by Amy Woods
I can't wait to suck the cock custard from his tallywacker. Inserting my fist into my slime hole got me spritzing beige slime faster than a greased weasel shit. The feeling of his love piss dribbling down my throat got my tuna tunnel tears flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. Some girls are happy just to finger blast when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a 9-iron in my salmon slit and an egg timer up my fudge factory. It was bliss having his huge penis plunged inside me again; stuffing my penis pothole with a barbie doll just didn't get my vibration station pouring like it used to. Within no time, I could feel the shitty steamin' semen frothing from my fudge factory and all over my beef curtains. If I don't strum the banjo to get my shrimp sap haemorrhaging from my quim, his sperminator is going to leave my furburger resembling a bulldog licking piss from a thistle. The plowing of my soft tight anus was so vigorous, he soon found his kids on a swing joining his purple beaver buster deep in my old dirt road. The unrelenting orgasms from his cream reaper hammering my wizards sleeve made me come so hard, I began sweating like a paedo during a prison riot. With my panty hamster now much like a ripped out fireplace, he thought it was time to start ramming my fudge factory. Is now the time to tell him I really need to pitch a toilet twinkie, I wondered? There was love piss frothing from his thrill drill and I was wetter than a well diggers arse. We were ready for more. The mixture of footlong fudge bullet and man fat in my mud flap created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. When he removed his tenderloin truncheon from my brown mile, he was pleasantly surprised to see a stink pickle staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to suck the stink pickle off his one-eyed milkman. Hours of thrusting like this would leave any girl's open-faced ham sandwich looking like a rabid baboon's arse, and I was no different! I awoke the next morning with my furry cup still seeping. I thought it was over but his blue-veined custard chucker had other ideas. He munched on my clap flaps, even though I'd been walking the red carpet for the best part of a week. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his piss pipe slid deeper into my mud flap. My hatchet wound was trembling like jelly. By now, my sperm socket was leaching like a broken coffee maker. Now, I've seen more foreskins than a rabbi during a baby boom, but the sight of his bald avenger made my vertical moisture trickle like a slavering dog. The thrusting makes me gush my vertical moisture all over his jade rod. The seemingly never-ending streams of man fat emanating from his stilton spear soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. He extruded a giant stink pickle on my mosquito bites just so he could chow down on it up like a bulldog eating porridge. After having my clearing in the woods pounded, he then proceeded to slam my mud flap. With his disco stick fucking deep into my frilling pink golf bag, the sensation of his muffbuster smashing my cervix made me quiver like jelly.
Now, I've had more hands up me than The Muppets, but the sight of his meaty member made my beige slime seep like a George Foreman grill. With his cunt stretcher thrusting deep into my fuck gutter, the sensation of his greasy kebab skewer smashing my cervix made me quake like a shitting dog. The raiding of my Oxo orifice was so vigorous, he soon found his clock weights joining his muffbuster deep in my fudge factory. If I don't dial the rotary phone to get my shrimp sap oozing from my kipper dinghy, his ample cock is going to leave my meaty hangers resembling a horse's collar. The hammering makes me flood my clunge gunge all over his womb raider. He munched on my fishy flaps, even though I'd been surfing the crimson tide for the best part of a week. The seemingly never-ending streams of love mayonnaise emanating from his greasy kebab skewer soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. The unrelenting orgasms from his Nelson's Column hammering my vibration station made me come so hard, I began sweating like a fat slag in a disco. Hours of plowing like this would leave any girl's flappy meal looking like Pete Burns' lips, and I was no different! Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his all-beef thermometer plunged deeper into my rusty sherif's badge. After having my fuck gutter slammed, he then proceeded to raid my mud flap. The mixture of footlong fudge bullet and Da Vinci load in my vintage golf bag created the delicious porthole pudding that he was so fond of. I can't wait to suck the baby gravy from his womb ferret. With my velcro triangle now much like a gutted trout, he thought it was time to start ramming my turd cutter. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cut a footlong fudge bullet, I wondered? When he removed his one-eyed milkman from my fart valve, he was pleasantly surprised to see a footlong fudge bullet staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to chow down on the toilet twinkie off his batter blaster. My ladytown was trembling like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. By now, my cod cave was weeping like a rabid dog. I awoke the next morning with my one slice toaster still leaching. I thought it was over but his vein cane had other ideas. There was Da Vinci load dribbling from his clunger and I was wetter than an English summer. We were ready for more. Inserting a lightbulb into my herring hole got me squirting clunge gunge faster than a greased weasel shit. It was bliss having his spunk-filled spam rocket stuffed inside me again; stuffing my depravity cavity with a number of chillies just didn't get my split peach spritzing like it used to. Within no time, I could feel the shitty baby gravy dripping from my Oxo orifice and all over my purple cabbage. He arced a giant Mr. Hanky on my top bollocks just so he could chow down on it up like a pig at a trough. My throat was so full of sperminator and baby gravy, the steamin' semen was foaming down my chin and onto my breasticles. The feeling of his baby gravy leaking down my throat got my clunge gunge flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit.
