by Amy Woods
The mixture of stink pickle and Da Vinci load in my turd cutter created the delicious rectal stew that he was so fond of. The unrelenting orgasms from his devil's bagpipe pounding my oyster ditch made me come so hard, I began sweating like a whore in a confessional. Inserting a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster into my front bum got me spritzing minge monsoon faster than a greased weasel shit. He pitched a giant hardened fudge nugget on my sweater puppies just so he could lap it up like a hungry hungry hippo. I awoke the next morning with my oyster ditch still haemorrhaging. I thought it was over but his Ocean's 11 Inches had other ideas. I can't wait to lap the baby gravy from his blind butler. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his chubstep probed deeper into my old dirt road. Some girls are happy just to tune the tuna when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a squash in my wizards sleeve and an antique doorknob up my puckered brown eye. Now, I've seen more action than Helmand Province, but the sight of his master of ceremonies made my minge monsoon slobber like a jizz waterfall. If I don't study english cliterature to get my minge mucus oozing from my ruby cave, his jade rod is going to leave my hairy goblet resembling a badly wrapped kebab. There was love mayonnaise trickling from his washington monument and I was wetter than a spastic's chin. We were ready for more. My cod canyon was trembling like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. He munched on my vertical garden, even though I'd had the painters in for the best part of a week. The thrusting of my brown mile was so vigorous, he soon found his family jewels joining his one-eyed monster deep in my turd cutter. Hours of thrusting like this would leave any girl's open-faced ham sandwich looking like the Japanese flag, and I was no different! By now, my depravity cavity was frothing like a leaky tap. The feeling of his creamy load leaching down my throat got my beige slime flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. After having my vaginal bacon buffet pounded, he then proceeded to pound my brown mile. With my fishy flaps now much like a horse's collar, he thought it was time to start ramming my cocoa channel. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cut a toilet twinkie, I wondered? It was bliss having his bald avenger plunged inside me again; stuffing my bearded haddock pasty with a squash just didn't get my frilling pink golf bag pouring like it used to. The thrusting makes me squirt my clunge gunge all over his Ocean's 11 Inches. The seemingly never-ending streams of love piss emanating from his flesh gordon soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. My throat was so full of devil's bagpipe and creamy load, the penis pudding was seeping down my chin and onto my breasticles. With his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon raiding deep into my whispering eye, the sensation of his spam dagger smashing my cervix made me quiver like a shitting dog. Within no time, I could feel the shitty magician's wax slobbering from my brown eye and all over my panty hamster.
By now, my clam-flavoured pothole was frothing like a broken coffee maker. I can't wait to consume the Da Vinci load from his one-eyed milkman. The unrelenting orgasms from his blue-veined custard chucker thrusting my ladytown made me come so hard, I began sweating like a gypsy with a mortgage. I awoke the next morning with my Quimcy, M.E. still haemorrhaging. I thought it was over but his wensleydale wand had other ideas. With my beef curtains now much like Brian May's plughole, he thought it was time to start stuffing my balloon knot. Is now the time to tell him I really need to ease a footlong fudge bullet, I wondered? Now, I've been shot over more times than Sarajevo, but the sight of his love muscle made my spaff drip like Wayne Rooney's dick in an OAP home. The mixture of footlong fudge bullet and penis pudding in my poop chute created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. There was Da Vinci load draining from his cheese-crusted cock and I was wetter than an otter's pocket. We were ready for more. The feeling of his ectoplasm sliming down my throat got my minge mucus flowing quicker than snot off a whip. The seemingly never-ending streams of Da Vinci load emanating from his bugger king soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. He extruded a giant corn-eyed butt snake on my sweater puppies just so he could chow down on it up like a pig at a trough. After having my hatchet wound plowed, he then proceeded to slam my Oxo orifice. The hammering of my Oxo orifice was so vigorous, he soon found his kids on a swing joining his spunk-filled spam rocket deep in my ring piece. My chamber of squelch was trembling like a rat on acid. He munched on my hairy goblet, even though I'd been surfing the crimson tide for the best part of a week. 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 number of chillies in my salmon slit and an egg timer up my rusty bullet hole. If I don't study english cliterature to get my shrimp sap dripping from my birth cannon, his vein cane is going to leave my meaty hangers resembling Pete Burns' lips. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his timed slimer probed deeper into my brown eye. Within no time, I could feel the shitty baby gravy frothing from my cocoa channel and all over my hairy goblet. Inserting a gerbil into my salmon slit got me surging minge mucus faster than a greased weasel shit. Hours of slamming like this would leave any girl's furburger looking like a sand blasted tomato, and I was no different! When he removed his one-eyed monster from my poo pipe, he was pleasantly surprised to see a toilet twinkie staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to devour the footlong fudge bullet off his disco stick. The hammering makes me spritz my fallopian fish stock all over his flesh gordon. My cake hole was so full of cheese-crusted cock and cock snot, the man fat was trickling down my chin and onto my sweater puppies. With his muffbuster fucking deep into my clunge pool, the sensation of his sperminator smashing my cervix made me quiver like a rat on acid.
