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Are you a QOTWer? Do you want to start a thread that isn't a direct answer to the current QOTW? Then this place, gentle poster, is your friend.
( , Sun 1 Apr 2001, 1:00)
Are you a QOTWer? Do you want to start a thread that isn't a direct answer to the current QOTW? Then this place, gentle poster, is your friend.
( , Sun 1 Apr 2001, 1:00)
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you should write a story about him having a wank, that'll learn him
( , Fri 26 Oct 2012, 13:43, 3 replies, latest was 12 years ago)
( , Fri 26 Oct 2012, 13:43, 3 replies, latest was 12 years ago)
"...and Naked Ape contorted about the bed as his semi squirted fathoms of white juice all over his He-Man bedsheets, spattering the walls and his signed Jimmy Osmond photo with his fresh, hot semen"
( , Fri 26 Oct 2012, 13:46, Reply)
( , Fri 26 Oct 2012, 13:46, Reply)
I'd click "I like this" but I don't want to give the wrong impression
( , Fri 26 Oct 2012, 14:21, Reply)
( , Fri 26 Oct 2012, 14:21, Reply)
Nakers' heavy Neanderthal brow furrowed with concentration,
his tongue hanging out like that of a cross-eyed bulldog locked in a Range Rover on a hot day, whilst his simian digits flailed helplessly around his nipple-sized acorn-cock. He wailed like a Downser with a dropped ice cream as he fumbled gradually towards the balsamics. Grunting with ever-increasing urgency, his over-long hairy arm became a blur, and his bleating hit the upper registers.
Then it all seemed to happen at once, as first a tortured, whining fart and then an oily, otter-like stool flew from his distended anus, splattering every seat within a six foot radius of where he sat on the bus.
'Don't do that, dear', said his mum slash wife, dabbing a foetid mixture of ordure and semen from the back of the man in front's coat. 'It's not your birthday 'til tomorrow'.
( , Fri 26 Oct 2012, 13:48, Reply)
his tongue hanging out like that of a cross-eyed bulldog locked in a Range Rover on a hot day, whilst his simian digits flailed helplessly around his nipple-sized acorn-cock. He wailed like a Downser with a dropped ice cream as he fumbled gradually towards the balsamics. Grunting with ever-increasing urgency, his over-long hairy arm became a blur, and his bleating hit the upper registers.
Then it all seemed to happen at once, as first a tortured, whining fart and then an oily, otter-like stool flew from his distended anus, splattering every seat within a six foot radius of where he sat on the bus.
'Don't do that, dear', said his mum slash wife, dabbing a foetid mixture of ordure and semen from the back of the man in front's coat. 'It's not your birthday 'til tomorrow'.
( , Fri 26 Oct 2012, 13:48, Reply)
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