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jaket korea: Hello this is kinda of off topic but I was wanting to know if blogs use WYSIWYG editors or if you have to manually code with HTML.I'm starting a blog soon but have no coding experience so I wanted to get advice from someone with experience. Any help would be greatly appreciated!
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Saturday, June 16th 2012

6:26 PM

Young top models


Related article: Date: Tue, 26 Apr 2005 23:54:08 +0000 From: Graham Collett Subject: CoalitionThe events and characters youngteen model toplist in the following story are (of course) entirely fictional. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is purely coincidental. Please DO NOT continue reading this tale if you are not an adult or you have a healthy respect for politics and those who purport to represent us.* * *"Say Codelia, how long is it now?" "I beg your pardon?... Oh... he's been waiting nearly forty five minutes Mr. President." As ever, the President tried to conceal his smug grin with only partial success. "Who did you say this shmuck was again, darlin?" Cordelia cringed at the over familiarity. "He's the Prime Minister of England, Mr. President. The President called to mind recent picture book illustrations shown to him of England during a briefing. It depicted London busses and quaint rustic villages with horse drawn carriages wending their way through bewildered flocks of sheep. "Hey, that's near the Middle East, right?" Cordelia gave an exasperated sigh. "Kind of, Sir. It's nearer Europe." He pulled a familiar, rather befuddled expression. "Say, they got any oil there?" "I believe they have North Sea oil, but they're one of our staunchest allies, Sir." "Aw shucks. So we can't go in there and whoop some models turned lesbian ass?" "No-can-do, Sir." "Damn it Cordie. You know how I just lurve grabbing myself a piece of `black gold'." He winked at her clumsily. Cordelia winced at the repulsive memories of performing felatio for `Rodeo Joe', as he liked to be known. He had presented his hideous alter ego in full cowboy garb during a late night briefing session in the presidential suite. Since then, the President would often resurrect his gun-toting cow farmer and role-play with an horrendous assortment of related fetish props.The president would regularly refer to her Afro-American ethnicity. Cordelia secretly loathed reminders of her black heritage, especially his referring to her as his `brown sugar'. There was a time when she had much admired him during his govenorship of that god-fearing state in Middle America. Despite his borderline literacy skills, he had still managed to sign well over one hundred death warrants and thus despatch large numbers of black Americans.The President's predilection for dealing out judgement and death, despite occasional mitigating circumstances, proved quite a formidable aphrodisiac for her. However, during his presidency, she had come to realise that he was in fact possessed with the mental faculty of an imbecile. His low IQ might have been considered quite respectable for the childmodel russian average primate, but not for a leader of the so-called free world. Besides, she was beginning to tire of his monkey business. Her forthcoming posting overseas would be quite a blessing. It was a constant irritation to her that despite her years of fastidious legal studies, she presently held the dubious honour of being little more than a glorified presidential `fluffer'.It was well know in White House circles that the President liked to read his autoque from the podium with a sturdy erection during press calls. The secret of his very stiff, unyielding foreign policy rested on her lips. Without childmodels pics her intervention, resistance to the various foreign axis of small vladmodel evil would soften and the free world might wilt into anarchy."Hey watch this Cordie!" The President fired a jellybean from an oil-well shaped dispenser and caught it in his mouth mid-air. He proceeded to champ on it like some gormless steer. "Guess hot models you'd better show this guy in." he slurred between chews, "but he can hit the road by four. That's when I got my prayer meeting."The sight of the jellybean conjured up another hideous memory for Cordelia. During their role-play of `vet and mule', he had blown one of them up her fanny with a party straw. She was well aware how veterinarians administered medication to ruminant beasts, but she had never envisaged the possibility of her rectum being used as target practice for his suppository fetish. Quite fortuitously, during his second humiliating attempt, her impromptu bout of wind had put pay to his veterinary `ass-pirations' The violent coughing fit that ensued as he choked on a jellybean had dampened his enthusiasm to make further attempts at turning her sphincter into a candy dispenser. Thank