Dear Cum The Fools
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Dear Cum - The Fools free porn video
1 April 2021
Ms Cum Girl
Cum Cottage
Lower Snatch Dripping
Cunnyshire
Dear Ms Cum
It has been brought to our attention here at 'The Daily Heil Publishing Corporation' that the saddo website you're so fond of frequenting is hosting an international competition, and that as a saddo of minor repute and standing we expect you to fly the flag for this Sceptred Isle.
All of us here at 'The Daily Heil Publishing Corporation' are rabid acolytes of the tousle-haired cockwomble and sport huge, throbbing, viagra induced stiffies at the mere mention of British Exceptionalism. We have recently redecorated our entire offices in Union Flags and to assist you in attaining appropriate levels of nationalistic fervour I have enclosed a compact disc of The Coldstream Guards butchering such classics as 'Land of Hope and Glory', 'Rule Britannia' and 'The Theme to Trumpton'. Play it loud. Play it proud. Additionally, I have supplied Ginger Spice's Union Jack dress for you to wear. I think we can both agree that this is the sexiest dress in the history of all dresses ever. I believe this should provide you with suitable inspiration for the production of good, clean, British Standard erotica. Certainly, I get a boner just at the mere mention of that dress, and what with that, the Coldstream Guards and the Union Flag I'm afraid I've made spunkies in the trousering department.
We are expecting you to produce 5000 words of pure British excellence, so no 'colonialisms'. Remember it is tap, not faucet, braces, not suspenders, trousers, not pants, dummy, not pacifier, an undertaker, not a mortician, an estate agent, not a realtor, and if you really must discuss vegetables then we would prefer courgette rather than zucchini (though we would like to point out that this is a French word and the last thing we want is those cheese-eating surrender monkeys getting any credit for anything whatsoever).
I should point out that we don't expect you to win, or even be placed or mentioned. We expect you to uphold our longstanding tradition of plucky failure and if you have any doubts as to what this looks like or how it might be achieved then I would recommend studying the United Kingdom's recent Eurovision Song Contest entries. What we don't want is a repeat of the Sandi Shaw, 'Puppet on a String' debacle. No winning. No thank you. Much better to study the glorious ignominy of Jemini's 2003 entry, 'Cry Baby' with its spectacular 'nul points'.
Remember England Expects (and Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland are looking on in disapproval) so strap on a pair of comedy breasts and your sexiest writing pussy and let's show Johnny Foreigner what for.
Tally ho.
Yours sneeringly safe in the knowledge that you are just some silly little woman with a head full of fluff and nonsense who's more interested in this season's new lipstick colours than anything of any value.
Jacob Cream-Cracker
Senior Gaslighting and Propaganda Manager
Daily Heil Publications Corporation
Ps. Don't think you can put your address at the top of every letter in a pathetic attempt to increase your word count. We expect 5000 proper, sexy words.
Pps. Or waste everyone's time and effort by adding fake Ps'es to the end of letters.
Ppps. Stop it. We're watching you, little lady. Don't do it again.
Dear Mr Crackers
New season lipstick colours!!! Ohhhh how exciting. I wonder what they might be.
'Berry Nude', now she sounds rather fruity and saucy and someone that would be utterly delightful writhing against my flesh beneath my satin sheets, her blood infused nipples swollen berries of delight, her wet cunny grinding against mine as we scissor ourselves to blissful endless release.
'Forbidden Fuchsia', well I do like anything forbidden and what girly-girl doesn't love a touch of fuchsia on their lips. Fuchsia what a silly name, but really any old balderdash or poppycock will do nowadays. And why is she forbidden? Is she perhaps one of those categories that dare not be mentioned, not even in comments or forums or anywhere? You know what I mean, like that incident with Uncle Trevor and the fleeced onesie or Cousin Hoxton's thing about graveyard soil. Those sort of thingumajigs.
'Sweet Marsala', I knew a girl called Marsala once and she has very sugary lips, all of them, quite easy to get intoxicated in her soft, fluttering kisses. Oh, the times she used to smear Bacardi rum across her labia until they glistened enticingly as I gazed on enraptured before crawling on hands and knees between her widespread thighs to lap her clean of every last droplet of alcohol.
