by Amy Woods
With my beef curtains now much like Brian May's plughole, he thought it was time to start ramming my fart valve. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cut a corn-eyed butt snake, I wondered? With his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon raiding deep into my clearing in the woods, the sensation of his timed slimer smashing my cervix made me quiver like a shitting dog. The unrelenting orgasms from his washington monument pounding my birth cannon made me come so hard, I began sweating like a fat slag in a disco. He extruded a giant corn-eyed butt snake on my chesticles just so he could consume it up like a bulldog eating porridge. The seemingly never-ending streams of cock custard emanating from his washington monument soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. The feeling of his magician's wax dribbling down my throat got my vertical moisture flowing quicker than snot off a whip. After having my front bum slammed, he then proceeded to pound my rusty bullet hole. The mixture of corn-eyed butt snake and creamy load in my rusty sherif's badge created the delicious sphincter sauce that he was so fond of. My vibration station was trembling like Vanessa Feltz's diesel-powered vibrator. If I don't buff the muff to get my shrimp sap leaking from my enchilada of love, his love muscle is going to leave my lunchmeat resembling a hippo's yawn. It was bliss having his tenderloin truncheon rammed inside me again; stuffing my herring hole with a lightbulb just didn't get my moose knuckle ejecting like it used to. Inserting a 9-iron into my gammon alley got me spattering clunge gunge faster than a greased weasel shit. He munched on my lunchmeat, even though I'd been on the rag for the best part of a week. I can't wait to devour the penis pudding from his throbbing quim dagger. When he removed his disco stick from my ring piece, he was pleasantly surprised to see a corn-eyed butt snake staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to lap the sewer trout off his stilton sword. Hours of pounding like this would leave any girl's beef curtains looking like Brian May's plughole, and I was no different! I awoke the next morning with my one slice toaster still oozing. I thought it was over but his tallywacker had other ideas. Within no time, I could feel the shitty love piss haemorrhaging from my old dirt road and all over my roast beef platter. The pounding makes me spray my fallopian fish stock all over his throbbing quim dagger. My cake hole was so full of chorizo howitzer and love mayonnaise, the gentleman's relish was trickling down my chin and onto my love bubbles. Now, I've seen more japseyes than an oriental optician, but the sight of his giggle stick made my fallopian fish stock flow like Adele waiting for Greggs to open. By now, my vibration station was frothing like a leaky tap. The slamming of my rusty bullet hole was so vigorous, he soon found his jingle-jangle jewellery joining his devil's bagpipe deep in my balloon knot. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his stilton sword rammed deeper into my mud flap. 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 oyster ditch and a 15" spiked vibrator up my turd-herder.
It was bliss having his giggle stick rammed inside me again; stuffing my slime hole with my fist just didn't get my spunk dungeon ejecting like it used to. When he removed his greasy slimelight from my old dirt road, he was pleasantly surprised to see a hardened fudge nugget staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to gobble the toilet twinkie off his cream reaper. He munched on my fishy flaps, even though I'd had Aunt Flo visiting for the best part of a week. After having my frilling pink golf bag slammed, he then proceeded to pound my poo pipe. Inserting a squash into my chamber of squelch got me flowing sex wee faster than snot off a whip. The slamming of my ring piece was so vigorous, he soon found his family jewels joining his devil's bagpipe deep in my balloon knot. The mixture of sewer trout and ectoplasm in my other vagina created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. Some girls are happy just to tune the tuna when they're alone, but I can't get off without having an antique doorknob in my cock holster and a 9-iron up my other vagina. My slime hole was trembling like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. The feeling of his love mayonnaise draining down my throat got my tuna tunnel tears flowing quicker than snot off a whip. There was cock custard sliming from his jade rod and I was wetter than an English summer. We were ready for more. With my piss flaps now much like a twisted slipper, he thought it was time to start plunging my shit winker. Is now the time to tell him I really need to roll a footlong fudge bullet, I wondered? Hours of raiding like this would leave any girl's hairy goblet looking like a hippo's yawn, and I was no different! My mouth was so full of purple beaver buster and baby gravy, the man fat was dribbling down my chin and onto my chest puppies. The seemingly never-ending streams of creamy load emanating from his disco stick soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. Within no time, I could feel the shitty cock snot sliming from my shit winker and all over my open-faced ham sandwich. I awoke the next morning with my municipal cockwash still foaming. I thought it was over but his giggle stick had other ideas. The unrelenting orgasms from his spam dagger thrusting my cod crater made me come so hard, I began sweating like a blind lesbian in a fish shop. With his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon fucking deep into my carp cavity, the sensation of his slut slayer smashing my cervix made me quiver like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his stilton spear slid deeper into my soft tight anus. He pitched a giant stink pickle on my chesticles just so he could lap it up like a pig at a trough. By now, my depravity cavity was dripping like Augustus Gloop's mouth at the sight of Willy Wonka's chocolate river. If I don't study english cliterature to get my clunge gunge sliming from my cod canyon, his stilton spear is going to leave my open-faced ham sandwich resembling a manatee in yoga pants. The pounding makes me gush my minge monsoon all over his bald-headed yogurt slinger. Now, I've seen more helmets than Hitler, but the sight of his bugger king made my fallopian fish stock leak like a broken coffee maker.
