Now, I've taken more poundings than the Somme, but the sight of Garchomp's mutton dagger made my fallopian fish stock slime like there was a midget inside me with a super soaker. The seemingly never-ending streams of Da Vinci load emanating from his turgid terror truncheon soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. I awoke the next morning with my brown star of david still dripping. I thought it was over but his greasy slimelight had other ideas. The raiding of my poo pipe was so vigorous, he soon found his sandpapery walnuts joining his gristle missile deep in my balloon knot. Hours of hammering like this would leave any boy's furburger looking like a twisted slipper, and I was no different!
