by Amy Woods
Within no time, I could feel the shitty creamy load leaching from my fudge factory and all over my hairy goblet. The raiding of my ring piece was so vigorous, he soon found his sperm factories joining his brie baton deep in my vintage golf bag. It was bliss having his mutton dagger shoved inside me again; stuffing my cod crater with an egg timer just didn't get my split peach gushing like it used to. There was penis pudding sliming from his long-dong silver and I was wetter than an Italian cruise ship. We were ready for more. The mixture of Mr. Hanky and man fat in my chocolate starfish created the delicious rectal stew that he was so fond of. By now, my furry cup was oozing like Wayne Rooney's dick in an OAP home. My chamber of squelch was trembling like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. 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 clam-flavoured pothole and a gerbil up my ring piece. When he removed his one-eyed monster from my puckered brown eye, he was pleasantly surprised to see a stink pickle staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to suck the Mr. Hanky off his spunk-filled spam rocket. If I don't tune the tuna to get my flange custard trickling from my meat purse, his gristle missile is going to leave my vertical garden resembling Pete Burns' lips. The feeling of his love mayonnaise trickling down my throat got my vertical moisture flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. He pitched a giant toilet twinkie on my mammaries just so he could gobble it up like a pig at a trough. I can't wait to consume the cock custard from his blue-veined custard chucker. After having my vibrator crater thrusted, he then proceeded to plow my ring piece. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his wensleydale wand rammed deeper into my chocolate starfish. My cake hole was so full of cunt plunger and gentleman's relish, the magician's wax was dribbling down my chin and onto my breasticles. The hammering makes me splurge my tuna tunnel tears all over his cream reaper. Hours of hammering like this would leave any girl's vertical garden looking like a horse's collar, and I was no different! He munched on my vertical garden, even though I'd been up on bricks for the best part of a week. Inserting a 15" spiked vibrator into my split peach got me spritzing fallopian fish stock faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. The seemingly never-ending streams of man fat emanating from his chubstep soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. Now, I've had more hands up me than The Muppets, but the sight of his giggle stick made my fallopian fish stock drip like a broken coffee maker. The unrelenting orgasms from his throbbing quim dagger slamming my carp cavity made me come so hard, I began sweating like a whore in a confessional. With his brie baton thrusting deep into my kipper dinghy, the sensation of his cream reaper smashing my cervix made me quake like a rat on acid. With my open-faced ham sandwich now much like a bulldog licking piss from a thistle, he thought it was time to start probing my balloon knot. Is now the time to tell him I really need to extrude a colon cobra, I wondered?
He pitched a giant sewer trout on my love bubbles just so he could chow down on it up like a bulldog eating porridge. The raiding of my turd-herder was so vigorous, he soon found his salty protein grapes joining his timed slimer deep in my puckered brown eye. Inserting a lightbulb into my kipper dinghy got me pouring vertical moisture faster than snot off a whip. 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 chamber of squelch and a squash up my brown eye. Hours of pounding like this would leave any girl's meaty hangers looking like John Wayne's saddlebags, and I was no different! After having my ladytown pounded, he then proceeded to thrust my fudge factory. The pounding makes me flood my pussy batter all over his veiny quim prod. The seemingly never-ending streams of cock custard emanating from his cheese-crusted cock soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. With his all-beef thermometer fucking deep into my cod canyon, the sensation of his one-eyed monster smashing my cervix made me quiver like a rat on acid. There was ectoplasm sliming from his cream reaper and I was wetter than a bathmaid's elbow. We were ready for more. The feeling of his penis pudding flowing down my throat got my flange custard flowing quicker than snot off a whip. The mixture of stink pickle and gentleman's relish in my brown mile created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. By now, my hot pocket was dripping like a broken coffee maker. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his stilton sword slid deeper into my marmite motorway. My mouth was so full of bugger king and man fat, the love mayonnaise was slobbering down my chin and onto my mammaries. I awoke the next morning with my meat purse still draining. I thought it was over but his ramrod had other ideas. I can't wait to gobble the cock custard from his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon. If I don't audition the finger puppets to get my spaff leaking from my furry cup, his turgid terror truncheon is going to leave my velcro triangle resembling a bulldog licking piss from a thistle. Now, I've been told the sperm bank will accept my spit, but the sight of his ramrod made my minge monsoon drain like a George Foreman grill. He munched on my clap flaps, even though I'd been riding the cotton pony for the best part of a week. When he removed his clunger from my poop chute, he was pleasantly surprised to see a corn-eyed butt snake staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to suck the hardened fudge nugget off his sperminator. The unrelenting orgasms from his chubstep plowing my split peach made me come so hard, I began sweating like a white mouse in a tampon factory. It was bliss having his mutton dagger plunged inside me again; stuffing my penis pothole with an antique doorknob just didn't get my stench trench gushing like it used to. My fuck gutter was trembling like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. With my roast beef platter now much like a manatee in yoga pants, he thought it was time to start stuffing my rusty sherif's badge. Is now the time to tell him I really need to ease a butt nugget, I wondered?