goodness it wasn't something larger like a pretzel.Cordelia left the room and returned with the Prime Minister in tow. She discreetly excused herself and retired to the relative sanity of the library.The Prime Minister stared enviously at the grandeur of the office, before strolling up to the large leather-topped desk. The President stood, thrusting out a hand, smirking inanely. The Prime Minister bowed his head rather obsequiously and extended his hand, surprised at the near crushing grip that threatened to dislocate a knuckle. Mustering all his considerable reserves of smarminess, the Prime Minister traded smiles with his superior counterpart."Hi. I'd just like to say what a tremendous honour it is to meet you again. I think that this will prove wallpaper fatsexmodels to be a truly momentous day in history. I would just like..." The President was unimpressed by the excessive display of fawning. "Just park your ass down, Timmy. Let's move on and get this show on the road." He kicked the opposite chair out from under the desk. He got up again and strolled over to the drinks cabinet, fixing a couple of huge bourbons. "Err, actually my name's..." "Hey, let's cut to the chase, Timmy. You got ten minutes and I got a busy schedule. The president took a large gulp of his drink. "And don't give me none of that Kyoto Protocol crap this time. We Americans like our gas guzzlin' automobiles. You want us to go back to a goddam horse and cart like you guys?" "Well, no, but the reason I came is so that we might discuss my proposals about ways to increase homeland surveillance. I am sure we agree that the threat posed by..." "Listen, cut the crap, Timmy. I preeteen model art ain't got all day." The Prime Minister became flustered. His toothy grin faltered momentarily. He changed tack. "May I say Mr. President that I have always admired the strident tone of your speeches. So magnificently outstanding and upright..." The President grew tired of the man's gushing compliments and outpourings of flattery. He decided to bring matters to a swift conclusion. "I got one thing to say to you, Timmy. If you really want to be my buddy, then bobcat model numbers you gotta learn how to stand tall. Take things like a man." "Of course, I understand your majesty, I mean your grace, I mean..." The President tilted back in his sumptuous leather chair and glanced at the B52 models suspended by wires from the ceiling. "Tell you what Tim, I'm gonna cut you some slack here. Whadda you say we get down to a bit of horse-play?" "I beg your pardon, Mr President?" "Oh, come on now, Timmy. You're a man of the world. Hell, you guys still owe us for saving your ass in the First World War." "I'm sorry, I don't think I fully understand the ramifications of what you're implying, Mr. President." "Okay, this is how things work around here. You tickle my back and I scratch yours." The Prime Minister speculated about the somewhat sinister inference that reverberated in his mind. He tried to conceal a growing sense of unease as he looked vacantly out of a veiled window, quietly squirming at the direction the conversation appeared to be taking. The President continued indifferently. "Don't go all shy on me Timmy. You ain't no blushing belle. You're the leader of a whole goddam island for God's sake! As the President continued, his hand reached under the desk. With the other, he took a silver cigar case from a top draw and put one in his mouth. "These cigars sure taste funny. Must have been left here by the last guy. Always knew there was somethin' fishy about those Democrats." "Perhaps your predecessor couldn't find an ashtray, maybe he had to improvise..." The Prime Minister suggested speculatively. A plume of mottled smoke ascended towards the B52s like some vast detonation and wafted towards the Prime Minister making him cough nervously. His paling face became possessed by a series of facial ticks as he shifted in his chair self-consciously. He had had enough of `flawed intelligence' back home without having to confront its very embodiment. "I am not quite sure if I can continue this meeting Mr. President. I actually have to use teen dawn model the lavatory quite urgently." The President started to shuffle his arm more vigorously under the desk, blowing smoke directly at the Prime Minister. "Got to say Timmy, the moment you walked through that door, I couldn't help noticing what a mighty pretty rear end you got there. I'd be much obliged to you'd permit me to saddle you up. I've ridden a few Mares in my time, but I think you'd be trying to buck me like a hog with a flea up it's ass." "Er, with the greatest respect, Mr. President, I am actually very happily married. In fact you must meet my lovely wife very soon. I am sure we can consider alternative ways that we might cement our coalition. "Sure we can Timmy, but 14 yo. teenmodel from where I'm sitting, it