by Amy Woods
If I don't audition the finger puppets to get my minge monsoon dripping from my calamari cockring, his womb ferret is going to leave my purple cabbage resembling a ripped out fireplace. The mixture of Mr. Hanky and cock custard in my ring piece created the delicious sphincter sauce that he was so fond of. Now, I've seen more foreskins than a rabbi during a baby boom, but the sight of his bald avenger made my minge mucus leak like Augustus Gloop's mouth at the sight of Willy Wonka's chocolate river. My cake hole was so full of blind butler and Da Vinci load, the love piss was dribbling down my chin and onto my love bubbles. Within no time, I could feel the shitty steamin' semen leaking from my puckered brown eye and all over my purple cabbage. With my piss flaps now much like a darts team's goalkeeper, he thought it was time to start stuffing my brown mile. Is now the time to tell him I really need to drop a Mr. Hanky, I wondered? My quim was trembling like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. I awoke the next morning with my south mouth still haemorrhaging. I thought it was over but his greasy slimelight had other ideas. Hours of fucking like this would leave any girl's roast beef platter looking like a twisted slipper, and I was no different! By now, my kipper dinghy was draining like a slug in a salt mine. After having my gaping clam cavern fucked, he then proceeded to hammer my mud flap. When he removed his sperminator from my ring piece, he was pleasantly surprised to see a sewer trout staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to lap the footlong fudge bullet off his kebeb skewer. With his all-beef thermometer plowing deep into my pink velvet sausage wallet, the sensation of his giggle stick smashing my cervix made me quake like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. He blasted a giant Mr. Hanky on my chesticles just so he could consume it up like a pig at a trough. Some girls are happy just to play the clitar when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a 9-iron in my tampon tunnel and my fist up my old dirt road. He munched on my flappy meal, even though I'd been walking the red carpet for the best part of a week. The unrelenting orgasms from his bald avenger pounding my shamevelope made me come so hard, I began sweating like Mike Tyson at a spelling bee. Inserting a 9-iron into my one slice toaster got me spritzing minge monsoon faster than a greased weasel shit. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his chubstep slid deeper into my black hole. The plowing of my vintage golf bag was so vigorous, he soon found his man berries joining his cunt plunger deep in my black hole. The seemingly never-ending streams of Da Vinci load emanating from his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. There was Da Vinci load flowing from his flesh gordon and I was wetter than a well diggers arse. We were ready for more. The feeling of his gentleman's relish slobbering down my throat got my pussy batter flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. The slamming makes me spit my spaff all over his love lollipop. I can't wait to lap the cock snot from his stilton sword.
By now, my Quimcy, M.E. was foaming like Adele waiting for Greggs to open. Within no time, I could feel the shitty penis pudding frothing from my tradesman's entrance and all over my open-faced ham sandwich. Now, I've seen more foreskins than a rabbi during a baby boom, but the sight of his blue-veined custard chucker made my tuna tunnel tears flow like a slug in a salt mine. Some girls are happy just to flick the bean when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster in my fuck gutter and a barbie doll up my vintage golf bag. My whispering eye was trembling like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. He arced a giant Mr. Hanky on my cans just so he could gobble it up like a bulldog eating porridge. He munched on my purple cabbage, even though I'd been riding the cotton pony for the best part of a week. With his chubstep hammering deep into my herring hole, the sensation of his bugger king smashing my cervix made me quiver like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. Hours of fucking like this would leave any girl's clap flaps looking like a stuntman's knee, and I was no different! Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his cream reaper shoved deeper into my vintage golf bag. My mouth was so full of devil's bagpipe and baby gravy, the steamin' semen was frothing down my chin and onto my cans. Inserting an antique doorknob into my chamber of squelch got me squirting clunge gunge faster than a greased weasel shit. When he removed his piss pipe from my fudge factory, he was pleasantly surprised to see a stink pickle staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to consume the toilet twinkie off his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus. If I don't stimulate the genitals through phalangetic motion to get my beige slime weeping from my enchilada of love, his battering ram is going to leave my vertical smile resembling a darts team's goalkeeper. The fucking makes me squirt my flange custard all over his one-eyed monster. The seemingly never-ending streams of ectoplasm emanating from his blue-veined custard chucker soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. The feeling of his cock custard weeping down my throat got my shrimp sap flowing quicker than snot off a whip. I awoke the next morning with my cum dumpster still flowing. I thought it was over but his love muscle had other ideas. There was magician's wax leaking from his veiny quim prod and I was wetter than an otter's pocket. We were ready for more. It was bliss having his cunt plunger probed inside me again; stuffing my front bum with an egg timer just didn't get my ruby cave ejecting like it used to. After having my hatchet wound fucked, he then proceeded to thrust my cocoa channel. The hammering of my turd cutter was so vigorous, he soon found his two amigos joining his veiny quim prod deep in my poo pipe. With my lunchmeat now much like a bucket of smashed crabs, he thought it was time to start shoving my cocoa channel. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cut a footlong fudge bullet, I wondered? The unrelenting orgasms from his cream reaper slamming my bearded haddock pasty made me come so hard, I began sweating like a white mouse in a tampon factory. I can't wait to gobble the love mayonnaise from his stilton sword.
Within no time, I could feel the shitty magician's wax leaking from my brown mile and all over my vertical garden. It was bliss having his flesh gordon plunged inside me again; stuffing my oyster ditch with a squash just didn't get my hot pocket spattering like it used to. By now, my ground zero grotto was haemorrhaging like there was a midget inside me with a super soaker. The unrelenting orgasms from his throbbing quim dagger raiding my gaping clam cavern made me come so hard, I began sweating like a pregnant nun. After having my fuck trench plowed, he then proceeded to thrust my poo pipe. He cut a giant Mr. Hanky on my breasticles just so he could gobble it up like a bulldog eating porridge. The thrusting makes me splurge my sex wee all over his master of ceremonies. Hours of slamming like this would leave any girl's beef curtains looking like Pete Burns' lips, and I was no different! When he removed his purple beaver buster from my chocolate starfish, he was pleasantly surprised to see a butt nugget staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to devour the hardened fudge nugget off his love lollipop. The feeling of his cock custard haemorrhaging down my throat got my shrimp sap flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. If I don't dial the rotary phone to get my fallopian fish stock haemorrhaging from my cod canyon, his chorizo howitzer is going to leave my flappy meal resembling a twisted slipper. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his piss pipe plunged deeper into my ring piece. The seemingly never-ending streams of cock custard emanating from his devil's bagpipe soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. With his cunt stretcher slamming deep into my kipper dinghy, the sensation of his cervix cigar smashing my cervix made me quake like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. He munched on my meaty hangers, even though I'd had Aunt Flo visiting for the best part of a week. I awoke the next morning with my oyster ditch still leaking. I thought it was over but his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus had other ideas. There was magician's wax dripping from his stilton sword and I was wetter than a spastic's chin. We were ready for more. With my open-faced ham sandwich now much like a rabid baboon's arse, he thought it was time to start plunging my brown mile. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cut a colon cobra, I
wondered? Now, I've been told the sperm bank will accept my spit, but the sight of his tenderloin truncheon made my shrimp sap drip like there was a midget inside me with a super soaker. The mixture of footlong fudge bullet and baby gravy in my cocoa channel created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. The plowing of my tradesman's entrance was so vigorous, he soon found his clock weights joining his timed slimer deep in my vintage golf bag. My spunk dungeon was trembling like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. My cake hole was so full of tenderloin truncheon and creamy load, the steamin' semen was dribbling down my chin and onto my top bollocks. Some girls are happy just to play the clitar when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a number of chillies in my shamevelope and a lightbulb up my Oxo orifice. I can't wait to chow down on the love piss from his ample cock.
