The Dream's Thorn

by Amy Woods

  The fucking makes me spit my clunge gunge all over his bald-headed yogurt slinger. There was ectoplasm dribbling from his long-dong silver and I was wetter than an otter's pocket. We were ready for more. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his spunk-filled spam rocket stuffed deeper into my marmite motorway. My cake hole was so full of sperminator and creamy load, the baby gravy was sliming down my chin and onto my twin peaks. I awoke the next morning with my sperm socket still sliming. I thought it was over but his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon had other ideas. The seemingly never-ending streams of Da Vinci load emanating from his skeleton king soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. When he removed his muffbuster from my turd cutter, he was pleasantly surprised to see a sewer trout staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to consume the colon cobra off his skeleton king. My smush mitten was trembling like Vanessa Feltz's diesel-powered vibrator. Now, I've seen more pricks than a second hand dartboard, but the sight of his greasy slimelight made my sex wee haemorrhage like Adele waiting for Greggs to open. The mixture of toilet twinkie and cock custard in my soft tight anus created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. It was bliss having his spam javelin probed inside me again; stuffing my bearded haddock pasty with a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster just didn't get my vibrator crater spouting like it used to. Hours of pounding like this would leave any girl's meaty hangers looking like Pete Burns' lips, and I was no different! Within no time, I could feel the shitty creamy load seeping from my puckered brown eye and all over my flappy meal. If I don't flick the bean to get my spaff dribbling from my ladytown, his piss pipe is going to leave my meaty hangers resembling a badly wrapped kebab. After having my birth cannon plowed, he then proceeded to slam my balloon knot. He munched on my vertical garden, even though I'd been up on bricks for the best part of a week. The plowing of my vintage golf bag was so vigorous, he soon found his trouser conkors joining his tenderloin truncheon deep in my balloon knot. By now, my gaping clam cavern was foaming like there was a midget inside me with a super soaker. The unrelenting orgasms from his balony pony pounding my hot pocket made me come so hard, I began sweating like a whore in a confessional. He eased out a giant colon cobra on my boobage just so he could devour it up like a bulldog eating porridge. With his thrill drill raiding deep into my gaping clam cavern, the sensation of his spunk-filled spam rocket smashing my cervix made me quiver like a rat on acid. Inserting a lightbulb into my vibration station got me pouring spaff faster than snot off a whip. The feeling of his baby gravy haemorrhaging down my throat got my sex wee flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. Some girls are happy just to get a stinky pinky when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a 9-iron in my slime hole and an antique doorknob up my fart valve. With my furburger now much like a darts team's goalkeeper, he thought it was time to start shoving my balloon knot. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cop a sewer trout, I wondered?

  By now, my fuck trench was foaming like a rabid dog. It was bliss having his wensleydale wand plunged inside me again; stuffing my cod crater with my fist just didn't get my gaping clam cavern splurging like it used to. The feeling of his cock custard foaming down my throat got my tuna tunnel tears flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. With his throbbing quim dagger thrusting deep into my clam-flavoured pothole, the sensation of his pink tractor beam smashing my cervix made me quiver like a shitting dog. The mixture of butt nugget and creamy load in my black hole created the delicious sphincter sauce that he was so fond of. There was magician's wax dripping from his bald avenger and I was wetter than a bathmaid's elbow. We were ready for more. Within no time, I could feel the shitty cock snot oozing from my other vagina and all over my vertical smile. With my vertical smile now much like a stamped bat, he thought it was time to start sliding my brown mile. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cut a toilet twinkie, I wondered? Some girls are happy just to dial the rotary phone when they're alone, but I can't get off without having an antique doorknob in my front bum and my fist up my shit winker. He copped a giant sewer trout on my cans just so he could suck it up like a bulldog eating porridge. Hours of fucking like this would leave any girl's open-faced ham sandwich looking like a werewolf with it's throat cut, and I was no different! The pounding makes me spout my minge mucus all over his all-beef thermometer. I can't wait to chow down on the Da Vinci load from his washington monument. I awoke the next morning with my stench trench still draining. I thought it was over but his ramrod had other ideas. When he removed his vein cane from my tradesman's entrance, he was pleasantly surprised to see a colon cobra staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to gobble the hardened fudge nugget off his Nelson's Column. My cod cave was trembling like jelly. The seemingly never-ending streams of baby gravy emanating from his greasy slimelight soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. Inserting a gerbil into my meat purse got me spraying spaff faster than snot off a whip. Now, I've seen more japseyes than an oriental optician, but the sight of his kebeb skewer made my fallopian fish stock seep like a rabid dog. The unrelenting orgasms from his throbbing quim dagger pounding my gashtray made me come so hard, I began sweating like a gypsy near an unlocked shipping container. He munched on my vertical garden, even though I'd had Aunt Flo visiting for the best part of a week. After having my cod crater fucked, he then proceeded to slam my black hole. My cake hole was so full of eight inches of throbbing pink jesus and Da Vinci load, the penis pudding was haemorrhaging down my chin and onto my tatas. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his Nelson's Column shoved deeper into my ring piece. If I don't fluff the muff to get my fallopian fish stock dripping from my moose knuckle, his slut slayer is going to leave my lunchmeat resembling Brian May's plughole.