'Electric Orchid', well I never what will they think of next, I've got an electric rabbit, maybe it's an upgrade on that. It is a rather tired and worn old bunny and certainly, its ears are looking rather flattened and battered. Maybe it's time I spent the weekly housekeeping on a bit of an upgrade. I am rather partial to a pretty flower display and what could be yummier in a nice lady garden than a pretty orchid.
hums happily
Now then, what was the rest of your letter about?
No. Absolutely not. Fuck off. There is no way I am writing some sad old piece of shit to enter into that stupid competition. You do know what happens, don't you? Saddos read them. It's bad enough having them paw all over my lovely words, but then they have the audacity to write puerile comments on them in the vain hope of a little reflected glory, which is just excruciating. And then, as a final insult they give it a score; as if their opinion is really, really important and I'm supposed to give a flying fuck about the whole awful process. I'll repeat myself. No. Absolutely not. Fuck off.
Besides I've got a very, very busy April planned. There's the haircut, the eyebrows, the manicure, the pedicure, the pussy wax, the full body seaweed wrap followed by a hot stone and aromatherapy massage, and to top it all I might just have a vajazzle, just because the tousle-haired cockwomble says I can. So I'm very sorry but I just don't have time for this pointless flag-waving jingoistic nonsense.
I hear JK isn't up to much right now. Why don't you ask her?
Kindest regards
Cum Girl (Mrs)
Dear CumSlut
I've got four members of The Metropolitan Police sat in a transit van outside armed with rotorvators and bags of quick lime. Either you do the fucking competition or I'm giving them a SatNav, your postcode and clear instructions to implement a scorched earth policy on your borders and vegetable garden. Go ahead slut make my day.
Hugs
Pretty (I'm so pretty, oh so pretty) Patela
Contract Enforcement Manager
Daily Heil Publications Corporation
Sorry, dear reader, could you just excuse me a minute I need to make a phone call.
Buongiorno, Dante Alighieri, per favore. Yes, I'll hold. Dum, dum, de dum de dum de dum. Ciao, Danny, Cum Girl, how's it going? And Senora Alighieri? Ohhh really? And the bambina? That's great. Oh and congratulations on the whole Italian language things, really good work. Well, they're Sicilians, what can you expect? Seriously, they've been talking in Latin forever and not every Pope can be an Italian. Anyway, Danny, the reason for my call, you've heard about this Daily Heil situation I've got going on, I'm thinking there has been some mix-up. I've always thought I was in the second circle of hell, in lust, so I've no idea what shitshow this is. They're your hellish circles, Danny, that's why I'm calling you. Can't you fix it, fix this whatever it is, put me back in with all the writhing, nymphomaniacal, sex-crazed, bodies. Danny, Danny, Danny, you do know you're my favourite historical Italian figure ever. Giotto? What about Giotto? Well, I wouldn't really call it a blow job. More an act of mercy, that boy was so tense and in desperate need of a release. Besides, I barely got him past my lips before he was spurting his load into the back of my throat. Well not the first time anyway, though we might have got past his hair-trigger response by the end of the second week. Machiavelli? That twisted dickwad? You're not jealous of him are you? Well maybe there was just a small dalliance, a weekend in that castle he hangs out at. Horse riding? Naked? Strapped on? Helpless? Cumming endlessly as my clit rubbed its way up and down its spine until I was just a mindless fucktoy clinging to that warm powerful flesh with my trembling knees? It's possible I guess if that's what you heard. What, the guardroom? Well, how was I to know how many guards it takes to secure a castle? No, I'm sure it wasn't that many, maybe half that number and times by two. It would have been impolite for me to refuse, I was a fucking guest, Danny, besides 'Guess who's fucking the guest' sounded like such a fun game. Anyway, you were off visiting the Inferno yet again for like the seventh time that month. What do you do down there? Oh for fucks sake. Are you ever going to stop going on about Botticelli? It was one painting that's all. Two months hanging around naked on a giant stinky oyster shell in a cowshed in Florence trying not to drown in pools of pig shit and spending half the day brushing chicken crap out of my hair. Hardly fun times. Danny? Danny? Fuck off then you fucking Tellytubby. Arse clanger.
