All you need is skewering schlongs...
Jan. 14th, 2006 02:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
moonlettuceo_O
O_o
O_O
There's just been some spam posted to a list I'm on. It's het RPF involving Gillian Anderson. And, oh my god, after I read the first line I just couldn't stop. And since I feel the need to pass on the total train wreck that is this snippet of story, I'm posting it here for you.
Bobby continued pounding and pounding Gillian’s slushy snatch with his skewering schlong but couldn’t help notice the golden, iridescent acting trophies on obvious display on the mantel a few feet ahead. Gillian had been awarded most of these for her work on “The X-Files.” The prismatically glittering objets d’vanité seemed to take on a power of their own as convection currents pulsated radially away from them and attempted to magnetically ensnare Bobby in their otherworldly dreamscape. He tried to ignore them by instead concentrating on the shocking scene of unspeakable depravity he and Gillian were industriously participating in. She was still locked into the doggy-style position by his sinewy, rippling arm around her hips: Her low-hanging, sun-tanned, 44DD cow-udders flopping forward and smacking against the elbows of her outstretched arms and then swinging just as roughly backward and slapping against her oily lap, smacking and slapping, smacking and slapping, again and again -- the half-gallon of encapsulated saline solution sloshing around inside of each distended milk-jugg unmistakably audible.
Behind her, Bobby maintained his balance on his knees on the seat cushion of the damaged sofa, as he continued ramming his purple-crowned, vein-webbed, corn-on-the-cob into and out of Gillian’s husking meat-grinder. Inadvertently, he glanced up again for only an instant at the ethereally gleaming acting trophies that were still on Gillian’s mantel shelf but seemingly closer, and this time the paranormal force field emanating from them held fast and Bobby was helplessly lost. His vision became kaleidoscopic, and his eyes glazed over as if on a heroin trip. Suddenly, his consciousness was frighteningly thrown into his most persistent nightmare scenario: Him jumping out from the concealing shadows and surprising Special Agent Dana Scully in Mulder’s office while she was alone dropping off one of her summary reports.
~
I don't know whether to be annoyed at the spam, or amused that he chose to do it with something so damn *bad* that it actually burns *grin*
O_o
O_O
There's just been some spam posted to a list I'm on. It's het RPF involving Gillian Anderson. And, oh my god, after I read the first line I just couldn't stop. And since I feel the need to pass on the total train wreck that is this snippet of story, I'm posting it here for you.
Bobby continued pounding and pounding Gillian’s slushy snatch with his skewering schlong but couldn’t help notice the golden, iridescent acting trophies on obvious display on the mantel a few feet ahead. Gillian had been awarded most of these for her work on “The X-Files.” The prismatically glittering objets d’vanité seemed to take on a power of their own as convection currents pulsated radially away from them and attempted to magnetically ensnare Bobby in their otherworldly dreamscape. He tried to ignore them by instead concentrating on the shocking scene of unspeakable depravity he and Gillian were industriously participating in. She was still locked into the doggy-style position by his sinewy, rippling arm around her hips: Her low-hanging, sun-tanned, 44DD cow-udders flopping forward and smacking against the elbows of her outstretched arms and then swinging just as roughly backward and slapping against her oily lap, smacking and slapping, smacking and slapping, again and again -- the half-gallon of encapsulated saline solution sloshing around inside of each distended milk-jugg unmistakably audible.
Behind her, Bobby maintained his balance on his knees on the seat cushion of the damaged sofa, as he continued ramming his purple-crowned, vein-webbed, corn-on-the-cob into and out of Gillian’s husking meat-grinder. Inadvertently, he glanced up again for only an instant at the ethereally gleaming acting trophies that were still on Gillian’s mantel shelf but seemingly closer, and this time the paranormal force field emanating from them held fast and Bobby was helplessly lost. His vision became kaleidoscopic, and his eyes glazed over as if on a heroin trip. Suddenly, his consciousness was frighteningly thrown into his most persistent nightmare scenario: Him jumping out from the concealing shadows and surprising Special Agent Dana Scully in Mulder’s office while she was alone dropping off one of her summary reports.
~
I don't know whether to be annoyed at the spam, or amused that he chose to do it with something so damn *bad* that it actually burns *grin*