He munched on my open-faced ham sandwich, even though I'd had my redwings for the best part of a week. If I don't tune the tuna to get my tuna tunnel tears draining from my hatchet wound, his blind butler is going to leave my velcro triangle resembling a bucket of smashed crabs. When he removed his ramrod from my balloon knot, he was pleasantly surprised to see a Mr. Hanky staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to gobble the stink pickle off his purple-headed trouser snake. Hours of plowing like this would leave any girl's furburger looking like a darts team's goalkeeper, and I was no different! The slamming of my Mavis Fritter was so vigorous, he soon found his kids on a swing joining his vein cane deep in my rusty bullet hole. The unrelenting orgasms from his tallywacker pounding my sperm socket made me come so hard, I began sweating like a white mouse in a tampon factory. With my roast beef platter now much like a darts team's goalkeeper, he thought it was time to start shoving my fart valve. Is now the time to tell him I really need to arc a toilet twinkie, I wondered? The feeling of his cock custard weeping down my throat got my flange custard flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. Some girls are happy just to tune the tuna when they're alone, but I can't get off without having my fist in my quim and a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster up my marmite motorway. By now, my bearded haddock pasty was frothing like a jizz waterfall. He blasted a giant corn-eyed butt snake on my tatas just so he could chow down on it up like a hungry hungry hippo. The seemingly never-ending streams of magician's wax emanating from his gristle missile soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. Inserting a gerbil into my enchilada of love got me splurging sex wee faster than snot off a whip. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his love lollipop shoved deeper into my poo pipe. I can't wait to devour the gentleman's relish from his one-eyed milkman. Within no time, I could feel the shitty baby gravy haemorrhaging from my other vagina and all over my panty hamster. Now, I've had more hands up me than The Muppets, but the sight of his timed slimer made my tuna tunnel tears ooze like a slug in a salt mine. There was gentleman's relish weeping from his Nelson's Column and I was wetter than an Italian cruise ship. We were ready for more. My hatchet wound was trembling like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. I awoke the next morning with my clearing in the woods still weeping. I thought it was over but his love lollipop had other ideas. The pounding makes me splurge my sex wee all over his disco stick. It was bliss having his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus probed inside me again; stuffing my vaginal bacon buffet with a gerbil just didn't get my smush mitten surging like it used to. My cake hole was so full of all-beef thermometer and creamy load, the love mayonnaise was leaking down my chin and onto my superdroopers. The mixture of toilet twinkie and magician's wax in my turd-herder created the delicious rectal stew that he was so fond of. After having my chamber of squelch thrusted, he then proceeded to raid my shit winker.
Hours of fucking like this would leave any girl's spam castanets looking like a ripped out fireplace, and I was no different! Some girls are happy just to flick the bean when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a barbie doll in my hatchet wound and a 15" spiked vibrator up my black hole. The feeling of his cock custard leaching down my throat got my clunge gunge flowing quicker than snot off a whip. It was bliss having his bald-headed yogurt slinger probed inside me again; stuffing my south mouth with my fist just didn't get my meat purse squirting like it used to. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his pink tractor beam stuffed deeper into my old dirt road. When he removed his cumtree from my puckered brown eye, he was pleasantly surprised to see a sewer trout staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to consume the butt nugget off his spunk-filled spam rocket. The unrelenting orgasms from his spam javelin hammering my fuck trench made me come so hard, I began sweating like a pregnant nun. The slamming makes me spray my flange custard all over his wrist-thick wand. By now, my meat purse was haemorrhaging like a slug in a salt mine. My mouth was so full of clunger and cock custard, the Da Vinci load was trickling down my chin and onto my top bollocks. Inserting a 15" spiked vibrator into my gashtray got me surging minge monsoon faster than snot off a whip. Now, I've been told the sperm bank will accept my spit, but the sight of his one-eyed monster made my spaff drip like a broken fridge freezer. Within no time, I could feel the shitty gentleman's relish weeping from my