If I don't audition the finger puppets to get my shrimp sap foaming from my sperm socket, his meaty member is going to leave my vertical garden resembling John Wayne's saddlebags. The mixture of sewer trout and Da Vinci load in my brown mile created the delicious sphincter sauce that he was so fond of. The hammering makes me gush my minge mucus all over his blue-veined custard chucker. It was bliss having his ramrod plunged inside me again; stuffing my chlamydia canal with a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster just didn't get my slime hole flowing like it used to. There was ectoplasm dribbling from his long-dong silver and I was wetter than an otter's pocket. We were ready for more. He munched on my open-faced ham sandwich, even though I'd been surfing the crimson tide for the best part of a week. Hours of fucking like this would leave any girl's panty hamster looking like a motorway pileup, and I was no different! The feeling of his penis pudding seeping down my throat got my tuna tunnel tears flowing quicker than snot off a whip. When he removed his cunt plunger from my turd cutter, he was pleasantly surprised to see a colon cobra staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to chow down on the corn-eyed butt snake off his cervix cigar. Within no time, I could feel the shitty cock custard oozing from my black hole and all over my vertical smile. My throat was so full of purple beaver buster and gentleman's relish, the man fat was foaming down my chin and onto my breasticles. He launched a giant colon cobra on my droopies just so he could suck it up like a bulldog eating porridge. After having my Quimcy, M.E. plowed, he then proceeded to hammer my fudge factory. With my lunchmeat now much like a shot cat, he thought it was time to start sliding my fudge factory. Is now the time to tell him I really need to roll a corn-eyed butt snake, I wondered? Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his batter blaster shoved deeper into my other vagina. I awoke the next morning with my Quimcy, M.E. still weeping. I thought it was over but his wrist-thick wand had other ideas. My ruby cave was trembling like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. The unrelenting orgasms from his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon fucking my Quimcy, M.E. made me come so hard, I began sweating like a paedo during a
prison riot. I can't wait to chow down on the love mayonnaise from his master of ceremonies. By now, my penis pothole was frothing like a broken fridge freezer. The hammering of my turd cutter was so vigorous, he soon found his two amigos joining his blind butler deep in my black hole. Inserting an egg timer into my ruby cave got me spattering clunge gunge faster than a greased weasel shit. Some girls are happy just to fish for pearls when they're alone, but I can't get off without having my fist in my hatchet wound and a 9-iron up my rusty bullet hole. The seemingly never-ending streams of ectoplasm emanating from his batter blaster soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. Now, I've seen more action than Helmand Province, but the sight of his bald avenger made my minge monsoon flow like there was a midget inside me with a super soaker.
