, M.E., his love muscle is going to leave my meaty hangers resembling a manatee in yoga pants. The slamming makes me squirt my shrimp sap all over his stilton sword. The seemingly never-ending streams of cock custard emanating from his womb raider soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. I can't wait to gobble the love mayonnaise from his clunger. It was bliss having his mutton dagger rammed inside me again; stuffing my meat purse with a number of chillies just didn't get my ladytown spouting like it used to. He copped a giant colon cobra on my breasticles just so he could devour it up like a hungry hungry hippo. Within no time, I could feel the shitty love mayonnaise trickling from my rusty bullet hole and all over my meaty hangers. The feeling of his baby gravy dripping down my throat got my pussy batter flowing quicker than snot off a whip. My mouth was so full of tenderloin truncheon and ectoplasm, the magician's wax was dripping down my chin and onto my twin peaks. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his disco stick slid deeper into my mud flap. He munched on my clap flaps, even though I'd had the painters in for the best part of a week. With his ample cock fucking deep into my Quimcy, M.E., the sensation of his purple beaver buster smashing my cervix made me quake like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. Hours of slamming like this would leave any girl's piss flaps looking like badly battered road kill, and I was no different! The unrelenting orgasms from his purple-headed trouser snake fucking my stench trench made me come so hard, I began sweating like a pregnant nun. Now, I've taken more poundings than the Somme, but the sight of his wensleydale wand made my minge monsoon dribble like a hungry pig at a trough. The mixture of toilet twinkie and love piss in my puckered brown eye created the delicious rectal stew that he was so fond of. With my meaty hangers now much like a horse's collar, he thought it was time to start shoving my turd cutter. Is now the time to tell him I really need to blast a toilet twinkie, I wondered? After having my cod canyon slammed, he then proceeded to pound my other vagina. The slamming of my other vagina was so vigorous, he soon found his clock weights joining his chubstep deep in my balloon knot. My cod canyon was trembling like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. There was love mayonnaise dribbling from his cunt plunger and I was wetter than an English summer. We were ready for more. I awoke the next morning with my calamari cockring still haemorrhaging. I thought it was over but his vein cane had other ideas.
The unrelenting orgasms from his cream reaper hammering my moose knuckle made me come so hard, I began sweating like a dyslexic on Countdown. The feeling of his steamin' semen leaching down my throat got my minge mucus flowing quicker than snot off a whip. He pinched off a giant corn-eyed butt snake on my sweater puppies just so he could chow down on it up like a bulldog eating porridge. After having my fuck trench pounded, he then proceeded to pound my fudge factory. 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 lightbulb in my oyster ditch and a number of chillies up my poop chute. Now, I've seen more japseyes than an oriental optician, but the sight of his brie baton made my fallopian fish stock weep like a broken coffee maker. Hours of fucking like this would leave any girl's velcro triangle looking like a shot cat, and I was no different! It was bliss having his gristle missile stuffed inside me again; stuffing my meat purse with a squash just didn't get my fuck gutter ejecting like it used to. The pounding makes me spout my pussy batter all over his kebeb skewer. The mixture of butt nugget and gentleman's relish in my poo pipe created the delicious sphincter sauce that he was so fond of. Within no time, I could feel the shitty baby gravy leaking from my poo pipe and all over my fishy flaps. By now, my gammon alley was frothing like a jizz waterfall. With his timed slimer thrusting deep into my gaping clam cavern, the sensation of his blue-veined custard chucker smashing my cervix made me quake like jelly. When he removed his tallywacker from my poop chute, he was pleasantly surprised to see a footlong fudge bullet staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to lap the toilet twinkie off his womb ferret. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his sperminator stuffed deeper into my balloon knot. My mouth was so full of kebeb skewer and penis pudding, the steamin' semen was leaking down my chin and onto my sweater puppies. I can't wait to consume the penis pudding from his womb ferret. The seemingly never-ending streams of love mayonnaise emanating from his veiny quim prod soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. I awoke the next morning with my soft-shelled tuna taco still dribbling. I thought it was over but his cheese-crusted cock had other ideas. Inserting a number of chillies into my furry cup got me spr
itzing shrimp sap faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. There was love mayonnaise trickling from his cunt plunger and I was wetter than an otter's pocket. We were ready for more. He munched on my piss flaps, even though I'd had the painters in for the best part of a week. My clunge pool was trembling like a shitting dog. The pounding of my tradesman's entrance was so vigorous, he soon found his kids on a swing joining his greasy slimelight deep in my vintage golf bag. If I don't tune the tuna to get my clunge gunge trickling from my furry cup, his love lollipop is going to leave my vertical garden resembling a gutted trout.
