He's building a huge bomb made from farm fertilizer, I told Caramel.
'And I think he plans to transport and deliver the bomb by boat, packed with nails and bolts.'
I paused, admiring her heaving boobs.
'My bet it's a terror attack on Clarkson Quey, where he hopes to get maximum damage.'
It didn't have the ISIS stamp written over it, I said to Caramel, it seemed more Go Fund Me terror attack.
'ISIS was just a blob of jelly that wobbled any way the Western press wanted it to,' I continued, I could tell Caramel was getting impatient as she kept on flicking her silky black hair. 'And the Obama Administration never killed Bin Laden, and if he did, then why didn't we see pictures of his dead body like we did with Sadam Hussain?'
Caramel raised her thin tapered eyebrows and wiggled her pixish nose, then she slapped my face with her bare titties, telling me to snap out of it and get on with the mission.
She could be a tough bitch, no doubt about it.
However, she still needed to get me worked up, in a feverish pitch, if I was to pull this off and fuck her senseless and save thousands of Singaporeans and tourists from a horrible death.
It was working.
'So where do you think he took those two suitcases of fertilizer powder,' asked Caramel.
This gal couldn't be accused of being a bimbo. She had brains too.
'Cut the shit and cut to the chase,' she said, in response to my male-centric thoughts, then she rubbed herself against me. I wouldn't say they were hard, but a warmth washed over me as she briefly invigorated me with a boobie hug. They were soft and firm.
'Like a ripe avocado?'
Something like that Caramel.
I was keen to explore the contours of her Double E tits, naturally grown on the mountain slopes of East Java.
We were making our way down to the terminal.
We had to pass slums built up on stilts. I could hear coughing, the clutter of early morning cooking and buckets of human waste being thrown into the warm waters below. At the end of ramshackle buildings made from cardboard, plywood and corrugated iron, a jet ski was waiting for us.
'Where are we going?' she asked.
'Over there,' I said, it was an island where the Malay language was borne.
And I'd bet my dirty jocks, I said to Caramel, that Wan Mohammed is about to load up the boat with the carefully packed explosives into a fishing trawler and will leave at sunrise for the two-hour ride to Singapore.
'And I think he plans to transport and deliver the bomb by boat, packed with nails and bolts.'
I paused, admiring her heaving boobs.
'My bet it's a terror attack on Clarkson Quey, where he hopes to get maximum damage.'
It didn't have the ISIS stamp written over it, I said to Caramel, it seemed more Go Fund Me terror attack.
'ISIS was just a blob of jelly that wobbled any way the Western press wanted it to,' I continued, I could tell Caramel was getting impatient as she kept on flicking her silky black hair. 'And the Obama Administration never killed Bin Laden, and if he did, then why didn't we see pictures of his dead body like we did with Sadam Hussain?'
Caramel raised her thin tapered eyebrows and wiggled her pixish nose, then she slapped my face with her bare titties, telling me to snap out of it and get on with the mission.
She could be a tough bitch, no doubt about it.
However, she still needed to get me worked up, in a feverish pitch, if I was to pull this off and fuck her senseless and save thousands of Singaporeans and tourists from a horrible death.
It was working.
'So where do you think he took those two suitcases of fertilizer powder,' asked Caramel.
This gal couldn't be accused of being a bimbo. She had brains too.
'Cut the shit and cut to the chase,' she said, in response to my male-centric thoughts, then she rubbed herself against me. I wouldn't say they were hard, but a warmth washed over me as she briefly invigorated me with a boobie hug. They were soft and firm.
'Like a ripe avocado?'
Something like that Caramel.
I was keen to explore the contours of her Double E tits, naturally grown on the mountain slopes of East Java.
We were making our way down to the terminal.
We had to pass slums built up on stilts. I could hear coughing, the clutter of early morning cooking and buckets of human waste being thrown into the warm waters below. At the end of ramshackle buildings made from cardboard, plywood and corrugated iron, a jet ski was waiting for us.
'Where are we going?' she asked.
'Over there,' I said, it was an island where the Malay language was borne.
And I'd bet my dirty jocks, I said to Caramel, that Wan Mohammed is about to load up the boat with the carefully packed explosives into a fishing trawler and will leave at sunrise for the two-hour ride to Singapore.
'Then we need to act quickly,' said Caramel, as she full throttled the jet ski across the narrow strait separating us from the tiny island of Penyengat.
