Thick
Alan, from Glasgow.
Indeed,
I remember leaving a certain premises in Peckham - with a smile on my face ...
it was only the next day, when walking through town, I glanced down to find a
trophy such as yours on the front of my leather jacket.
A
dried, long trophy - stretching from my lapel to the base of the zip. A
snail-trail that spoke a thousand words to anyone who cast eyes upon it.
Instantly
I took my jacket off and [no, I didn't put it on the ground and roll around on
it like a she-dog trying to scent myself in the glory that is eau de 2625!!]
was forced to conceal my trophy - until I was able to wash it in the restroom
upstairs a the Kings Arms, Poland St. London.
These
are the moments we live for my love. We feed on these moments - for our souls
burn ever brighter as we sink further into the debauchery and cheapness we bath
in.
I can
imagine Thick Alan and you know I feel love for him - without even ever seeing
him. We are connected you and I. Forever twisted-together sisters of adoration
and glory.
My
news:
Wayne leaves me for six weeks - traveling to Alaska with friends.
This
saddens me.
However,
do not feel anger for me when I tell you he has only started having sex with
men in the last eleven months.
Do not
feel jealous when I tell you he is THICK and HARD every time.
Do not
feel ripped off when I tell you he is a fantastic kisser and that, at times, we
kiss for over an hour.
Do not
feel remorse when I tell you his lovely, fat face looks so hot when he towers
above me - drilling holes into me - grunting with his totally animalistic,
sexually charged green eyes blazing into the night.
Do not
wish me dead when I tell you his precum tastes sweet, but peppery and that it
turns me into a moaning, thrusting cum-slut from beyond the threshold of
decency.
And
please, please, please do not commit suicide when I tell you he asks me every
time if I 'want his cum'.
Do not.
Do not
Do not.
Please
do not.
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