British blonde deepthroats fuck machine

Title: “A Mildly Dirty Encounter with Love and Spitroasting”

Growing up in a quiet village in the Cotswolds, pulling on long wool socks and knee-high boots, sipping tea in delicate china cups, there was never a hint of the depraved depths this British blonde would plunge to in her adult life. But perversion has a way of slithering in even the most unsuspecting places, lying in wait to strike with reckless abandon.

It was on a typical English summer’s day that this prudish pillar-of-the-community decided enough was enough. With her husband out gallivanting with his mistress for the weekend, she decided it was time to explore the depths of her depravity. She unlocked her seasonal Cox’dale windmill with the skeleton key kept behind the mantle. Climbing the winding stairs, she switched on the solitary fluorescent bulb, illuminating her worldly possessions: a box of old love letters, a velvet-pillow with the initials J.F.K., and a Sybian sex machine. This was herMecca, her Mecca of shame and fuzzy handcuffs.

Stripping off her demure floral dress and bonnet, she revealed an ample bosom, panties with a cartoon kitty patting its winky, and downy blonde fuzz barely concealing her womanly rose. She hopped onto the saddle, almost losing her balance, as the beastable throbbed to life just inches from her virgin flower. Her hands fumbled for the remote, and with the flip of a switch, she was awash in a torrent of writhing bliss.

But the vibrator alone wouldn’t be enough. She reached into her rucksack and produced her pièce de résistance: a slobbering, pen-shaped dildo.-pronger. She needn’t worry, she thought, dabs of her saliva would conjure her willing partner, if only in her sinful mind. She began to worship the relic, marinating it in the juices of her oral cavities. Her mouth widened obscenely around the plastic probe, her copious spit dribbling down her chin and chest, thoroughly coating every nook and cranny.

Just as she was hitting her stride, the sound of a creaking floorboard snapped her back to reality. “Who-who’s there?” she sputtered, dildo hanging from her lips like a babushka dropped in a meat grinder. Out of the shadows, two brawny men emerged, one bare chested, the other in suspenders and a flat cap, both with trousers already spilling forth their bulging business up top.

“Well, howdy, missy!” the chested one grinned. “Looks like ya started without us, eh?” The British blonde was mortified…and aroused. With the blast of a shrill whistle, the men pounced like starving wolves, ripping the slut’s blouse and panties like a paper bag. “Mepisodes of couliac bliss as the cocks spitroasted her gullet and rose simultaneously, choking her, choking her like a crows egg.

She lost all sense of her body, all sense of the incessant motor humming between her legs, reducing her to only the sensations of both anal and oral invaders pounding her facedown. Her orgasms came like tidal waves, bursting out of her in spirals of frothy, vaginal spray. The two men wouldn’t relent, slamming into her ceaselessly, even as her limbs went limp and lifeless, hung only by the strings of their brute force.

Just as quickly as it begun, the blood-thirsty rut was over, the two mysterious lovelies tucking their still-erect poles into their trousers and vanishing out the doorway as if it were all just a wet dream. The discarded, discarded Lovelace collapsed in a cum-stained heap, utterly wrecked, entirely and utterly used. But as she lay there, her blouse snagged on the rusty door knobs, she felt a sense of relief. A relief from the years upon years of repression, the forced niceties, the polite smiles while begging to be split open.

From that day forth, she vowed never to take her weekly Sybian spins for granted again. She learned that sometimes, you don’t just need a good seeing-to, you need a seeing-to that leaves you almost unable to speak, to see, to think. You need to serve as the plaything of the brute strength of hung, savage men. You need to be ravaged, to be made into a toy, a thing, not a person, but an object- an object to be used, to be punished, to be thoroughly explored and abandoned again in a mess of your own snot, drool, and positively prodigious amounts of spunk.

So by all means, enjoy your polite doses of tame, well-lit, cheerful and upbeat ecstasy. But occasionally, power down, switch off, and allow the primeval urge to rear its incredibly virile head. It’ll make all the security and safety and mildness so much more milky and sweet and- most importantly- deserved. After all, sometimes you gotta murk up that pudding and eat it too.