That's the problem with Italian men, even the smallest hint of infidelity and they get all huffy and emotional. Guess I'm just going to have to do this competition nonsense after all.
Dear Prittstick Patel
You win. I'll do it. I've put on my bestest push-up bra in the vain attempt to create a busty cleavage. You couldn't really describe them as 'comedy breasts' though they do look rather laughable peeking out over the top of all that underwiring, padding and lace. I've introduced my new 'Electric Orchid' to my lady garden and I am happy to report that I believe that this could be a start of a beautiful friendship. In fact, I could barely bring myself to drag it away, though if it had stayed there any longer it may well have put down roots. Needless to say, I can confirm that I have definitely strapped on my 'sexiest writing pussy' and what with that and the ultra-sexy Union Flag dress I'm a drippy little bundle of yumminess and quite ready to give it the Best of British.
Besides, 'Temptation Island' is starting soon on Channel Four and there is no way I am going to miss that.
Yours grovellingly
Cum Girl (Mrs)
Hello dear reader and welcome to my competition entry. Now, I wouldn't be at all surprised if you're feeling a little bemused and discombobulated about this point, so maybe it might be a good idea if I give you a little background to help you navigate your way through the last 1500 words and give you a small piece of flotsam to cling onto during the storms that are to come. My name is CumGirl, not that anybody ever remembers that, and I am an agony aunt. I am under contract to 'The Daily Heil Publishing Corporation' and produce a regular(ish) column where I answer readers' letters, or as I like to think of it, feed pearls to swine. No doubt being a sensible and well-adjusted sort of person, and not a saddo like the majority of my readers and correspondents, you will not have had to endure these pathetic and ridiculous glimpses into the lives of these pitiful nobodies. If you really wish to experience the turd-like effluent I'm forced to wade through every day then search 'Dear Cum'; there is more than enough crappage there to fill an entire sewage works. Now what my elders and betters have failed to fully consider in their demands for a competition entry is that these letters and the replies are non-fiction and I can't just pluck a few letters on the theme of 'Foolish' or 'The Fool' out of thin air. I require source material, which sadly, and I really can't emphasise how much of an issue this is, means I am going to have to read through the pile of whinging self-obsessed nonsense in the hope of finding something suitable. Wish me luck.
Oh joy of joys, I've found one.
Dear Ms Creamy Cunny
I live in the fridge at 47 Bessington Crescent, New Malden along with all my dear friends and near relations. Outside of the fridge is a big, wide scary world where it seems almost anything can happen. Mostly, I spend my days hunkered down in the chill listening to the machine hum that surrounds me and try to appear small, insignificant and undesirable. Why? I hear you cry. Why do you live like that? (I wasn't. I really wasn't. Honestly. That's one of the things you quickly discover reading these letters, the saddos actually expect you to care about their woeful, humdrum lives). Strange occurrences are happening in our dystopian world; there is a wall that moves, just like in one of those fantabulous British Hammer Horror films, there are strobing blinding flashing lights and huge fleshy crane-like predators that descend and pounce on unsuspecting residents uttering deep sonorous booming cries that chill me to the very core.
No, only joking.
We live with Steve and Anna and we are all delighted to see them whenever they open the door, wriggling and wiggling and jumping up and down as best we can to attract attention whilst squeaking 'choose me, choose me' in our 'inaudible-to-human-ears' voices. Up until two weeks ago, ours was a simple but happy world. We were consumable items and nothing pleased us more than to be amongst the chosen whether it be breakfast, lunch, dinner or tea. Even the possibility of a mid-morning or mid-afternoon snack would send our hearts racing, and there was little better than being grabbed late evening for a casual suppery bite. Though I have heard rumours of a thing called a midnight feast which apparently is a joy to behold, though I've never actually witnessed one.
Then, two weeks ago, a new bliss entered our lives. No longer were we merely consumables we had also been upgraded to sex toys. We'll, the Twitterati went mad with the excitement. It was definitely bigger news around here than Kim Kardashian balancing a glass of fizz on her substantial posterior. It started with the soft fruits and the cream; word trickled back of cream coated strawberries rubbing atop stiff nipples, of raspberries swimming in cunt juice as a probing tongue pulled them into a heated receptive mouth, of an engorged and rampant cock being cream dipped before being thrust into a waiting fuckhole. It wasn't long before all the dairy products were getting in on the act; the yogurts, Greek and natural and even those with the fruit or biscuits corners, the creme fraiche, the clotted cream (smeared liberally apparently), the butter (anal lubrication), the grated cheddar and parmesan (sprinkled), and even the cottage cheese got a look in (tongued from a quivering anus).