Inserting a number of chillies into my stench trench got me squirting tuna tunnel tears faster than a greased weasel shit. He arced a giant colon cobra on my fiery biscuits just so he could lap it up like a pig at a trough. The slamming makes me splurge my shrimp sap all over his vein cane. He munched on my purple cabbage, even though I'd had Aunt Flo visiting for the best part of a week. After having my clunge pool raided, he then proceeded to hammer my turd cutter. When he removed his giggle stick from my rusty sherif's badge, he was pleasantly surprised to see a butt nugget staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to lap the footlong fudge bullet off his cunt stretcher. Some girls are happy just to strum the banjo when they're alone, but I can't get off without having my fist in my one slice toaster and a gerbil up my old dirt road. I awoke the next morning with my tampon tunnel still dripping. I thought it was over but his wensleydale wand had other ideas. My calamari cockring was trembling like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. The pounding of my ring piece was so vigorous, he soon found his love spuds joining his slut slayer deep in my cocoa channel. With his vein cane fucking deep into my cum dumpster, the sensation of his kebeb skewer smashing my cervix made me quiver like jelly. With my flappy meal now much like the Japanese flag, he thought it was time to start probing my rusty bullet hole. Is now the time to tell him I really need to ease a stink pickle, I wondered? It was bliss having his pink tractor beam stuffed inside me again; stuffing my front bum with a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster just didn't get my furry cup spattering like it used to. Hours of slamming like this would leave any girl's vertical smile looking like the south end of a badger going north, and I was no different! The seemingly never-ending streams of steamin' semen emanating from his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. If I don't dial the rotary phone to get my minge monsoon sliming from my front bum, his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus is going to leave my meaty hangers resembling a stamped bat. The unrelenting orgasms from his love muscle pounding my chlamydia canal made me come so hard, I began sweating like Gary glitter at PC World. The mixture of butt nugget and creamy load in my puckered brown eye created the delicious sphincter sauce that he was so fond of. There was cock snot foaming from his disco stick and I was wetter than an English summer. We were ready for more. Now, I've been shot over more times than Sarajevo, but the sight of his spam javelin made my fallopian fish stock froth like
a slug in a salt mine. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his blue-veined custard chucker shoved deeper into my fudge factory. By now, my cod canyon was leaking like Wayne Rooney's dick in an OAP home. Within no time, I could feel the shitty magician's wax dripping from my chocolate starfish and all over my spam castanets. My throat was so full of cervix cigar and baby gravy, the creamy load was oozing down my chin and onto my cans. The feeling of his love mayonnaise oozing down my throat got my minge monsoon flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit.
By now, my soft-shelled tuna taco was sliming like there was a midget inside me with a super soaker. If I don't play the clitar to get my sex wee haemorrhaging from my mound of love pudding, his muffbuster is going to leave my spam castanets resembling John Wayne's saddlebags. My mouth was so full of vein cane and Da Vinci load, the ectoplasm was weeping down my chin and onto my mosquito bites. He rolled a giant colon cobra on my tatas just so he could lap it up like a bulldog eating porridge. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his ramrod slid deeper into my tradesman's entrance. Now, I've seen more helmets than Hitler, but the sight of his spam dagger made my vertical moisture trickle like a slavering dog. The feeling of his ectoplasm weeping down my throat got my beige slime flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. The mixture of Mr. Hanky and man fat in my vintage golf bag created the delicious porthole pudding that he was so fond of. The unrelenting orgasms from his blue-veined custard chucker thrusting my slime hole made me come so hard, I began sweating like a white mouse in a tampon factory. The raiding makes me splurge my beige slime all over his flesh gordon. With my velcro triangle now much like a bulldog licking piss from a thistle, he thought it was time to start sliding my marmite motorway. Is now the time to tell him I really need to arc a corn-eyed butt snake, I wondered? He munched on my piss flaps, even though I'd been riding the cotton pony for the best part of a week. Inserting a lightbulb into my whispering eye got me pouring flange custard faster than snot off a whip. I can't wait to devour the love piss from his meaty member. I awoke the next morning with my one slice toaster still leaking. I thought it was over but his skin flute had other ideas. It was bliss having his wrist-thick wand plunged inside me again; stuffing my cod canyon with a 9-iron just didn't get my oyster ditch spritzing like it used to. The hammering of my Mavis Fritter was so vigorous, he soon found his hairy walnuts joining his love lollipop deep in my fudge factory. There was ectoplasm seeping from his kebeb skewer and I was wetter than a bathmaid's elbow. We were ready for more. The seemingly never-ending streams of creamy load emanating from his one-eyed monster soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. My furry cup was trembling like a shitting dog. With his piss pipe hammering deep into my gashtray, the sensation of his tenderloin truncheon smashing my cervix made me quiver like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. Within no time, I could feel the shitty Da Vinci load haemorrhaging from my vintage golf bag and all over my fishy flaps. 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 one slice toaster and an antique doorknob up my cocoa channel. When he removed his purple-headed trouser snake from my other vagina, he was pleasantly surprised to see a colon cobra staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to suck the footlong fudge bullet off his cumtree. Hours of slamming like this would leave any girl's vertical garden looking like a sand blasted tomato, and I was no different!
Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his stilton spear plunged deeper into my tradesman's entrance. My throat was so full of tenderloin truncheon and magician's wax, the Da Vinci load was draining down my chin and onto my breasticles. Now, I've seen more action than Helmand Province, but the sight of his one-eyed milkman made my spaff slime like a rabid dog. The fucking makes me flow my beige slime all over his spam dagger. Hours of hammering like this would leave any girl's lunchmeat looking like a dropped burrito, and I was no different! By now, my vibration station was frothing like a broken coffee maker. Some girls are happy just to stimulate the genitals through phalangetic motion when they're alone, but I can't get off without having my fist in my furry cup and a barbie doll up my fudge factory. My ruby cave was trembling like Vanessa Feltz's diesel-powered vibrator. The feeling of his magician's wax dripping down my throat got my vertical moisture flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. He rolled a giant hardened fudge nugget on my boobage just so he could lap it up like a hungry hungry hippo. With my flappy meal now much like a badly wrapped kebab, he thought it was time to start plunging my puckered brown eye. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cut a toilet twinkie, I wondered? The seemingly never-ending streams of baby gravy emanating from his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. After having my meat purse pounded, he then proceeded to slam my ring piece. When he removed his muffbuster 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 chow down on the corn-eyed butt snake off his cervix cigar. If I don't dial the rotary phone to get my pussy batter draining from my tuna canal, his stilton spear is going to leave my beef curtains resembling a bucket of smashed crabs. Inserting a number of chillies into my frilling pink golf bag got me surging vertical moisture faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. The slamming of my old dirt road was so vigorous, he soon found his two amigos joining his gristle missile deep in my turd-herder. I awoke the next morning with my soft-shelled tuna taco still frothing. I thought it was over but his kebeb skewer had other ideas. Within no time, I could feel the shitty steamin' semen leaching from my vintage golf bag and all over my beef curtains. I can't wait to gobble the ectoplasm from his vein cane. The mixture of Mr. Hanky and man fat in my shit winker created the delicious rectal stew that he was so fond of. There was love mayonnaise sliming from his spunk-filled spam rocket and I was wetter than a bathmaid's elbow. We were ready for more. With his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus thrusting deep into my herring hole, the sensation of his love lollipop smashing my cervix made me quake like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. The unrelenting orgasms from his stilton sword pounding my moose knuckle made me come so hard, I began sweating like a blind lesbian in a fish shop. He munched on my spam castanets, even though I'd had my redwings for the best part of a week.
He munched on my spam castanets, even though I'd had my redwings for the best part of a week. With his stilton spear pounding deep into my kipper dinghy, the sensation of his spam dagger smashing my cervix made me quiver like a tasered slab of chopped liver. When he removed his master of ceremonies from my brown mile, he was pleasantly surprised to see a stink pickle staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to lap the toilet twinkie off his throbbing quim dagger. The mixture of footlong fudge bullet and cock custard in my puckered brown eye created the delicious sphincter sauce that he was so fond of. I can't wait to consume the man fat from his womb raider. With my piss flaps now much like a twisted slipper, he thought it was time to start shoving my vintage golf bag. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cop a toilet twinkie, I wondered? Within no time, I could feel the shitty gentleman's relish trickling from my brown mile and all over my hairy goblet. The feeling of his magician's wax dripping down my throat got my minge mucus flowing quicker than snot off a whip. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his cheese-crusted cock probed deeper into my rusty bullet hole. The seemingly never-ending streams of creamy load emanating from his stilton sword soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. By now, my stench trench was sliming like a rabid dog. The fucking makes me eject my beige slime all over his timed slimer. The slamming of my turd cutter was so vigorous, he soon found his wrecking balls joining his spam dagger deep in my turd cutter. Inserting an egg timer into my wizards sleeve got me squirting tuna tunnel tears faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. If I don't finger blast to get my sex wee dribbling f
rom my smush mitten, his spam javelin is going to leave my lunchmeat resembling a twisted slipper. I awoke the next morning with my clam-flavoured pothole still leaking. I thought it was over but his greasy kebab skewer had other ideas. There was gentleman's relish weeping from his brie baton and I was wetter than a spastic's chin. We were ready for more. Now, I've been shot over more times than Sarajevo, but the sight of his flesh gordon made my vertical moisture slime like someone had poured fairy liquid into Niagara Falls. Some girls are happy just to audition the finger puppets when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster in my ground zero grotto and a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster up my rusty sherif's badge. Hours of pounding like this would leave any girl's clap flaps looking like a shot cat, and I was no different! He curled a giant Mr. Hanky on my boobage just so he could consume it up like a bulldog eating porridge. The unrelenting orgasms from his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon slamming my herring hole made me come so hard, I began sweating like a pregnant nun. My throat was so full of meaty member and gentleman's relish, the gentleman's relish was weeping down my chin and onto my fiery biscuits. My split peach was trembling like a shitting dog. After having my clearing in the woods hammered, he then proceeded to slam my vintage golf bag.
