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 Now online (1)recycle ...and 265 guests Last 5 registered Oplandisks nothingstar N_loop yipe foxtrotromeo Browse members... |
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Members 8025Messages 2614106 Today 3 Topics 127542 |
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".... Finally I got to release my dragon, and then i started to move it back and forth like a banana soaked in olive oil. And the oil felt right. It really was olive oil, and I soaked it all over my penis, and I know nothing better than soaking my penis with olive oil and moving it back and forth. But that was not the reason I was here. I wanted company. I knew it was dangerous. This was Newark airport, but I wanted middle-aged cock. Badly. So I started making excessive slapping sounds in the restroom -- full of natural olive oil, passion and pleasure -- but no one wanted me. I had to change tactics. I lay down sideways and reached my hand out in the boot next to me and I.... " |
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I love it. I love the passion. It's witty yet never mocking. I love the character Andrea. Did you base it on someone you knew? |
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"... touched the most delicious penis ever. I could've jerked him off every day. Really. The next day I'm on a plane to Tokyo on an art exhibition. I have no idea why I'm here, and I'm feeling nervous. My friends say I'm talented when it comes to fashion, but I know nothing about fashion...." |
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I loved the bit where they sleep with his penis still inside. |
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"Wow.. the people here really ARE yellow. And their eyes are well fucked up.. LOL.. " Days like these make me grateful to be West Virginian. I want my home. I really do. Gooks are driving me insane. I want nothing but a swimming pool full of semen. |
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Jumping aboard the 50 shades of grey train, I take? |
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The unrelenting orgasms from his slut slayer thrusting my ground zero grotto made me come so hard, I began sweating like a pregnant nun. He munched on my roast beef platter, even though I'd been surfing the crimson tide for the best part of a week. There was love piss leaching from his all-beef thermometer and I was wetter than an otter's pocket. We were ready for more. Now, I've seen more helmets than Hitler, but the sight of his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus made my beige slime slobber like a leaky tap. Inserting a number of chillies into my ground zero grotto got me spouting sideways moisture faster than a greased weasel shit. |
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With my clap flaps now much like a hippo's yawn, he thought it was time to start stuffing my mud flap. Is now the time to tell him I really need to drop a toilet twinkie, I wondered? The mixture of sewer trout and love piss in my rusty sherif's badge created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. After having my gammon alley thrusted, he then proceeded to thrust my fart valve. The sight of his spunk-filled spam rocket made my pussy batter dribble like Wayne Rooney's dick in an OAP home. The seemingly never-ending streams of baby gravy emanating from his bald-headed yogurt slinger soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. |
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You're going to be a star. |
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I awoke the next morning with my hatchet wound still draining. I thought it was over but his giggle stick had other ideas. The seemingly never-ending streams of cock snot emanating from his stilton sword soon had me coated. I revelled at the opportunity to lap up the steamin' love mayonnaise from his greasy kebab skewer. The fucking makes me spray my minge monsoon all over his sperminator. Hours of slamming like this would leave any girl's vertical smile looking like John Wayne's saddlebags, and I was no different! |
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With my municipal cockwash still weeping, I thought finally it was over but his washington monument was again mounted for action. The mixture of colon cobra and creamy load in my chocolate starfish created the delicious sphincter sauce that he lusted for ever-so-greatly. I could feel the shitty magician's wax dripping from my brown eye and all over my panty hamster. |
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With his ramrod fucking deep into my clunge pool, the sensation of his Vince cable smashing my cervix made me quiver like a shitting dog. The pounding makes me gush my tuna tunnel tears all over his love muscle. He copped a giant stink pickle on my love bubbles just so he could consume it up like a pig at a trough. My gammon alley was trembling like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. With my meaty hangers now much like a horse's collar, he thought it was time to once again start sliding my turd-herder |
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Chapter 2 Within no time, I could feel the shitty baby gravy dripping from my ring piece and all over my bald man in a boat. It was bliss having his bald avenger plunged inside me again; stuffing my crusty fuck trench with gerbil just didn't get my gashtray pouring like it used to. |
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After having my gaping clam cavern slammed, he then proceeded to hammer my mavis fritter. There was love piss flowing from his ocean's 11 inches and I was wetter than a spastic's chin. The slamming was so vigorous, he soon found his kids on a swing joining his love muscle deep in my old dirt road. By now, my sperm socket was dribbling like there was a midget inside me with a super soaker The mixture of toilet twinkie and Da Vinci load in my cocoa channel created a delicious sphincter sauce |
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I puts my ding dong inside her, and she makes squealing sound. I take my ding dong out, she looks back at me. With angry! I puts my ding dong back into HER hole, but it was all a dream! I was reading word up magazine! I ejaculated ants and heard the seven headed guardian scream! |
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The man was probably close to sixty years of age, but florid and vigorous. His body was heavy and round; but so were his arms and legs. An otherwise absolutely unprepossessing face was rendered most attractive by a pair of twinkling, humorous blue eyes, set far apart. Iron-gray hair, with a tendency to curl upward at the ends, escaped from under his hat. His movements were slow and large and purposeful. He rattled the padlock on the boathouse, looked at his watch, and sat down on his duffle-bag. The wind blew strong up the river; the baring branches of the willows whipped loose their yellow leaves. A dull, leaden light stole up from the east as the afternoon sun lost its strength. By the end of ten minutes, however, the wind carried with it the creak of rowlocks. A moment later a light, flat duck-boat shot around the bend and drew up at the float. "Well, Orde, you confounded old scallywattamus," remarked the man on the duffle-bag, without moving, "is this your notion of meeting a train?" The oarsman moored his frail craft and stepped to the float. He was about ten years the other's junior, big of frame, tanned of skin, clear of eye, and also purposeful of movement. "This boathouse," he remarked incisively, "is the property of the Maple County Duck Club. Trespassers will be prosecuted. Get off this float." Then they clasped hands and looked at each other. "It's surely like old times to see you again, Welton," Orde broke the momentary silence. "It's been--let's see--fifteen years, hasn't it? How's Minnesota?" "Full of ducks," stated Welton emphatically, "and if you haven't anything but mud hens and hell divers here, I'm going to sue you for getting me here under false pretences. I want ducks." "Well, I'll get the keeper to shoot you some," replied Orde, soothingly, "or you can come out and see me kill 'em if you'll sit quiet and not rock the boat. Climb aboard. It's getting late." Welton threw aboard his duffle-bag, and, with a dexterity marvellous in on |
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e apparently so unwieldy, stepped in astern. Orde grinned. "Haven't forgotten how to ride a log, I reckon?" he commented. Welton exploded. |
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"DUBturbo, I reckon?" he commented. |
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