by Amy Woods
The unrelenting orgasms from his cunt stretcher hammering my south mouth made me come so hard, I began sweating like a midget nun at a penguin shoot. Now, I've been told the sperm bank will accept my spit, but the sight of his one-eyed milkman made my vertical moisture ooze like Adele waiting for Greggs to open. Within no time, I could feel the shitty gentleman's relish dribbling from my Mavis Fritter and all over my panty hamster. The seemingly never-ending streams of love mayonnaise emanating from his wrist-thick wand soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. 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 kipper dinghy and a number of chillies up my black hole. He dropped a giant colon cobra on my mammaries just so he could consume it up like a pig at a trough. The raiding of my Oxo orifice was so vigorous, he soon found his family jewels joining his love lollipop deep in my ring piece. The feeling of his cock snot frothing down my throat got my spaff flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. My cake hole was so full of thrill drill and penis pudding, the Da Vinci load was flowing down my chin and onto my top bollocks. My whispering eye was trembling like jelly. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his battering ram stuffed deeper into my fart valve. He munched on my vertical garden, even though I'd been walking the red carpet for the best part of a week. With my lunchmeat now much like Pete Burns' lips, he thought it was time to start plunging my vintage golf bag. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cut a colon cobra, I wondered? With his stilton sword pounding deep into my wizards sleeve, the sensation of his purple-headed trouser snake smashing my cervix made me quake like Vanessa Feltz's diesel-powered vibrator. It was bliss having his bald avenger stuffed inside me again; stuffing my spunk dungeon with a 15" spiked vibrator just didn't get my kipper dinghy pouring like it used to. Hours of pounding like this would leave any girl's meaty hangers looking like a blind cobbler's thumb, and I was no different! The slamming makes me spit my fallopian fish stock all over his spam javelin. I can't wait to consume the steamin' semen from his wrist-thick wand. Inserting a 9-iron into my penis pothole got me spouting tuna tunnel tears faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. By now, my wizards sleeve was leaching like a slug in a salt mine. There was steamin' semen flowing from his skin flute and I was wetter than an English summer. We were ready for more. The mixture of corn-eyed butt snake and Da Vinci load in my tradesman's entrance created the delicious sphincter sauce that he was so fond of. When he removed his slut slayer from my cocoa channel, he was pleasantly surprised to see a colon cobra staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to devour the sewer trout off his spunk-filled spam rocket. After having my soft-shelled tuna taco thrusted, he then proceeded to thrust my old dirt road. If I don't flick the bean to get my vertical moisture leaching from my cock holster, his purple beaver buster is going to leave my clap flaps resembling a stuntman's knee.
He eased out a giant hardened fudge nugget on my droopies just so he could lap it up like a bulldog eating porridge. The pounding makes me spit my flange custard all over his thrill drill. The slamming of my vintage golf bag was so vigorous, he soon found his wrecking balls joining his muffbuster deep in my fart valve. Hours of pounding like this would leave any girl's velcro triangle looking like a rabid baboon's arse, and I was no different! With my lunchmeat now much like a bulldog licking piss from a thistle, he thought it was time to start stuffing my fudge factory. Is now the time to tell him I really need to roll a stink pickle, I wondered? After having my wizards sleeve thrusted, he then proceeded to slam my cocoa channel. Inserting a barbie doll into my pink velvet sausage wallet got me surging pussy batter faster than snot off a whip. My penis pothole was trembling like a tasered slab of chopped liver. By now, my frilling pink golf bag was trickling like a broken coffee maker. With his chubstep slamming deep into my bearded haddock pasty, the sensation of his Ocean's 11 Inches smashing my cervix made me quiver like a shitting dog. Some girls are happy just to stimulate the genitals through phalangetic motion when they're alone, but I can't get off without having an antique doorknob in my clearing in the woods and a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster up my rusty sherif's badge. Within no time, I could feel the shitty creamy load leaching from my chocolate starfish and all over my panty hamster. I can't wait to consume the ectoplasm from his spam javelin. When he removed his timed slimer from my puckered brown eye, he was pleasantly surprised to see a Mr. Hanky staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to chow down on the Mr. Hanky off his clunger. There was ectoplasm flowing from his cunt plunger and I was wetter than a bathmaid's elbow. We were ready for more. I awoke the next morning with my tampon tunnel still frothing. I thought it was over but his cervix cigar had other ideas. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his womb ferret stuffed deeper into my soft tight anus. He munched on my flappy meal, even though I'd been surfing the crimson tide for the best part of a week. It was bliss having his piss pipe stuffed inside me again; stuffing my municipal cockwash with my fist just didn't get my fuck trench flooding like it used to. Now, I've taken more poundings than the Somme, but the sight of his womb ferret made my minge monsoon haemorrhage like a slug in a salt mine. My throat was so full of disco stick and love mayonnaise, the penis pudding was flowing down my chin and onto my chesticles. The mixture of colon cobra and magician's wax in my turd cutter created the delicious sphincter sauce that he was so fond of. The unrelenting orgasms from his purple beaver buster pounding my shame portal made me come so hard, I began sweating like Joseph Fritzel on MTV Cribs. The feeling of his baby gravy weeping down my throat got my beige slime flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. If I don't fluff the muff to get my minge monsoon sliming from my cum dumpster, his tenderloin truncheon is going to leave my roast beef platter resembling an over inflated dinghy.
With his cream reaper plowing deep into my depravity cavity, the sensation of his one-eyed milkman smashing my cervix made me quiver like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. If I don't tune the tuna to get my pussy batter seeping from my calamari cockring, his huge penis is going to leave my vertical smile resembling Pete Burns' lips. The unrelenting orgasms from his gristle missile pounding my ruby cave made me come so hard, I began sweating like Joseph Fritzel on MTV Cribs. After having my gaping clam cavern plowed, he then proceeded to raid my turd-herder. My one slice toaster was trembling like a shitting dog. The hammering of my mud flap was so vigorous, he soon found his jingle-jangle jewellery joining his wensleydale wand deep in my fart valve. The mixture of Mr. Hanky and cock snot in my mud flap created the delicious rectal stew that he was so fond of. Some girls are happy just to flick the bean when they're alone, but I can't get off without having my fist in my spunk dungeon and a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster up my rusty bullet hole. The seemingly never-ending streams of man fat emanating from his stilton sword soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. Inserting a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster into my pink velvet sausage wallet got me ejecting minge mucus faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. The fucking makes me eject my beige slime all over his gristle missile. By now, my fuck trench was slobbering like someone had poured fairy liquid into Niagara Falls. I can't wait to devour the love piss from his jebend. My throat was so full of pink tractor beam and cock custard, the penis pudding was draining down my chin and onto my fiery biscuits. With my clap flaps now much like a hippo's yawn, he thought it was time to start stuffing my soft tight anus. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cut a stink pickle, I wondered? It was bliss having his Nelson's Column shoved inside me again; stuffing my tampon tunnel with a number of chillies just didn't get my hatchet wound flowing like it used to. When he removed his jade rod from my ring piece, he was pleasantly surprised to see a Mr. Hanky staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to consume the toilet twinkie off his womb raider. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his womb ferret probed deeper into my rusty sherif's badge. He
munched on my clap flaps, even though I'd had the painters in for the best part of a week. I awoke the next morning with my enchilada of love still oozing. I thought it was over but his gristle missile had other ideas. Now, I've taken more poundings than the Somme, but the sight of his wrist-thick wand made my spaff leak like a George Foreman grill. Within no time, I could feel the shitty man fat seeping from my cocoa channel and all over my lunchmeat. There was magician's wax sliming from his cunt stretcher and I was wetter than a spastic's chin. We were ready for more. Hours of slamming like this would leave any girl's spam castanets looking like a bucket of smashed crabs, and I was no different! The feeling of his Da Vinci load trickling down my throat got my beige slime flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit.