fudge factory and all over my piss flaps. With his womb raider hammering deep into my tuna canal, the sensation of his greasy kebab skewer smashing my cervix made me quake like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. The seemingly never-ending streams of love piss emanating from his cheese-crusted cock soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. He launched a giant colon cobra on my droopies just so he could suck it up like a bulldog eating porridge. If I don't strum the banjo to get my spaff frothing from my shamevelope, his veiny quim prod is going to leave my furburger resembling a bulldog licking piss from a thistle. There was Da Vinci load frothing from his Nelson's Column and I was wetter than an English summer. We were ready for more. I can't wait to chow down on the gentleman's relish from his timed slimer. With my spam castanets now much like a darts team's goalkeeper, he thought it was time to start probing my soft tight anus. Is now the time to tell him I really need to extrude a stink pickle, I wondered? I awoke the next morning with my clearing in the woods still weeping. I thought it was over but his huge penis had other ideas. My pink velvet sausage wallet was trembling like jelly. The pounding of my old dirt road was so vigorous, he soon found his love spuds joining his turgid terror truncheon deep in my soft tight anus. The mixture of hardened fudge nugget and steamin' semen in my other vagina created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. After having my soft-shelled tuna taco pounded, he then proceeded to slam my marmite motorway.
If I don't fluff the muff to get my spaff seeping from my smush mitten, his cunt stretcher is going to leave my velcro triangle resembling Pete Burns' lips. It was bliss having his bugger king plunged inside me again; stuffing my shame portal with a gerbil just didn't get my wizards sleeve spritzing like it used to. Inserting a 15" spiked vibrator into my ladytown got me splurging minge monsoon faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. He munched on my lunchmeat, even though I'd had Aunt Flo visiting for the best part of a week. After having my vibration station hammered, he then proceeded to pound my mud flap. My herring hole was trembling like jelly. I can't wait to lap the ectoplasm from his cunt stretcher. My throat was so full of turgid terror truncheon and creamy load, the penis pudding was haemorrhaging down my chin and onto my breasticles. With his thrill drill raiding deep into my fuck gutter, the sensation of his throbbing quim dagger smashing my cervix made me quiver like Vanessa Feltz's diesel-powered vibrator. The mixture of butt nugget and magician's wax in my vintage golf bag created the delicious sphincter sauce that he was so fond of. The feeling of his magician's wax flowing down my throat got my sex wee flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. Hours of raiding like this would leave any girl's vertical garden looking like John Wayne's saddlebags, and I was no different! Some girls are happy just to audition the finger puppets when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a 15" spiked vibrator
in my whispering eye and a squash up my rusty sherif's badge. The fucking of my poo pipe was so vigorous, he soon found his man marbles joining his washington monument deep in my rusty sherif's badge. He extruded a giant toilet twinkie on my fiery biscuits just so he could chow down on it up like a hungry hungry hippo. The unrelenting orgasms from his balony pony hammering my penis pothole made me come so hard, I began sweating like a paedo during a prison riot. The hammering makes me spout my clunge gunge all over his skeleton king. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his veiny quim prod plunged deeper into my vintage golf bag. With my clap flaps now much like a bulldog licking piss from a thistle, he thought it was time to start plunging my cocoa channel. Is now the time to tell him I really need to curl a toilet twinkie, I wondered? There was cock custard sliming from his long-dong silver and I was wetter than a well diggers arse. We were ready for more. The seemingly never-ending streams of baby gravy emanating from his huge penis soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. When he removed his battering ram from my black hole, he was pleasantly surprised to see a footlong fudge bullet staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to lap the corn-eyed butt snake off his greasy slimelight. I awoke the next morning with my ground zero grotto still sliming. I thought it was over but his jebend had other ideas. Within no time, I could feel the shitty Da Vinci load slobbering from my brown mile and all over my open-faced ham sandwich. Now, I've seen more action than Helmand Province, but the sight of his wrist-thick wand made my tuna tunnel tears slobber like a leaky tap.