The unrelenting orgasms from his wensleydale wand fucking my front bum made me come so hard, I began sweating like a midget nun at a penguin shoot. With my panty hamster now much like Brian May's plughole, he thought it was time to start shoving my ring piece. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cut a butt nugget, I wondered? Now, I've seen more foreskins than a rabbi during a baby boom, but the sight of his cunt plunger made my flange custard drain like a leaky tap. The seemingly never-ending streams of love piss emanating from his batter blaster soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. The hammering of my fudge factory was so vigorous, he soon found his family jewels joining his washington monument deep in my rusty bullet hole. Some girls are happy just to fish for pearls when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a 15" spiked vibrator in my quim and my fist up my chocolate starfish. There was man fat foaming from his tenderloin truncheon and I was wetter than a bathmaid's elbow. We were ready for more. Inserting a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster into my Quimcy, M.E. got me spattering minge mucus faster than snot off a whip. The pounding makes me pour my clunge gunge all over his long-dong silver. I can't wait to devour the Da Vinci load from his master of ceremonies. It was bliss having his womb ferret probed inside me again; stuffing my carp cavity with a number of chillies just didn't get my tampon tunnel splurging like it used to. He pinched off a giant colon cobra on my sweater puppies just so he could chow down on it up like a pig at a trough. My fuck gutter was trembling like a rat on acid. With his giggle stick pounding deep into my penis pothole, the sensation of his balony pony smashing my cervix made me quake like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. After having my pink velvet sausage wallet plowed, he then proceeded to plow my turd-herder. Within no time, I could feel the shitty love piss leaching from my Oxo orifice and all over my furburger. The mixture of hardened fudge nugget and magician's wax in my black hole created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. Hours of fucking like this would leave any girl's flappy meal looking like Terry Waite's allotment, and I was no different! My cake hole was so full of greasy slimelight and creamy load, the love piss was foaming down my chin and onto my chesticles. When he removed his kebeb skewer from my shit winker, he was pleasantly surprised to see a Mr. Hanky staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to chow down on the butt nugget off his skin flute. If I don't get a stinky pinky to get my fallopian fish stock leaching from my cod canyon, his stilton sword is going to leave my piss flaps resembling a gutted trout. I awoke the next morning with my ladytown still leaching. I thought it was over but his bugger king had other ideas. The feeling of his cock snot haemorrhaging down my throat got my tuna tunnel tears flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. By now, my furry cup was draining like Augustus Gloop's mouth at the sight of Willy Wonka's chocolate river. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his throbbing quim dagger stuffed deeper into my fart valve.
When he removed his devil's bagpipe from my old dirt road, he was pleasantly surprised to see a hardened fudge nugget staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to consume the sewer trout off his bald avenger. He arced a giant sewer trout on my chest puppies just so he could suck it up like a bulldog eating porridge. Within no time, I could feel the shitty creamy load haemorrhaging from my soft tight anus and all over my fishy flaps. My mouth was so full of gristle missile and man fat, the ectoplasm was draining down my chin and onto my fiery biscuits. My shamevelope was trembling like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. The plowing makes me splurge my vertical moisture all over his ramrod. I can't wait to devour the Da Vinci load from his cunt plunger. There was ectoplasm haemorrhaging from his bald-headed yogurt slinger and I was wetter than an Italian cruise ship. We were ready for more. With his huge penis hammering deep into my quim, the sensation of his skeleton king smashing my cervix made me quiver like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. The feeling of his steamin' semen flowing down my throat got my tuna tunnel tears flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. Inserting a number of chillies into my vibration station got me spouting clunge gunge faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. The unrelenting orgasms from his skeleton king thrusting my cod cave made me come so hard, I began sweating like a blind lesbian in a fish shop. He munched on my hairy goblet, even though I'd had the painters in for the best part of a week. 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 one slice toaster and a 15" spiked vibrator up my mud flap. I awoke the next morning with my cock holster still slobbering. I thought it was over but his meaty member had other ideas. By now, my penis pothole was dribbling like a broken fridge freezer. Hours of hammering like this would leave any girl's furburger looking like the Japanese flag, and I was no different! If I don't flick the bean to get my flange custard oozing from my ground zero grotto, his tallywacker is going to leave my panty hamster resembling John Wayne's saddlebags. It was bliss having his purple beaver buster stuffed inside me again; stuffing my ladytown with my fist just didn't get my ground zero grotto spraying like it used to. The pounding of my shit winker was so vigorous, he soon found his jingle-jangle jewellery joining his pink tractor beam deep in my turd-herder. With my meaty hangers now much like a gutted trout, he thought it was time to start stuffing my Oxo orifice. Is now the time to tell him I really need to extrude a hardened fudge nugget, I wondered? Now, I've seen more helmets than Hitler, but the sight of his vein cane made my spaff froth like someone had poured fairy liquid into Niagara Falls. The mixture of Mr. Hanky and Da Vinci load in my puckered brown eye created the delicious sphincter sauce that he was so fond of. After having my calamari cockring raided, he then proceeded to pound my other vagina. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his cumtree rammed deeper into my old dirt road.
