With seven spunken loads on her face, she was not in the right state to host the Pride of Britain awards, but there was nobody else available at fourteen seconds’ notice.
She tapped his nuts lightly, and she was sure she could hear cum sloshing around inside.
“Argh, yeah!” he roared, pumping his shaft faster and faster before letting fly with a substantial load.
The odds on him spunking had just narrowed considerably, with those knockers clamped around the old shaft and her lascivious whispers sure to send him flying over the orgasmic cliff.
The knives were out for her. Or they might be cocks. Either way, they were out, and they were big, and soon they would spunk – and she would drink of them.
She could dance around the subject all she wanted, and boy did she try, but the fact was that her face was covered in semen and her gob was full of it too.
Just as he began to push the ring onto her finger, a huge crash and the scattering of glass sounded as Pete from next door hurled himself through the oldest and finest of the stained glass windows, failing to halt proceedings by more than ten minutes and subjecting himself to a night in hospital, during which time the bride and groom had a marathon session of hard sex with her being treated to a copious serving of thick cum.
Her huge bangers stunned him into silence, a silence broken only by the sound of his orgasmic suspiration and the titters of those around him as a silvery wet patch appeared on the front of his purple camouflage cargo pants.
Yes, he was wearing couture vicuña briefs. No, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be spunking into them. It didn’t even mean that he hadn’t already (he had).
The provenance of her sumptuous bosom was hard to ascertain definitively, but he suspected that it was augmented by human artifice, indicating a high degree of concupiscence which he felt ought to be rewarded, first with his spunk and then, later, with more of his spunk.