|
A few months ago, Thig Lyfe asked me out on a date. I accepted (of course) and he picked me up from the Tit Hut after my shift. I'll never forget how instantly wet I became when I saw him in the parking lot, leaning on his DeLorean and wearing a black long-sleeve T-shirt featuring pictures of of not one, not two, but FOUR wolves.
"Get the **** in the car, bitch!" he growled like a sexy something-or-other. I buckled in and asked where we were going.
"Pussytown. Population: My fat dick," he purred.
And before I could even ask if we were having dinner first, he crammed his ginormous dong so far up my babychute that the tip was partially dissolved by my stomach acid when he pulled out.
"Not again!" he bellowed. He turned to me and said "Thanks for the poon. Now get the **** out."
He stole my purse, pushed me out of the car and sped away with Steely Dan blaring. Now I'm more pregnant than once thought possible. I only hope my baby inherits the irresistible sexiness of its father.
He truly is BORN TO ROAM.
|