Hours of slamming like this would leave any girl's hairy goblet looking like a werewolf with it's throat cut, and I was no different! He arced a giant sewer trout on my twin peaks just so he could lap it up like a hungry hungry hippo. Some girls are happy just to strum the banjo when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a gerbil in my vaginal bacon buffet and an antique doorknob up my rusty bullet hole. Now, I've been told the sperm bank will accept my spit, but the sight of his giggle stick made my beige slime slime like Adele waiting for Greggs to open. The mixture of butt nugget and magician's wax in my puckered brown eye created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. With my panty hamster now much like badly battered road kill, he thought it was time to start ramming my poo pipe. Is now the time to tell him I really need to blast a stink pickle, I wondered? Within no time, I could feel the shitty baby gravy haemorrhaging from my mud flap and all over my clap flaps. If I don't study english cliterature to get my flange custard weeping from my wizards sleeve, his veiny quim prod is going to leave my meaty hangers resembling a bucket of smashed crabs. After having my Quimcy, M.E. thrusted, he then proceeded to slam my brown mile. I awoke the next morning with my mound of love pudding still slobbering. I thought it was over but his battering ram had other ideas. The feeling of his creamy load dripping down my throat got my pussy batter flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. The plowing of my turd cutter was so vigorous, he soon found his salty pro
tein grapes joining his spam dagger deep in my turd-herder. The seemingly never-ending streams of Da Vinci load emanating from his love lollipop soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. Inserting a barbie doll into my penis pothole got me surging spaff faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his stilton sword plunged deeper into my black hole. With his cumtree raiding deep into my vaginal bacon buffet, the sensation of his piss pipe smashing my cervix made me quiver like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. My stench trench was trembling like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. When he removed his greasy slimelight from my old dirt road, he was pleasantly surprised to see a Mr. Hanky staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to consume the stink pickle off his vein cane. The unrelenting orgasms from his ramrod hammering my vibrator crater made me come so hard, I began sweating like Joseph Fritzel on MTV Cribs. I can't wait to consume the Da Vinci load from his throbbing quim dagger. He munched on my panty hamster, even though I'd been riding the cotton pony for the best part of a week. It was bliss having his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon shoved inside me again; stuffing my soft-shelled tuna taco with a lightbulb just didn't get my cod canyon ejecting like it used to. The plowing makes me surge my spaff all over his kebeb skewer. My cake hole was so full of blind butler and creamy load, the baby gravy was seeping down my chin and onto my droopies. There was steamin' semen oozing from his cervix cigar and I was wetter than an Italian cruise ship. We were ready for more.
Now, I've been shot over more times than Sarajevo, but the sight of his spam dagger made my minge monsoon ooze like a broken coffee maker. It was bliss having his long-dong silver rammed inside me again; stuffing my meat purse with a 9-iron just didn't get my enchilada of love splurging like it used to. When he removed his devil's bagpipe from my rusty sherif's badge, he was pleasantly surprised to see a sewer trout staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to lap the hardened fudge nugget off his stilton sword. I can't wait to gobble the love mayonnaise from his kebeb skewer. Inserting a lightbulb into my one slice toaster got me spraying spaff faster 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 squash in my chamber of squelch and a gerbil up my balloon knot. He munched on my beef curtains, even though I'd been surfing the crimson tide for the best part of a week. My cake hole was so full of purple beaver buster and cock snot, the Da Vinci load was slobbering down my chin and onto my mosquito bites. I awoke the next morning with my wizards sleeve still flowing. I thought it was over but his bald-headed yogurt slinger had other ideas. The pounding makes me spout my sex wee all over his purple beaver buster. The plowing of my shit winker was so vigorous, he soon found his clock weights joining his throbbing quim dagger deep in my rusty sherif's badge. There was magician's wax foaming from his giggle stick and I was wetter than an Italian cruise ship. We were ready for more. He curled a giant toilet twinkie on my mammaries just so he could consume it up like a hungry hungry hippo. By now, my sperm socket was leaching like Adele waiting for Greggs to open. The mixture of colon cobra and ectoplasm in my poo pipe created the delicious rectal stew that he was so fond of. With my open-faced ham sandwich now much like a clown's pocket, he thought it was time to start stuffing my chocolate starfish. Is now the time to tell him I really need to ease a sewer trout, I wondered? Hours of thrusting like this would leave any girl's vertical garden looking like badly battered road kill, and I was no different! The unrelenting orgasms from his bald-headed yogurt slinger raiding my gashtray made me come so hard, I began sweating like a gypsy near an unlocked shipping container. Within no time, I could feel the shitty penis pudding leaching from my vintage golf bag and all over my meaty hangers. With his cervix cigar raiding deep into my cod canyon, the sensation of his spunk-filled spam rocket smashing my cervix made me quiver like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. After having my cum dumpster pounded, he then proceeded to raid my balloon knot. My mound of love pudding was trembling like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. The seemingly never-ending streams of penis pudding emanating from his tallywacker soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. The feeling of his baby gravy weeping down my throat got my minge monsoon flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. If I don't audition the finger puppets to get my tuna tunnel tears dribbling from my enchilada of love, his vein cane is going to leave my open-faced ham sandwich resembling a bulldog licking piss from a thistle.