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 9-iron in my gaping clam cavern and my fist up my tradesman's entrance. I can't wait to chow down on the steamin' semen from his ramrod. My birth cannon was trembling like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. The feeling of his baby gravy weeping down my throat got my beige slime flowing quicker than snot off a whip. Within no time, I could feel the shitty baby gravy leaching from my puckered brown eye and all over my flappy meal. Inserting an egg timer into my gashtray got me spouting spaff faster than a greased weasel shit. The unrelenting orgasms from his master of ceremonies slamming my kipper dinghy made me come so hard, I began sweating like a gypsy near an unlocked shipping container. It was bliss having his greasy slimelight slid inside me again; stuffing my penis pothole with a 15" spiked vibrator just didn't get my moose knuckle spouting like it used to. With his brie baton hammering deep into my quim, the sensation of his stilton spear smashing my cervix made me quake like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. The slamming makes me eject my vertical moisture all over his stilton spear. By now, my chamber of squelch was oozing like a jizz waterfall. With my open-faced ham sandwich now much like the Japanese flag, he thought it was time to start stuffing my balloon knot. Is now the time to tell him I really need to drop a hardened fudge nugget, I wondered? After having my shame portal slammed, he then proceeded to slam my other vagina. My cake hole was so full of Nelson's Column and creamy load, the magician's wax was seeping down my chin and onto my cans. He cut a giant Mr. Hanky on my fiery biscuits just so he could consume it up like a pig at a trough. Hours of pounding like this would leave any girl's vertical garden looking like a horse's collar, and I was no different! He munched on my flappy meal, even though I'd had my redwings for the best part of a week. There was cock snot flowing from his tenderloin truncheon and I was wetter than an otter's pocket. We were ready for more. The slamming of my other vagina was so vigorous, he soon found his wrecking balls joining his purple-headed trouser snake deep in my tradesman's entrance. Now, I've taken more poundings than the Somme, but the sight of his turgid terror truncheon made my flange custard ooze like Augustus Gloop's mouth at the sight of Willy Wonka's chocolate river. The mixture of toilet twinkie and steamin' semen in my fudge factory created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. The seemingly never-ending streams of steamin' semen emanating from his stilton sword soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. I awoke the next morning with my vaginal bacon buffet still sliming. I thought it was over but his wrist-thick wand had other ideas. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his piss pipe stuffed deeper into my turd cutter. When he removed his Ocean's 11 Inches from my turd-herder, he was pleasantly surprised to see a corn-eyed butt snake staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to suck the stink pickle off his gristle missile.
By now, my cock holster was leaching like Wayne Rooney's dick in an OAP home. With his all-beef thermometer pounding deep into my vaginal bacon buffet, the sensation of his spam dagger smashing my cervix made me quake like a rat on acid. Hours of fucking like this would leave any girl's meaty hangers looking like Terry Waite's allotment, and I was no different! With my beef curtains now much like a bulldog in a windtunnel, he thought it was time to start sliding my turd cutter. Is now the time to tell him I really need to arc a stink pickle, I wondered? The hammering makes me spray my fallopian fish stock all over his flesh gordon. The pounding of my soft tight anus was so vigorous, he soon found his wrecking balls joining his throbbing quim dagger deep in my fart valve. When he removed his chubstep from my fudge factory, he was pleasantly surprised to see a corn-eyed butt snake staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to suck the toilet twinkie off his tenderloin truncheon. It was bliss having his battering ram stuffed inside me again; stuffing my gashtray with a barbie doll just didn't get my mound of love pudding splurging like it used to. My tampon tunnel was trembling like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. The mixture of corn-eyed butt snake and magician's wax in my cocoa channel created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. Some girls are happy just to study english cliterature when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster in my depravity cavity and an egg timer up my brown mile. There was steamin' semen slobbering from his love muscle and I was wetter than an Italian cruise ship. We were ready for more. Within no time, I could feel the shitty creamy load trickling from my ring piece and all over my furburger. My throat was so full of Ocean's 11 Inches and man fat, the Da Vinci load was slobbering down my chin and onto my chest puppies. Inserting a 9-iron into my gammon alley got me surging tuna tunnel tears faster than snot off a whip. He munched on my meaty hangers, even though I'd had my redwings for the best part of a week. I awoke the next morning with my frilling pink golf bag still foaming. I thought it was over but his kebeb skewer had other ideas. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his gristle missile stuffed deeper into my poop chute. The seemingly never-ending streams of love mayonnaise emanating from his bugger king soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. He arced a giant footlong fudge bullet on my droopies just so he could lap it up like a bulldog eating porridge. I can't wait to chow down on the cock custard from his skin flute. The unrelenting orgasms from his kebeb skewer hammering my spunk dungeon made me come so hard, I began sweating like a dyslexic on Countdown. After having my clam-flavoured pothole pounded, he then proceeded to pound my Oxo orifice. The feeling of his magician's wax leaking down my throat got my tuna tunnel tears flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. Now, I've seen more helmets than Hitler, but the sight of his washington monument made my fallopian fish stock leak like a George Foreman grill.
Inserting a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster into my split peach got me spritzing minge monsoon faster than snot off a whip. The thrusting makes me eject my flange custard all over his bald-headed yogurt slinger. I can't wait to gobble the cock custard from his one-eyed milkman. I awoke the next morning with my hatchet wound still leaking. I thought it was over but his long-dong silver had other ideas. There was ectoplasm sliming from his kebeb skewer and I was wetter than a bathmaid's elbow. We were ready for more. When he removed his stilton sword from my Mavis Fritter, he was pleasantly surprised to see a corn-eyed butt snake staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to chow down on the stink pickle off his timed slimer. Within no time, I could feel the shitty love mayonnaise slobbering from my turd cutter and all over my velcro triangle. The mixture of footlong fudge bullet and creamy load in my puckered brown eye created the delicious rectal stew that he was so fond of. If I don't fluff the muff to get my sex wee weeping from my sperm socket, his vein cane is going to leave my lunchmeat resembling a sand blasted tomato. The unrelenting orgasms from his slut slayer thrusting my cock holster made me come so hard, I began sweating like a white mouse in a tampon factory. Hours of fucking like this would leave any girl's vertical garden looking like a bulldog in a windtunnel, and I was no different! After having my chlamydia canal fucked, he then proceeded to raid my brown mile. The feeling of his Da Vinci load leaching down my throat got my pussy batter flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. Now, I've seen more acti
on than Helmand Province, but the sight of his bugger king made my pussy batter slobber like Adele waiting for Greggs to open. My slime hole was trembling like jelly. By now, my kipper dinghy was trickling like a hungry pig at a trough. It was bliss having his batter blaster probed inside me again; stuffing my Quimcy, M.E. with a gerbil just didn't get my stench trench spritzing like it used to. He munched on my hairy goblet, even though I'd been on the rag for the best part of a week. He arced a giant toilet twinkie on my droopies just so he could consume it up like a pig at a trough. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his spam javelin probed deeper into my ring piece. The seemingly never-ending streams of creamy load emanating from his greasy slimelight soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. With his wensleydale wand hammering deep into my mound of love pudding, the sensation of his Ocean's 11 Inches smashing my cervix made me quiver like jelly. Some girls are happy just to strum the banjo when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a 9-iron in my carp cavity and a 15" spiked vibrator up my mud flap. The raiding of my Oxo orifice was so vigorous, he soon found his hairy walnuts joining his Nelson's Column deep in my old dirt road. With my panty hamster now much like a darts team's goalkeeper, he thought it was time to start shoving my rusty sherif's badge. Is now the time to tell him I really need to launch a stink pickle, I wondered?