figures like this. I call the shots around here and right now, I got an awful lot of goodwill to plough into your special relationship." The Prime Minister squirmed in his seat. "Well, naturally, I would value a closer dialogue with you Mr. President, but there must be other avenues that might present themselves. I happen to know several members of my cabinet who would gladly accommodate the point that you're beating on about. I mean, gosh, it's been my experience that my cabinet will swallow russian pretens models just about anything." "Did I say I gave a hoot `bout cabinets. I don't even like all that prissy English furniture. Just hold your goddam horses and wait there!" The President commanded as he rose to his feet. The Prime Minister averted his gaze as the President swaggered manfully towards a set of drawers wearing a grotesque leer. He retrieved a pair of flared, weather-beaten leather chaps and a holster. To the Prime Minister's relief, he disappeared through a side door and closed it behind him.The Prime Minister's cell phone began to ring. The tiresome theme tune of `Things can only get better' hardly seemed apt in his present predicament. Things were, in fact, getting decidedly worse..."Hi, PM here." "Hello." "I'm sorry, who's this?" "It's the author young top models here..." "How did you get this number? This is a secure network." "Really? Anyway, I wanted to warn you that you're in grave danger of being shafted by Rodeo Joe." "Who is this? And who on earth is Rodeo Joe?" "Never mind that. You need to leave immediately. Even as we speak, the President is readying his weapon of mass destruction. If you wish to remain virgo intactus, you should head for the back door. The choice is yours. Let's hope common sense prevails. I have to ukraine top models go." The line went dead. "Hello? Hello?"The Prime Minister looked at his sparkle model free cell phone, perplexed. He would have to authorise an extensive security review upon his return to Downing Street. He took a slug of bourbon and coughed. His mind drifted to thoughts of his wife. He would probably have to impregnate her again soon in order to bolster his flagging popularity back home. The latest opinion polls suggested that the electorate was beginning to tire of his increasingly autocratic style of government.>From the adjacent room, he heard the president singing a hoe-down. After several angst-ridden minutes, the President emerged like some monstrous parody of John Wayne. The Prime Minister's mind reeled as he absorbed the full horror of what confronted him with an almost out-of-body detachment.Atop the President's head was a Stetson, cocked at a jaunty angle. A pristine, chequered scarf concealed his mouth, accentuating a chiselled jawline. Its neat triangle steered he eye past a tasselled leather waistcoat, highlighting a portly, slightly hairy midriff. Framed within leather chaps and a holster belt was a colossal, fully erect prick that looked nearly as leathery and worn-in as his knee length, spurred boots he was wearing. However, even more terrifying was the red-hot branding iron that he appeared to be brandishing. The torture device bore the glowing insignia of a confederate flag.For a moment, the Prime Minister wondered if he was getting a flashback from his LSD experimentation during the late sixties. A blind panic arose in him and he realised that he was hyperventilating. All of a sudden, he became light-headed and then darkness took him.* * *The Prime Minister stirred and felt a jab of searing pain on his right buttock. The twanging chords of `Stand by your man' rang in his ears. He found himself slumped face down in the chair with his trousers around his ankles. Hands were grasping at his flanks. There appeared to be some kind of restraint over his mouth. He balked as something large and fleshy struggled impatiently to intrude into his models turned lesbian tightly puckered anus. He turned in horror and witnessed the models turned lesbian maniacal grin of Rodeo Joe, eyes burning intently into his. He struggled to extricate himself from the uninvited tryst, but restraining hands tightened their grip."Oh!...what's going on?" Came his muffled whimper from behind the muzzle. "Now just you simmer down. I'm gonna take you for a `lil mosey on round the ranch." Rodeo Joe jerked on some reigns boisterously, jarring back the Prime Minister's head. He reapplied pressure to the unyielding sphincter. "This is absurd! Oh gosh!... No!... For God's sake man!" "Now quit your belly-aching. You'll get your sugar lump soon, so stop your frettin' there!" The President angled his manhood with an exacting precision. As the Prime Minister inadvertently unclenched his buttocks, he thrust home his veined and grizzled chopper. "Think you've been saddled up before." The President remarked accusingly as he eased his thick, knarled, beef-bayonet into the warm recesses. A