After having my split peach slammed, he then proceeded to slam my mud flap. The fucking makes me flow my minge monsoon all over his bald-headed yogurt slinger. I awoke the next morning with my fuck trench still frothing. I thought it was over but his piss pipe had other ideas. He munched on my purple cabbage, even though I'd been on the rag for the best part of a week. It was bliss having his muffbuster probed inside me again; stuffing my municipal cockwash with a 15" spiked vibrator just didn't get my stench trench spraying like it used to. I can't wait to suck the ectoplasm from his kebeb skewer. If I don't flick the bean to get my vertical moisture oozing from my kipper dinghy, his chorizo howitzer is going to leave my purple cabbage resembling a hippo's yawn. There was man fat weeping from his skin flute and I was wetter than an English summer. We were ready for more. My cake hole was so full of stilton spear and penis pudding, the baby gravy was draining down my chin and onto my chest puppies. Now, I've been shot over more times than Sarajevo, but the sight of his wrist-thick wand made my minge mucus flow like a George Foreman grill. By now, my south mouth was leaking like a slug in a salt mine. When he removed his Ocean's 11 Inches from my shit winker, he was pleasantly surprised to see a stink pickle staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to lap the sewer trout off his all-beef thermometer. Hours of plowing like this would leave any girl's roast beef platter looking like a bucket of smashed crabs, and I was no different! Within no time, I could feel the shitty ectoplasm leaking from my shit winker and all over my meaty hangers. The unrelenting orgasms from his blue-veined custard chucker slamming my chlamydia canal made me come so hard, I began sweating like a pregnant nun. With his jebend hammering deep into my quim, the sensation of his mutton dagger smashing my cervix made me quake like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. My Quimcy, M.E. was trembling like a tasered slab of chopped liver. The mixture of footlong fudge bullet and cock custard in my brown mile created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. The pounding of my rusty sherif's badge was so vigorous, he soon found his family jewels joining his skin flute deep in my balloon knot. With my furburger now much like a hippo's yawn, he thought it was time to start stuffing my ring piece. Is now the time to tell him I really need to blast a colon cobra, I wondered? Some girls are happy just to strum the banjo when they're alone, but I can't get off without having an antique doorknob in my ladytown and a 15" spiked vibrator up my brown eye. The feeling of his cock snot oozing down my throat got my shrimp sap flowing quicker than snot off a whip. Inserting an antique doorknob into my depravity cavity got me spraying tuna tunnel tears faster than a greased weasel shit. The seemingly never-ending streams of cock custard emanating from his meaty member soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. He blasted a giant corn-eyed butt snake on my chest puppies just so he could lap it up like a bulldog eating porridge.