A finger of ginger went figging and a fig went ginging (a word meaning to line a tunnel). Chilli's and garlic added heat and flavour. Everyone was envious of the root vegetables. The carrots and parsnips went first. In bunches. Rubbing against each other in glee as they slipped and slid their way into and out of the assorted waiting, wanting, clinging musculature. A cucumber departed and returned looking quite the worse for wear, its skin bruised and battered, its core reduced to a mushy pulp. Spring onions and chives were used as tenderising whips. The radishes were tied to string buried within a pink and pouting star, and pulled out both singularly and en masse. Even the mixed salad leaves got taken out and used as decorative foliage. Soon, all that was left was me and assorted squashes (the Jersey Royals having been used as some form of Ben Wa balls). It was obvious that the butternut squash was going last along with a substantial pat of butter that had been saved for the occasion, so the zucchini courgettes were sent in as pathfinders and cunt spreaders to bash their way remorselessly against the cervix wall.
Which just leaves me. Sitting on the shelf. Alone in the cold and dark. Disregarded, unrequired and unloved. What, dearest agonising aunty, Ms Cumette Girl, is wrong with me.
Yours in hope more than expectation
Gooseberry Fool, The (Mr)
Ps. Even the shop-bought Tiramisu I was sharing a shelf with has departed and made its way to puddingy nirvana.
Dear Mr Fool
You can't imagine how delighted I was to receive your letter though obviously, I am distressed to hear about your circumstances.
All of us know what it is like to be left on the shelf and it is a disheartening, soul-destroying, ego-crushing experience. Though your being of gooseberry heritage I would have thought it was something that you'd be more used to than most. Certainly, I can still clearly remember the day when Ryan Bellweather chose to tongue Cynthia Wilson's unclean arsehole in the Chemistry Lab rather than pay oral homage to my own glistening, quivering, welcoming cunt. The humiliation. I can feel myself reddening even now at the embarrassment and the unfairness of it all and blame the pair of them for my failure to get an acceptable grade in A level Chemistry as I was completely unable to concentrate for the remainder of the entire semester term. As a result, I didn't get good enough grades to go to University and had to take a position as a 'beauty consultant' on a lipstick counter at a nearby department store. And quite honestly it's been downhill ever since.
So, thank you very much for reminding me of that unhappy event and for pointing out that my life is nothing but a spiralling descent into failure.
Is that how you get your kicks? Making girls cry? You are a complete and utter bastard, aren't you? And you expect me to solve your tiny, insignificant problem, well I think that it's obvious to both of us that isn't going to happen. Not if you go around treating people in such a heartless and uncaring manner.
Anyway, it's simple and there is nothing that can be done about it; your past your 'Use by' date. So suck it up and look forward to your future life as part of a landfill site.
Yours having dried my eyes and blown my nose but still looking rather a mess, though possibly displaying the cuteness that accompanies vulnerability.
Cum Girl (Mrs)
Well that all went rather swimmingly, I wonder what else there is hiding in here. Tentacled monsters and bodysnatchers; nope. Mesmerism and mind control; intriguing but not really suitable. An orgy involving Amazonians, the Bacchae and three hundred Spartans from Thermopolye; would have been okay for the Debauchery Competition or even that one on Myths and Legends but can't see much in there that's 'foolish'. Ohhh, what's this? Now this will definitely work. Fandabatosy.
Dear Cumpty Dumpty
Poor Tom's a cold, hey nonny nonny, and even worse he finds himself in a bit of a predicament, so I'm hoping that you can help.
An itinerant wordsmith of limited education has made a series of debauched accusations against my good self and two of my acquaintances. This individual, one William Shakespeare, is so illiterate that he can't even spell his own name (there are six acknowledged signatures by William Shakespeare and in no instance does he sign his name with the same spelling. None of the signatures matches the current accepted spelling of his name). I have enclosed a copy of his written testimony for your attention.