peculiar tingling pleasure began to eclipse the discomfort in the Prime Minister's circa model ttb traumatised rectum. It grew in him as the unyielding cow prodder continued its ruusian model galleries relentless journey towards an oblivion of pleasure. "Giddy up, now boy, giddy up." Rodeo Joe reached for a small bottle of motor oil and decadently doused his inflamed shaft with it as he proceeded to bury the remaining inches. "You gotta whinny for me, boy. Whinny like a mule." "Nay... nay." The lack-lustre, clipped English vowels failed to impress him. "Damn it Toby, you ain't even trying!" Rodeo Joe drew himself out to the tip then rammed it in to the hilt, bringing tears to the Prime Minister's eyes and making him yelp. "Naaaay! Naaaay!" The PM whinnied, desperately re-entering into the spirit of transatlantic co-operation. "That's it, Tammy. I'm go' drill you hard, just like Alaska." Rodeo Joe was becoming increasingly breathless. "I am gonna sink my drill head and pump you till I drain off every last drop. I heard you like spin, well spin on this with that peachy `lil white rump a yours." The Prime Minister felt his senses gorging on a delicious delirium of forbidden fruit. He could barely speak as a hand grappled ineptly at his block and tackle, young models madison then started to jerk him. "I must...impress...upon you... not a word to the wife about this... you must promise?" "Don't you fret. I'll know how to keep these things under my Stetson." Rodeo Joe started to plunge him in a circular motion, bringing a renewed and escalating delight. " Say, you got a bit of manure in your tail pipe!"* * *Meanwhile, in the library, Cordelia sat gazing absently at the President's well-thumbed children's edition of the Joseph McCarthy's memoirs. Perhaps she should have listened to her mother and avoided politics. How could she have ever guessed that the President would interpret their `de-briefing' sessions in the Oval Office quite so literally?It seemed that her relationship with teen model shwlby the President was becoming increasingly volatile. It was not the fact that he lassoed her, and all the uncomfortable associations with black American history that this seemed to re-enact. It was not even his occasional dribbling or complete ignorance as to methods of foreplay. It was more the sheer ingratitude of the man that hot models aggrieved her. It was the way that he always left it up to her to clear up his messes, whether diplomatic, or otherwise. It was she who had had the foresight to order the leather-bound copy of `Mein Kampf' for the forthcoming Papal visit to the White House. What thanks did she ever receive from the President for her devotion to duty? Absolutely none. Even though he had a fearsome reputation for barbarism that even Ghengis Khan might have envied, he lacked the magnanimity to reward even his closest ally.Cordelia left the library and wandered into the pantry, opening up the freezer. Her large collection of DNA-soiled dresses domai model alina that occupied it was beginning to raise eyebrows amongst the domestic staff. Perhaps she would always love the President, whether he was incumbent or recumbent, but in the dog-eat-dog world of politics, she thought it prudent to keep an insurance policy, modelle amateur should things turn ugly* * *Meanwhile, back at the proverbial `ranch'..."Oh my word, this is splendid. Faster! The Prime Minister's head was naked tits models in a spin as he worked his booty up and down the shaft like a back-street pole dancer. "Always pump my bore holes at around forty rpm, Tammy, same speed as an oil well." Their thrusting bodies started to work up quite a sheen. Rodeo Joe gripped the PM's shoulders as he knelt, energetically plumping the yielding love-pillows. The smell of sweat and ageing leather proved a heady mix for the Prime Minister. The electric tingling in his scrotum began to erupt into a molten magma of ecstasy. Rodeo Joe continued to jerk the supplicant Premier until he had discharged the last tantalising drops from his sated trouser snake.Behind him, Rodeo Joe's leather chaps slapped his thighs, steady as a metronome. "Don't you try bucking me off before I'm done, boy." Rodeo Joe russian pretens models wheezed huskily with booze-laden breath. "Hell yeah! That's it. I gotcha good. Get ready for it..." The Prime Minister pushed back and forth in time with the President's steady piston action as reigns lashed at his rosy flanks. "Oh yeah, Mustang, that's it... Oh Bessy, swish that tail, oh yes, buck me, whinny for me, oh god, gonna spur you on back home now, Missy... Oh Kissenger, Nixon... Oh lord... Oh Mommy!... Yeeehaaar!"The President unholstered his cap guns and fired off several rounds as he shot from the hip. For the PM, however, the image that the president's mother conjured up in his mind not a pleasant one. He had met her on several occasions and