The man is a legend.
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The man is a legend.
Lyndsey Davenport
**** aye. She probably has serious self-esteem issues; child prodigy forced by her parents tae play tennis, nae as ***y as yir Kournikovas or Hantuchovas ( ) o' this world, constantly judged on unfair terms that nae normal quine could hope tae succeed wi'.
In ithir words, she will probably hae downed mair semen than a North Korean torpedo. Ah'm well and ****in' truly in!
Imagine they big muscular thighs wrapped roond yir neck, crushing yir lugs and forcing yir pus intae a gristle-thistle that looks like a well punched lasagne. Ye wid be powerless tae resist Lindsay's cheeky demands tae lick her monthly menstrual hole, ending up wi' a pasta grin.
Fan's yir Dolmio Day? Lovely!
As reward for makk'in her fillings rattle (as well as the embarrassment o' being made tae look like Robert Smith fae The Cure, if Robert Smith fae The Cure had been painted by Picasso), ah wid tak' a bloody, painful revenge on her rusty bullet wound.
Thir wid be utter carnage, fin ah pulled oot and emptied ma dishonourable discharge, ah oo'er her athletic backside and lower back. Three cocks ootay five, as ah reckon she wid hae richt sweaty oxters, a'na.
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