When he removed his muffbuster from my cocoa channel, he was pleasantly surprised to see a toilet twinkie staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to chow down on the corn-eyed butt snake off his stilton spear. My throat was so full of clunger and cock snot, the baby gravy was haemorrhaging down my chin and onto my rack. The seemingly never-ending streams of cock custard emanating from his blue-veined custard chucker 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 spam dagger slid deeper into my ring piece. The unrelenting orgasms from his cumtree pounding my fuck trench made me come so hard, I began sweating like a dyslexic on Countdown. The mixture of corn-eyed butt snake and man fat in my poo pipe created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. Inserting a lightbulb into my tampon tunnel got me flowing tuna tunnel tears faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. With his disco stick pounding deep into my fuck trench, the sensation of his jade rod smashing my cervix made me quiver like a rat on acid. He munched on my hairy goblet, even though I'd had Aunt Flo visiting for the best part of a week. With my furburger now much like a badly wrapped kebab, he thought it was time to start sliding my fart valve. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cop a toilet twinkie, I wondered? The feeling of his baby gravy frothing down my throat got my fallopian fish stock flowing quicker than snot off a whip. My penis pothole was trembling like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. Some girls are happy just to dial the rotary phone when they're alone, but I can't get off without having my fist in my hatchet wound and a barbie doll up my vintage golf bag. After having my clam-flavoured pothole fucked, he then proceeded to fuck my rusty bullet hole. I awoke the next morning with my spunk dungeon still dribbling. I thought it was over but his greasy slimelight had other ideas. He cut a giant sewer trout on my twin peaks just so he could devour it up like a pig at a trough. If I don't dial the rotary phone to get my vertical moisture oozing from my split peach, his purple-headed trouser snake is going to leave my beef curtains resembling a hippo's yawn. Now, I've seen more action than Helmand Province, but the sight of his kebeb skewer made my clunge gunge seep like a slaverin
g dog. I can't wait to chow down on the creamy load from his Nelson's Column. By now, my furry cup was foaming like Wayne Rooney's dick in an OAP home. There was ectoplasm frothing from his washington monument and I was wetter than an English summer. We were ready for more. The thrusting makes me flow my sex wee all over his kebeb skewer. It was bliss having his Ocean's 11 Inches probed inside me again; stuffing my hatchet wound with a number of chillies just didn't get my hatchet wound spritzing like it used to. Hours of hammering like this would leave any girl's fishy flaps looking like Pete Burns' lips, and I was no different! The raiding of my turd-herder was so vigorous, he soon found his jingle-jangle jewellery joining his balony pony deep in my ring piece.
After having my calamari cockring fucked, he then proceeded to plow my ring piece. There was cock snot slobbering from his spam javelin and I was wetter than a well diggers arse. We were ready for more. The unrelenting orgasms from his meaty member plowing my salmon slit made me come so hard, I began sweating like a paedo during a prison riot. Now, I've seen more japseyes than an oriental optician, but the sight of his thrill drill made my minge monsoon slobber like a broken coffee maker. If I don't get a stinky pinky to get my clunge gunge frothing from my stench trench, his tallywacker is going to leave my purple cabbage resembling a manatee in yoga pants. The mixture of Mr. Hanky and ectoplasm in my fart valve created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. He pitched a giant hardened fudge nugget on my chesticles just so he could suck it up like a hungry hungry hippo. My quim was trembling like a shitting dog. I awoke the next morning with my chlamydia canal still dribbling. I thought it was over but his turgid terror truncheon had other ideas. The feeling of his penis pudding dribbling down my throat got my pussy batter flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. Within no time, I could feel the shitty cock snot leaking from my turd cutter and all over my beef curtains. He munched on my fishy flaps, even though I'd been on the rag for the best part of a week. My throat was so full of greasy kebab skewer and love piss, the cock custard was dribbling down my chin and onto my love bubbles. I can't wait to suck the gentleman's relish from his womb ferret. With his tallywacker hammering deep into my penis pothole, the sensation of his turgid terror truncheon smashing my cervix made me quake like a rat on acid. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his skeleton king plunged deeper into my marmite motorway. Inserting a barbie doll into my vibration station got me gushing flange custard faster than a greased weasel shit. The hammering makes me flood my fallopian fish stock all over his timed slimer. When he removed his chubstep from my poo pipe, he was pleasantly surprised to see a butt nugget staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to lap the sewer trout off his greasy kebab skewer. The fucking of my puckered brown eye was so vigorous, he soon found his man marbles joining his battering ram deep in my fudge factory. Some girls are happy just to fish for pearls when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a number of chillies in my vibrator crater and an egg timer up my vintage golf bag. The seemingly never-ending streams of creamy load emanating from his wrist-thick wand soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. By now, my clunge pool was sliming like a jizz waterfall. It was bliss having his turgid terror truncheon probed inside me again; stuffing my mound of love pudding with a 15" spiked vibrator just didn't get my municipal cockwash spouting like it used to. With my velcro triangle now much like a hippo's yawn, he thought it was time to start plunging my cocoa channel. Is now the time to tell him I really need to ease a toilet twinkie, I wondered?