In short, myself and two gentlemen of my acquaintence, King Lear and the Duke of Gloucester were enjoying a pleasant perambulation across Hampstead Heath minding our own business. Yes, it was the middle of the night, and yes there was a tempest blowing the most fearsome gale, and yes I do admit that all three of us were naked. Is that a crime? And if it is should it really be one?
Mr Shakspere in his testimony has accused the three of us of 'lewd acts' and has threatened to bring the matter to the wider public's attention via the medium of 'creative theatrics' to be presented at that new-fangled 'Globular Theatre' which I believe to be situated amongst all of the other iniquitous dens on the South Bank of the Thames. Who's going to go all the way down there, I ask you? You'll never get a taxi to go that far south of the river. But I digress.
It's not like this upstart crow is 'one of us'. He's from Warwickshire and as everyone knows the only things to come out of Warwickshire is steers and queers cows and gentlemen with homosexual inclinations. Therefore, it is our hope that as an uppity member of no standing within the literary community you may intercede with Mr Shaksper on our behalf and suggest, politely or with threats, that his creative endeavours may be better served by shelving this ill-conceived project. Otherwise, we'll go all Kit Marlowe on his arse, hey nonny nonny.
Yours with the utmost contempt and disdain because I'm a member of The Royal Household and you're nothing but a pox-ridden hoi polloi type peasant.
Fool, The (property of Lear, King)
Dear Mr Fool
So let me get this straight; on the aforementioned night you met with Lear-y and Duke-y near the Hampstead Ponds whereupon you removed all your clothing despite the fact that a storm of near-mythical ferocity was raging. You then proceeded to caress and stroke each other's cocks, with occasional ball fondling, until all of you were fully engorged. The purpose of this being, if I understand you correctly, to decide the outcome of a bet Duke-y and Lear-y had made earlier in the day about who had the mightiest schlong. It was to decide this and only this and for no other purpose whatsoever that you then engaged in what might best be termed 'cock fighting', slapping your tumescent members against each other in a frenzy of penile violence. And am I correct in my understanding that you claim this is perfectly normal behaviour and a method frequently used to settle disputes at Eton, Harrow and Gordonstone? Somehow in the course of this tussle Duke-y slipped and Lear-y fell and the latter's cock ended up in the former's mouth. Which, and I am struggling to quite comprehend how this occurred, resulted in Lear-y spurting hot, stingy jism into both of Duke-y's eyes causing his subsequent blindness. It was at this point that Lear-y went quite mad screaming repeatedly about the perfidy of womankind and demanding that the pair of you 'make the beast with two backs', and because your todger was now feeling a bit chilled, what with the raging tempest, and in danger of going all lacklustre and shrivelly, you buried it in Lear-y's profferred anus 'to keep it warm'. Furthermore, Duke-y, now sightless and experiencing similar icicle inducing climatic conditions, found a wet, warm hole to prevent his own mighty sword from becoming frozen, brittle and liable to shattering. He did this completely unaware that the wet, warm hole was Lear-y's mouth.
So you wish me to communicate with Beardy Will, to impress on him that he has completely misunderstood and misrepresented the situation. That there is nothing to see here, that your behaviours and actions are typical of members of The Royal Household and The House of Lords and the fact that you are in receipt of financial remuneration should not lead anyone to believe that you are a whore who sells your arse to the highest bidder.
Wait a tomfoolery minute. What's the date on this letter? Oh for peter-piper-picked-a-peck-of-pickled-pepper's sake, one fucking April. Where's that bastarding envelope? I do not believe it. What a complete cunting beard git. Hathaway fucking Cottages.
Very funny, Beardy Will. Laughing my fucking arse off and rolling about the floor pissing myself. Not.
What a donkey breathed, pox-ridden, nonce.
Yours disdainfully
Cum Girl (Mrs)
Well, what a crock of Herman's Hermits that was. Most disappointing. Never mind, we've still got time for one more letter before the final curtain falls. Hmmmm. Cuckquean, not really. 'My life as a kitten', I guess that's a maybe. The sorority adventures of an intergalactic transvestite, bit niche. Now, what's this? That is excellent. Perfect. So for one last time let's go 'to the letter'.