The mixture of Mr. Hanky and baby gravy in my turd-herder created the delicious sphincter sauce that he was so fond of. The pounding makes me flood my clunge gunge all over his spam javelin. Within no time, I could feel the shitty Da Vinci load haemorrhaging from my other vagina and all over my fishy flaps. Hours of hammering like this would leave any girl's clap flaps looking like a stamped bat, and I was no different! Inserting a number of chillies into my gashtray got me pouring spaff faster than a greased weasel shit. The thrusting of my balloon knot was so vigorous, he soon found his wrecking balls joining his stilton sword deep in my turd cutter. The unrelenting orgasms from his veiny quim prod thrusting my split peach made me come so hard, I began sweating like a white mouse in a tampon factory. My salmon slit was trembling like Vanessa Feltz's diesel-powered vibrator. Now, I've been shot over more times than Sarajevo, but the sight of his gristle missile made my pussy batter dribble like a jizz waterfall. Some girls are happy just to tune the tuna when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster in my ladytown and an egg timer up my shit winker. I can't wait to gobble the Da Vinci load from his Nelson's Column. If I don't audition the finger puppets to get my vertical moisture weeping from my tampon tunnel, his ample cock is going to leave my vertical smile resembling a horse's collar. The feeling of his man fat trickling down my throat got my sex wee flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. My cake hole was so full of cheese-crusted cock and man fat, the love mayonnaise was seeping down my chin and onto my twin peaks. After having my cod cave thrusted, he then proceeded to raid my vintage golf bag. He crowned a giant butt nugget on my chest puppies just so he could devour it up like a hungry hungry hippo. It was bliss having his skeleton king rammed inside me again; stuffing my gaping clam cavern with an egg timer just didn't get my ground zero grotto squirting like it used to. The seemingly never-ending streams of gentleman's relish emanating from his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. I awoke the next morning with my Quimcy, M.E. still flowing. I thought it was over but his muffbuster had other ideas. He munched on my panty hamster, even though I'd been walking the red carpet for the best part of a week. With his washington monument thrusting deep into my sperm socket, the sensation of his spam dagger smashing my cervix made me quiver like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. There was love piss sliming from his cream reaper and I was wetter than an English summer. We were ready for more. With my hairy goblet now much like a ripped out fireplace, he thought it was time to start shoving my brown eye. Is now the time to tell him I really need to blast a toilet twinkie, I wondered? When he removed his cream reaper from my rusty bullet hole, he was pleasantly surprised to see a colon cobra staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to gobble the butt nugget off his veiny quim prod. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his ramrod rammed deeper into my fart valve.
The unrelenting orgasms from his kebeb skewer slamming my split peach made me come so hard, I began sweating like a dyslexic on Countdown. Some girls are happy just to tune the tuna when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a gerbil in my clunge pool and a 15" spiked vibrator up my rusty sherif's badge. I can't wait to devour the steamin' semen from his tenderloin truncheon. With his ample cock thrusting deep into my smush mitten, the sensation of his brie baton smashing my cervix made me quiver like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. By now, my wizards sleeve was flowing like a George Foreman grill. Now, I've been told the sperm bank will accept my spit, but the sight of his slut slayer made my pussy batter dribble like a broken fridge freezer. The seemingly never-ending streams of cock custard emanating from his cumtree soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. Within no time, I could feel the shitty cock snot frothing from my ring piece and all over my beef curtains. It was bliss having his Ocean's 11 Inches rammed inside me again; stuffing my Quimcy, M.E. with a gerbil just didn't get my cock holster gushing like it used to. There was Da Vinci load dripping from his disco stick and I was wetter than an otter's pocket. We were ready for more. Inserting an egg timer into my frilling pink golf bag got me spouting minge mucus faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. The mixture of corn-eyed butt snake and man fat in my vintage golf bag created the delicious porthole pudding that he was so fond of. He pinched off a giant hardened fudge nugget on my twin peaks just so he could consume it up like a bulldog eating porridge. After having my cod canyon slammed, he then proceeded to slam my puckered brown eye. The feeling of his man fat foaming down my throat got my spaff flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. The thrusting of my
Mavis Fritter was so vigorous, he soon found his chin pounders joining his spunk-filled spam rocket deep in my turd-herder. I awoke the next morning with my bearded haddock pasty still frothing. I thought it was over but his cervix cigar had other ideas. He munched on my purple cabbage, even though I'd had Aunt Flo visiting for the best part of a week. If I don't fluff the muff to get my pussy batter foaming from my vibration station, his purple-headed trouser snake is going to leave my clap flaps resembling a darts team's goalkeeper. My cod canyon was trembling like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. My mouth was so full of Nelson's Column and love piss, the penis pudding was slobbering down my chin and onto my fiery biscuits. Hours of pounding like this would leave any girl's purple cabbage looking like Brian May's plughole, and I was no different! The pounding makes me flood my clunge gunge all over his piss pipe. With my furburger now much like a badly wrapped kebab, he thought it was time to start plunging my Oxo orifice. Is now the time to tell him I really need to crown a hardened fudge nugget, I wondered? Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his cumtree stuffed deeper into my mud flap.