I awoke the next morning with my slime hole still flowing. I thought it was over but his skeleton king had other ideas. Hours of pounding like this would leave any girl's flappy meal looking like a dropped burrito, and I was no different! My front bum was trembling like a tasered slab of chopped liver. The raiding makes me spout my spaff all over his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon. Inserting a squash into my meat purse got me pouring flange custard faster than snot off a whip. If I don't finger blast to get my vertical moisture foaming from my hatchet wound, his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon is going to leave my flappy meal resembling badly battered road kill. The feeling of his ectoplasm frothing down my throat got my minge monsoon flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. Now, I've had more hands up me than The Muppets, but the sight of his stilton spear made my spaff seep like Adele waiting for Greggs to open. The hammering of my vintage golf bag was so vigorous, he soon found his two amigos joining his flesh gordon deep in my brown eye. It was bliss having his battering ram plunged inside me again; stuffing my cum dumpster with a barbie doll just didn't get my chamber of squelch spraying like it used to. By now, my bearded haddock pasty was sliming like a rabid dog. With his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus pounding deep into my hatchet wound, the sensation of his piss pipe smashing my cervix made me quake like a tasered slab of chopped liver. The seemingly never-ending streams of steamin' semen emanating from his ample cock soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. The unrelenting orgasms from his spunk-filled spam rocket hammering my depravity cavity made me come so hard, I began sweating like a pregnant nun. He munched on my vertical garden, even though I'd been on the rag for the best part of a week. There was love mayonnaise frothing from his tenderloin truncheon and I was wetter than a well diggers arse. We were ready for more. With my vertical smile now much like a gutted trout, he thought it was time to start shoving my puckered brown eye. Is now the time to tell him I really need to arc a colon cobra, I wondered? When he removed his spam dagger from my cocoa channel, he was pleasantly surprised to see a butt nugget staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to gobble the stink pickle off his chorizo howitzer. After having my smush mitten raided, he then proceeded to plow my poop chute. The mixture of footlong fudge bullet and steamin' semen in my soft tight anus created the delicious porthole pudding that he was so fond of. Within no time, I could fe
el the shitty baby gravy slobbering from my old dirt road and all over my velcro triangle. I can't wait to chow down on the love mayonnaise from his muffbuster. Some girls are happy just to dial the rotary phone when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a 9-iron in my hatchet wound and a lightbulb up my brown eye. My mouth was so full of cream reaper and love piss, the steamin' semen was trickling down my chin and onto my chesticles. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his timed slimer slid deeper into my tradesman's entrance.
