The boy with the small arse dreamed of the day when he would be grown up, and owning his very own carpet factory.
His death fetish was from birth. The smell of newly laid carpet made the boy cum his pants. He would sit his small bare arse down on the new rug and sniff and tug until his hard-on's content.
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Give me a dime and I'll sell you an elves tongue. You just gotta have it, you gotta have it. Then we can sing along, hip ho we screwed that bastard so, hip ho. Indian we migrate hunched and loose of vowels, trajectory fowl. Winnepeg science tours half price with a wink and dick genius mole story. Marmite Jars and creepy scrooge scars.
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I don't like it when my boyfriend doesn't beat me.