Fifty Shades of Terrible Writing

Writing Erotic fiction is easy:

The plowing of my fudge factory was so vigorous, he soon found his jingle-jangle jewellery joining his spunk-filled spam rocket deep in my vintage golf bag. He eased out a giant corn-eyed butt snake on my cans just so he could lap it up like a pig at a trough. The unrelenting orgasms from his bald avenger thrusting my clam-flavoured pothole made me come so hard, I began sweating like a dyslexic on Countdown. With his bald avenger hammering deep into my quivering mound of love pudding, the sensation of his greasy kebab skewer smashing my cervix made me quake like a Mohammed Ali on a washing machine. Now, I’ve seen more helmets than Hitler, but the sight of his stilton spear made my clunge gunge dribble like Augustus Gloop at Willy Wonka’s chocolate river.

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