With my clap flaps now much like a bulldog in a windtunnel, he thought it was time to start plunging my fudge factory. Is now the time to tell him I really need to pitch a hardened fudge nugget, I wondered? Hours of fucking like this would leave any girl's purple cabbage looking like a stamped bat, and I was no different! When he removed his blind butler from my brown mile, he was pleasantly surprised to see a stink pickle staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to devour the Mr. Hanky off his cheese-crusted cock. The unrelenting orgasms from his bald-headed yogurt slinger thrusting my mound of love pudding made me come so hard, I began sweating like a blind lesbian in a fish shop. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his pink tractor beam stuffed deeper into my rusty sherif's badge. Now, I've seen more foreskins than a rabbi during a baby boom, but the sight of his thrill drill made my minge mucus drip like Adele waiting for Greggs to open. The feeling of his steamin' semen leaching down my throat got my sex wee flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. My throat was so full of love muscle and ectoplasm, the ectoplasm was slobbering down my chin and onto my mosquito bites. Some girls are happy just to fluff the muff when they're alone, but I can't get off without having an antique doorknob in my gashtray and my fist up my black hole. After having my shame portal pounded, he then proceeded to hammer my ring piece. Within no time, I could feel the shitty cock custard leaching from my shit winker and all over my meaty hangers. Inserting an egg timer into my birth cannon got me spraying minge monsoon faster than a greased weasel shit. My oyster ditch was trembling like a shitting dog. The thrusting makes me spray my fallopian fish stock all over his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon. There was love mayonnaise foaming from his spam javelin and I was wetter than an Italian cruise ship. We were ready for more. He rolled a giant stink pickle on my rack just so he could gobble it up like a bulldog eating porridge. The seemingly never-ending streams of baby gravy emanating from his skeleton king soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. The mixture of colon cobra and penis pudding in my other vagina created the delicious sphincter sauce that he was so fond of. He munched on my flappy meal, even though I'd been walking the red carpet for the best part of a week. With his tenderloin truncheon plowing deep into my one slice toaster, the sensation of his cunt plunger smashing my cervix made me quiver like Vanessa Feltz's diesel-powered vibrator. By now, my sperm socket was foaming like a hungry pig at a trough. I can't wait to consume the love mayonnaise from his all-beef thermometer. The hammering of my rusty bullet hole was so vigorous, he soon found his jingle-jangle jewellery joining his one-eyed milkman deep in my turd cutter. If I don't fluff the muff to get my clunge gunge trickling from my birth cannon, his cervix cigar is going to leave my fishy flaps resembling an over inflated dinghy. It was bliss having his slut slayer rammed inside me again; stuffing my soft-shelled tuna taco with a barbie doll just didn't get my stench trench splurging like it used to.
With my meaty hangers now much like a bulldog licking piss from a thistle, he thought it was time to start sliding my ring piece. Is now the time to tell him I really need to blast a toilet twinkie, I wondered? He eased out a giant footlong fudge bullet on my sweater puppies just so he could lap it up like a bulldog eating porridge. There was love mayonnaise draining from his slut slayer and I was wetter than an otter's pocket. We were ready for more. He munched on my lunchmeat, even though I'd had the painters in for the best part of a week. Inserting a 9-iron into my vaginal bacon buffet got me gushing flange custard faster than snot off a whip. The seemingly never-ending streams of cock custard emanating from his timed slimer soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. My throat was so full of throbbing quim dagger and gentleman's relish, the magician's wax was flowing down my chin and onto my chest puppies. After having my ruby cave raided, he then proceeded to pound my Oxo orifice. Within no time, I could feel the shitty ectoplasm dribbling from my ring piece and all over my lunchmeat. The mixture of toilet twinkie and gentleman's relish in my other vagina created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. If I don't strum the banjo to get my beige slime flowing from my cod crater, his cream reaper is going to leave my beef curtains resembling a hippo's yawn. With his greasy kebab skewer plowing deep into my smush mitten, the sensation of his huge penis smashing my cervix made me quiver like Vanessa Feltz's diesel-powered vibrator. Hours of pounding like this would leave any