The thrusting of my poo pipe was so vigorous, he soon found his man marbles joining his balony pony deep in my old dirt road. The raiding makes me surge my fallopian fish stock all over his batter blaster. With my clap flaps now much like a stamped bat, he thought it was time to start stuffing my black hole. Is now the time to tell him I really need to crown a Mr. Hanky, I wondered? I can't wait to lap the love mayonnaise from his wensleydale wand. If I don't tune the tuna to get my vertical moisture seeping from my mound of love pudding, his one-eyed milkman is going to leave my vertical smile resembling the south end of a badger going north. Inserting an antique doorknob into my gaping clam cavern got me splurging spaff faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. He arced a giant hardened fudge nugget on my tatas just so he could lap it up like a hungry hungry hippo. With his wrist-thick wand thrusting deep into my whispering eye, the sensation of his love muscle smashing my cervix made me quiver like a shitting dog. The feeling of his creamy load dribbling down my throat got my clunge gunge flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. He munched on my open-faced ham sandwich, even though I'd been on the rag for the best part of a week. After having my gaping clam cavern fucked, he then proceeded to fuck my Mavis Fritter. There was baby gravy leaching from his one-eyed milkman and I was wetter than a well diggers arse. We were ready for more. By now, my cock holster was foaming like Augustus Gloop's mouth at the sight of Willy Wonka's chocolate river. When he removed his veiny quim prod 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 blue-veined custard chucker. My gaping clam cavern was trembling like jelly. The unrelenting orgasms from his master of ceremonies fucking my cod crater made me come so hard, I began sweating like a blind lesbian in a fish shop. Now, I've seen more pricks than a second hand dartboard, but the sight of his muffbuster made my shrimp sap drain like a slavering dog. The mixture of stink pickle and cock snot in my Mavis Fritter created the delicious porthole pudding that he was so fond of. My throat was so full of brie baton and creamy load, the magician's wax was weeping down my chin and onto my chesticles. 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 smush mitten and a number of chillies up my balloon knot. Hours of thrusting like this would leave any girl's vertical smile looking like a motorway pileup, and I was no different! Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his disco stick slid deeper into my poop chute. The seemingly never-ending streams of creamy load emanating from his batter blaster soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. It was bliss having his one-eyed monster stuffed inside me again; stuffing my vibration station with a squash just didn't get my chlamydia canal gushing like it used to. I awoke the next morning with my sperm socket still foaming. I thought it was over but his bald-headed yogurt slinger had other ideas.
I can't wait to consume the penis pudding from his batter blaster. It was bliss having his tenderloin truncheon rammed inside me again; stuffing my enchilada of love with a 15" spiked vibrator just didn't get my fuck trench splurging like it used to. He munched on my vertical smile, even though I'd been on the rag for the best part of a week. The hammering makes me splurge my spaff all over his love muscle. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his giggle stick probed deeper into my turd cutter. By now, my tampon tunnel was sliming like Wayne Rooney's dick in an OAP home. The seemingly never-ending streams of magician's wax emanating from his giggle stick soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. There was ectoplasm foaming from his brie baton and I was wetter than a spastic's chin. We were ready for more. After having my wunder down under fucked, he then proceeded to raid my black hole. The mixture of footlong fudge bullet and love mayonnaise in my poop chute created the delicious rectal stew that he was so fond of. He curled a giant corn-eyed butt snake on my chest puppies just so he could lap it up like a hungry hungry hippo. I awoke the next morning with my herring hole still weeping. I thought it was over but his womb raider had other ideas. Hours of hammering like this would leave any girl's hairy goblet looking like a blind cobbler's thumb, and I was no different! My cock holster was trembling like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. With his tallywacker slamming deep into my one slice toaster, the sensation of his cunt stretcher smashing my cervix made me quiver like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. If I don't strum the
banjo to get my flange custard foaming from my spunk dungeon, his balony pony is going to leave my hairy goblet resembling a bucket of smashed crabs. When he removed his pink tractor beam from my shit winker, he was pleasantly surprised to see a hardened fudge nugget staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to devour the colon cobra off his Ocean's 11 Inches. The raiding of my brown eye was so vigorous, he soon found his hairy walnuts joining his veiny quim prod deep in my tradesman's entrance. Now, I've seen more pricks than a second hand dartboard, but the sight of his cumtree made my sex wee slobber like a leaky tap. My mouth was so full of blue-veined custard chucker and love piss, the cock snot was leaking down my chin and onto my mammaries. Inserting a number of chillies into my moose knuckle got me splurging fallopian fish stock faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. The unrelenting orgasms from his greasy kebab skewer pounding my soft-shelled tuna taco made me come so hard, I began sweating like a fat slag in a disco. Some girls are happy just to strum the banjo when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a number of chillies in my furry cup and a gerbil up my poop chute. The feeling of his steamin' semen sliming down my throat got my beige slime flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. With my flappy meal now much like that bathroom door in The Shining, he thought it was time to start probing my rusty bullet hole. Is now the time to tell him I really need to drop a sewer trout, I wondered?