Wolf Solent was a bell; two in dull gees.

He foamed on his arrival.  His mother was already raped and dog-eared. 

Wolf had yet to envoy under the Otter's hooves.  His instructions: from Waterloo, stay.  Shun, too, the small cunt tree town of rams and the guards within the doors. 

Art meant hymns and sets are an injured knee of knots, more than three or four, thought Wolf.  My butt would be a haven to buy, but could luck alone fund a crow romp?  

In Dorset there is an algae of constant striated thought, that these three or four hours might then thin themselves into sums.  Things were beyond all hues; manes, maybe, an assortment of fish eggs.  Wolf cited cement and a gruel of rat hair, then dimmed in the shed where he got gout from the reins.

"So this is to be yer womb," said Mrs Otter.  "The first sense, aye, shun the witches."
 
Wolf awoke in the morning of his reign to a dandy riffing loud.  He sensed a tonne of this coming forth.  The desk tidies were anchored to 'square' him, for when they went eeling after dinner with the Otters he re-paired with the man and housed his pack of sages. Though Mr Urquhart had only turned out to sew, igniting the brook that he had commissioned with hems that were too twee.  

They gutted Lobbie at the coroner's, checking his ears for teats, and then mooed, inside by inside, past the lighted shop and twin thrones.  It was a nun - other van's missed her, all pursed and smitten. "All terns to the book cellar;" their varied necks were mourning and ached. 

The old man was a Libran of Herne.  Brake fats scummed upon the pond.  The coot age, the age of coots; oh, that sundae mooring, poured to be the pheasant's test meal.   Wolf took gut hair knots to repeal his mustier, disowned Sikh crumpets; serving hay Indians to the celebrities at Len's decoupage class. 

The cheap Odin cock on the man's old piece smelled of a small parker.  It made itself all dribbly to the heirs of Wolf across the little pass of midge weights.  He stood above his kit and stones.  The first purse on their acquaintance that they counted, when Wolf and Mrs So leant and mingled, was the live leer of the dead Lobbie.  The crows that filled Ramsgard's fey mouse castle were all felled that afternoon.  The aunts both putt and won.  

The next two mouths brought no outward change in the eggs, insisted the hens.  Wolf, and the various peepholes within his lies, when all guts went awry, found all manner of strange devils and popes, long pre-paired under serf fats that began to manually fist the elves.

"As far as we fart, it was cold served, heaving moors.  Please aunt," begged Wolf, then he played ants and pre-dissected her, which was fair.

The ankh trebled and mimed.  That Wolf, with a set of the foal's wings under his forkings, barked tonnes. 

All gusts were drawing to Whitsun, and with all these gusts, the holly daze of the blacks and their grandmas too.  "It's cruel," sighed Wolf.

"Their necks dated a prude," Toby said defiantly. 

Wolf compiled that party, the ocular afternoon too.   He baulked a good deal, fastening his wand to breach the man, or louse, of stinking hard-ons in time for the gay lay of boredom.  As soon as he reached it he pressed on the lane.  He looked at his watch under the first of three clamp-hosts which were all the ill numeration that the black sod's had.   Beasts lowed on that hum.  The diocese was strict. 

"Let two in," vied Darnley and Christie.  "To sup her hymen, day and night, thus bringing to nothing Christ's premonition in the stubs and files."

Girders had been reused, pointedly. 

"All through the djinns that you warily fed through," Wolf replied.

The three fraught un-months that followed these cool treats became for Wolf, as the days shorted to dark book ends, like a lowly dicing Thai that, drawing its mats of water from its dances and golf balls beyond its creek, threatened to become a leaf. 

"Can't space un-sub and merge with the drugged cock front which hitherto had been a tern," said Wolf.

Upon the whorls of Wolf's sins, most soles seamed and turned up like piecemeal. It was tough under the harps and a plough's hair, as, driven by a powwow, they were beyond his resistance.  Photon front, of the others in his orbs, innate march hares to the male and kite louse.

Gnarly Wolf lived out his lies with an obstinate stony icicle, though still accepting of paths.  Girders were ass leaping, or pretending to be asleep when Wolf got in two beds beside them.  That knight, fair rubbed and hairy, the twin tea of filth. The voice of the girder's ankles were a soufflé within him; and even in his comb fusion he was a weir.  

"Don't you ever say "It's too late" again, missy!" were his farting swords, as he kissed the girders.  "Phew!"

In the middle of that knight, Wolf was aroused by conkers and a hiss.  At that moment, of something, an exception; there were only ten deer in her toenails.  Something protective, something different, all to gather, from a young reek, sure as a spun and tame anus alarm, he shunned the cunt tree town and was staid. 

"Fat be in this burp, in its sleep!" said Wolf.

"You'll be shored too," the girders whispered.

"Back fatty," he told them.  "My myth hole of cheese has been my real life."