1 April 2021 Ms Cum GirlCum CottageLower Snatch DrippingCunnyshire Dear Ms CumIt 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 ManagerDaily Heil Publications CorporationPs. 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 CrackersNew 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 isvecbahis 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 CumSlutI’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.HugsPretty (I’m so pretty, oh so pretty) PatelaContract Enforcement ManagerDaily 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 isveçbahis giriş 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 PatelYou 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 grovellinglyCum 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’ isveçbahis yeni giriş 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 CunnyI 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).