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accept my spit, but the sight of his womb ferret made my minge monsoon
slime like a slavering dog. My shame portal was trembling like Micheal J. Fox
licking a car battery. If I don't dial the rotary phone to get my sex wee
dribbling from my calamari cockring, his thrill drill is going to leave my
vertical smile resembling a ripped out fireplace. The seemingly never-ending
streams of cock custard emanating from his spunk-filled spam rocket soon had me
coated like a plasterer's radio. There was penis pudding oozing from his chubstep
and I was wetter than an English summer. We were ready for more. The feeling of
his ectoplasm slobbering down my throat got my minge monsoon flowing quicker
than snot off a whip. I awoke the next morning with my vaginal bacon buffet
still foaming. I thought it was over but his tenderloin truncheon had other
ideas. It was bliss having his skin flute rammed inside me again; stuffing my
one slice toaster with a lightbulb just didn't get my hatchet wound flowing
like it used to. Hours of hammering like this would leave any girl's furburger
looking like Brian May's plughole, and I was no different!
    Inserting
an antique doorknob into my chlamydia canal got me flowing flange custard
faster than snot off a whip. When he removed his long-dong silver from my turd
cutter, he was pleasantly surprised to see a hardened fudge nugget staring back
as him. He knew I couldn't wait to lap the hardened fudge nugget off his slut
slayer. With his cervix cigar thrusting deep into my clunge pool, the sensation
of his wensleydale wand smashing my cervix made me quiver like a shitting dog.
If I don't tune the tuna to get my spaff frothing from my tuna canal, his
bugger king is going to leave my fishy flaps resembling a blind cobbler's
thumb. Some girls are happy just to fluff the muff when they're alone, but I
can't get off without having a number of chillies in my Quimcy, M.E. and a
15" spiked vibrator up my old dirt road. I can't wait to suck the cock
snot from his wrist-thick wand. There was penis pudding foaming from his greasy
kebab skewer and I was wetter than an otter's pocket. We were ready for more.
Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as
his one-eyed monster stuffed deeper into my Mavis Fritter. After having my
hatchet wound fucked, he then proceeded to pound my mud flap. Within no time, I
could feel the shitty penis pudding dripping from my marmite motorway and all
over my vertical smile. By now, my carp cavity was draining like a George
Foreman grill. The mixture of footlong fudge bullet and ectoplasm in my shit
winker created the delicious rectal stew that he was so fond of. The pounding
of my balloon knot was so vigorous, he soon found his man marbles joining his
blue-veined custard chucker deep in my other vagina. The unrelenting orgasms
from his piss pipe raiding my soft-shelled tuna taco made me come so hard, I
began sweating like a fat slag in a disco. He munched on my purple cabbage,
even though I'd been up on bricks for the best part of a week. He cut a giant
colon cobra on my rack just so he could devour it up like a hungry hungry
hippo. The hammering makes me squirt my minge monsoon all over his balony pony.
The seemingly never-ending streams of penis pudding emanating from his cumtree
soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. Now, I've been told the sperm bank
will accept my spit, but the sight of his womb ferret made my minge monsoon
leak like a rabid dog. The feeling of his steamin' semen slobbering down my
throat got my clunge gunge flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. I awoke
the next morning with my sperm socket still trickling. I thought it was over
but his master of ceremonies had other ideas. My salmon slit was trembling like
an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. Hours of hammering like this would leave
any girl's beef curtains looking like that bathroom door in The Shining, and I
was no different! With my purple cabbage now much like a dropped