girl's fishy flaps looking like a shot cat, and I was no different! I awoke the next morning with my enchilada of love still foaming. I thought it was over but his clunger had other ideas. The feeling of his baby gravy trickling down my throat got my minge monsoon flowing quicker than snot off a whip. By now, my moose knuckle was haemorrhaging like a broken coffee maker. When he removed his wrist-thick wand from my ring piece, he was pleasantly surprised to see a stink pickle staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to chow down on the hardened fudge nugget off his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon. Now, I've seen more japseyes than an oriental optician, but the sight of his long-dong silver made my minge monsoon drain like Wayne Rooney's dick in an OAP home. The plowing of my cocoa channel was so vigorous, he soon found his sperm factories joining his meaty member deep in my marmite motorway. Some girls are happy just to audition the finger puppets when they're alone, but I can't get off without having an egg timer in my one slice toaster and a 15" spiked vibrator up my mud flap. I can't wait to gobble the cock custard from his thrill drill. The raiding makes me spout my minge mucus all over his cheese-crusted cock. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his spam javelin slid deeper into my fudge factory. It was bliss having his bugger king stuffed inside me again; stuffing my penis pothole with an egg timer just didn't get my tampon tunnel spraying like it used to. The unrelenting orgasms from his spam dagger pounding my cock holster made me come so hard, I began sweating like a blind lesbian in a fish shop.
Now, I've been told the sperm bank will accept my spit, but the sight of his batter blaster made my beige slime haemorrhage like a leaky tap. Inserting a squash into my frilling pink golf bag got me spouting fallopian fish stock faster than snot off a whip. Within no time, I could feel the shitty penis pudding haemorrhaging from my black hole and all over my spam castanets. I can't wait to chow down on the steamin' semen from his disco stick. The unrelenting orgasms from his battering ram fucking my furry cup made me come so hard, I began sweating like Mike Tyson at a spelling bee. By now, my cum dumpster was slobbering like a jizz waterfall. My cake hole was so full of womb raider and baby gravy, the creamy load was dribbling down my chin and onto my sweater puppies. There was man fat dribbling from his bald-headed yogurt slinger and I was wetter than an Italian cruise ship. We were ready for more. The seemingly never-ending streams of gentleman's relish emanating from his battering ram soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. With my vertical garden now much like a rabid baboon's arse, he thought it was time to start stuffing my brown eye. Is now the time to tell him I really need to roll a Mr. Hanky, I wondered? The mixture of butt nugget and penis pudding in my brown eye created the delicious porthole pudding that he was so fond of. He munched on my meaty hangers, even though I'd been riding the cotton pony for the best part of a week. The fucking makes me spit my beige slime all over his one-eyed monster. Hours of plowing like this would leave any girl's vertical garden looking like Terry Waite's allotment, and I was no different! I awoke the next morning with my birth cannon still dribbling. I thought it was over but his purple beaver buster had other ideas. Whe
n he removed his greasy kebab skewer from my cocoa channel, he was pleasantly surprised to see a Mr. Hanky staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to lap the footlong fudge bullet off his wrist-thick wand. The feeling of his man fat frothing down my throat got my clunge gunge flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. The fucking of my balloon knot was so vigorous, he soon found his kids on a swing joining his huge penis deep in my vintage golf bag. Some girls are happy just to get a stinky pinky when they're alone, but I can't get off without having an antique doorknob in my vaginal bacon buffet and a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster up my black hole. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his washington monument plunged deeper into my mud flap. If I don't fish for pearls to get my beige slime trickling from my municipal cockwash, his huge penis is going to leave my open-faced ham sandwich resembling a stuntman's knee. My vibration station was trembling like a shitting dog. He launched a giant Mr. Hanky on my mosquito bites just so he could gobble it up like a bulldog eating porridge. After having my kipper dinghy thrusted, he then proceeded to raid my puckered brown eye. It was bliss having his tenderloin truncheon slid inside me again; stuffing my moose knuckle with a gerbil just didn't get my furry cup flooding like it used to.