she called to mind a Chieftain tank stranded on a couple of gargantuan tree stumps.For a few precious moments, they slumped, exhausted, in a tangle of limbs. The Prime Minister savoured the delicate afterglow of being buggered by the most powerful man on the planet. The President retracted himself and nuzzled his faithful mount tenderly. In all his long years of marriage, the PM had never felt so liberated, so carefree. He could almost skip through prairies of daisies like some dizzy debutante."Mr. President, I feel compelled to say that that was truly wonderful. I've never felt so unfettered, so alive." The president yanked playfully at the reigns. "Well, just remember who's boss round here, Terry." Came the nasally reply. "I could almost shout our love from the roof tops..." "Now just you hold your horses right there. I'm much obliged to you, an' all, but I ain't ready for nothin' serious. I don't wanna give anyone no achey-breaky heart, but I was born under a wandrin' star." Despite the charming lyrical cliche, the Prime Minister's smile faded. "Least I ain't lying to ya." The president offered appeasingly. "But surely we could make the people understand. There's plenty of my people who bat for the other side. One only has to think of the diplomatic service..." "Well from where I'm from, they sure as hell don't like queers. Hell, if my ma heard `bout this, she'd yank my nuts off and griddle `em for teen dawn model breakfast." "Well, obviously we need to consider all the possible permutations of our special relationship, but, well, I don't know, I am ready for another transatlantic tryst." "Well, that's as maybe, but I'm a busy guy. Heck, I still got places left in the world that I haven't invaded." The Prime Minister's face dropped. He felt the melancholy wrench of disappointment. "But you invaded me. You conquered me!" The President's half-cocked smile returned. `Sure I did, but now that I've planted my flag pole, I gotta find new territories to conquer." "But what of our special relationship?" the PM implored "I thought that it meant something to you! We have a coalition! Gosh, I think I'm modelle amateur falling for you, Mr. President!" "Listen, I'm gonna level with you. I think you got a honey pot sweeter than molasses, but I gotta roam. I preeten models childs know plenty of mares who wanna be sired." "But I love you Mr. President." "Lurve? My ass! I don't believe I'm hearing this horse shit. Heck, you don't even know your fanny from your fetlocks." The President childmodel russian unbuckled the harness and stood over the Prime Minister masterfully. "I will see you again, won't I?" The PM gazed up plaintively. "Guess you just might 14 yo. teenmodel at that, Talbot, `sides, I might just want you to visit my ranch. We can let our womenfolk get nude models kidz better acquainted while we go for a long hard ride. We could even have a spit roast with my neighbour Hank. "I'd be delighted to..." "Mr. President, the Reverend Whitmore is here to see you and.... Oh my God! You bastard!"Cordelia stood at the opened door, rooted to the spot. Her jaw dropped, as did the dossier she was carrying. Her blood-chilling wail trilled over the country and western sound track with an almost operatic magnificence. The President took his gun and expended the remaining caps in rapid succession. There followed a deafening silence, only the acrid wisps of gun smoke stirred in the storm-charged air. The President stood and faced the statuesque Codelia. "Who in the hell do you think you are? Barging in on us like some headless turkey with its ass on fire! Ain't you never heard about privacy, goddamit? The President bellowed. Cordelia stared at the Prime Minister's semi-naked form with revulsion. Tears welled up in her eyes. ruusian model galleries She turned and fled, slamming the door behind her. The Prime Minister struggled to draw up his trousers, wincing as they passed the swelling blister on his buttock. "Now, um... I realise this is a somewhat sticky situation, but I think it might be prudent to try to reason with that young lady." "Hogwash! youngest models toplist My guys have been diggin' the dirt on that lil' missy's family for years now. If she young girl modeling so much as farts in a near a news-stand, I'm go' hall their asses over the barbecue. "How very shrewd of you, I must say. Now, getting back to the question of the integrity of my internal security..."* * *In the pantry, Cordelia wept as she gathered the slightly crisp, soiled dresses into a large attache case. She would teach that bovine-bum-bandit not to mess with her affections. Who did he think he was, riding roughshod over her feelings like that? irina vladmodel Well, now he would rue the day that he had ever laid eyes on her. He would certainly regret ever having `come' across her...Graham XXX Copyright 2005
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