Dear Cummies
My name is April Fool (how fortuitous is that) and today was my sixteenth birthday. What a bizarre and strange day it's been. I'm totally weirded out by the whole thing so I really hope you can help. Please. Pretty please. And pretty please with knobs on.
Last night when I went to sleep mine was a normal life. A single child with loving parents, my mind filled with everyday teenage concerns: Is that a zit spot or blemish on my chin? What's the best concealer? Why is my skin so oily? Is that foundation too dark? Which is the best lipstick colour; Berry Nude, Forbidden Fuchsia, Sweet Marsala, or Electric Orchid? And obviously, I was excited for the morning and my first day as a consenting adult. Though nothing could prepare me for what was to come.
The first thing I noticed on waking was my breasts. They were perky. No other word for it. During the day I was to discover their cup size adjusted to the beholder's leering eye and lascivious desires. One minute they'd be a perky B cup, the next perky double D's. But whatever size they were they were always undeniably perky. Perky and topped by pokies. Pokies that were attention-seeking, sensitive, stiffened, engorged teatlets of pleasure.
If that wasn't enough, throwing back the covers I discovered that my previously lightly-haired pubic mons was now a soft, smooth, naked runway to the pouting obviousness of my cunny. A cunny that seemed to have its own microclimate; hot, humid and prone to showers of sticky cunny juices to decorate my thighs.
Well, I wasn't going to allow small things like that to distract me. It was my birthday after all. So I jumped out of bed and went to dress. Honestly, I should have guessed what was coming next; not only had all my underwear mysteriously vanished but the only clothing left hanging in my wardrobe was a too small cheerleader outfit. Now I'm a perky, pokie sort of girl and I wasn't going to let that unsettle me so I pulled on the vest and skirt as best as I was able and bounced off downstairs in a gorgeous display of pokies, perky underboobage and sodden cuntedness.
Which is when things started to get strange.
I arrived to find Mumsy in the kitchen but no Daddy. However, we did seem to have visitors. An absolutely gorge man was wrapped around Mumsy, his hands cupping her breasts, fingers teasing at her buttony nipples as he kissed and nibbled at her neck. Over on a stool dressed only in a pair of shorts sat the hunkiest teenage boy I had ever seen in my life. So hunky that my showerhead cunny gave an extra squirt of delight all down my trembly legs and dribble started sloshing from my lips and splattering my perky, heaving breasts. And that was before I even spied his monster of a cock which was poking out the bottom of his shorts and threatening to do serious damage to his kneecap. Also, sitting at the table were a couple that I can only describe as trailer trash caravan park residents, both of whom seemed to be leering at pokie, perky, bouncy me.
I was quite taken aback, gobsmacked and flustered for a moment, but Mumsy quickly explained, between whimpering gasps of pleasure, that now I was all grown-up we were going to start playing a new family game called insects, and that you needed a Step-Daddy and a Step-Brother and Aunts and Uncles and Cousins and all sorts to play insects and that it was fun for all the family but mostest fun for virginal, nubile, pokie, perky, bouncy teenage girls who'd just turned sixteen. Well, I tried my best to pay attention to what Mumsy was saying but Step-Daddy had slipped a couple of fingers into my slippery twat and was pistoning them in and out mercilessly and all I could really concentrate on was the loud squelchy noises and the glorious rising tension of my approaching orgasmic pleasure. I even didn't notice Auntie coming up behind me until I felt her pneumatic breasts rubbing against my back and a talon-like false nail pressing into my virginal butthole anus. Mumsy was still trying to explain how insects was the bestest, most popular family game ever and that everyone wanted to play it even if they pretended they didn't want to, but was having problems getting the words out now that Step-Brother's monster cock was sliding between her widespread lips and pushing into the back of her throat. So what with her muffled gurgles and my panting moans and Step-Daddy's probing fingers and Auntie's inquisitive nail I....
Which is all very exciting, and it's a bit of a shame that we didn't get to find out what April needed advice about, but that's it, five thousand Best of British words. Happy Mr Crackers? Anyway, I'm going to have to dash because I've got to listen to the absolutely fab Jemini single, 'Cry Baby' over and over and over. Arrivederci, saddos.
Hortense
- 04.11.2020
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