  The mixture of colon cobra and man fat in my turd-herder created the delicious rectal stew that he was so fond of. After having my chlamydia canal raided, he then proceeded to raid my balloon knot. Hours of raiding like this would leave any girl's spam castanets looking like a rabid baboon's arse, and I was no different! The feeling of his magician's wax dribbling down my throat got my tuna tunnel tears flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. I can't wait to consume the ectoplasm from his meaty member. My mouth was so full of balony pony and baby gravy, the Da Vinci load was foaming down my chin and onto my love bubbles. Within no time, I could feel the shitty love mayonnaise slobbering from my vintage golf bag and all over my hairy goblet. When he removed his jade rod from my fudge factory, he was pleasantly surprised to see a footlong fudge bullet staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to consume the sewer trout off his blue-veined custard chucker. It was bliss having his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon slid inside me again; stuffing my pink velvet sausage wallet with a 15" spiked vibrator just didn't get my cod crater spattering like it used to. Now, I've taken more poundings than the Somme, but the sight of his disco stick made my minge monsoon haemorrhage like Wayne Rooney's dick in an OAP home. I awoke the next morning with my penis pothole still dribbling. I thought it was over but his pink tractor beam had other ideas. Some girls are happy just to dial the rotary phone when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster in my wizards sleeve and an antique doorknob up my Oxo orifice. If I don't study english cliterature to get my shrimp sap foaming from my depravity cavity, his spam dagger is going to leave my beef curtains resembling a stuntman's knee. By now, my stench trench was haemorrhaging like a jizz waterfall. My soft-shelled tuna taco was trembling like Vanessa Feltz's diesel-powered vibrator. With my clap flaps now much like Pete Burns' lips, he thought it was time to start probing my balloon knot. Is now the time to tell him I really need to blast a butt nugget, I wondered? The pounding makes me surge my tuna tunnel tears all over his long-dong silver. There was love mayonnaise slobbering from his love lollipop and I was wetter than an Italian cruise ship. We were ready for more. He munched on my lunchmeat, even though I'd had the painters in for the best p
art of a week. He copped a giant Mr. Hanky on my twin peaks just so he could suck it up like a hungry hungry hippo. Inserting an antique doorknob into my stench trench got me pouring beige slime faster than a greased weasel shit. The seemingly never-ending streams of cock snot emanating from his muffbuster soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. The unrelenting orgasms from his meaty member hammering my slime hole made me come so hard, I began sweating like a dyslexic on Countdown. With his love muscle plowing deep into my pink velvet sausage wallet, the sensation of his ample cock smashing my cervix made me quake like jelly. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his skin flute slid deeper into my poop chute.

  With his jade rod thrusting deep into my enchilada of love, the sensation of his sperminator smashing my cervix made me quake like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. Now, I've seen more pricks than a second hand dartboard, but the sight of his turgid terror truncheon made my vertical moisture flow like someone had poured fairy liquid into Niagara Falls. He munched on my vertical garden, even though I'd had Aunt Flo visiting for the best part of a week. He curled a giant colon cobra on my top bollocks just so he could consume it up like a pig at a trough. The unrelenting orgasms from his brie baton raiding my tampon tunnel made me come so hard, I began sweating like a blind lesbian in a fish shop. My soft-shelled tuna taco was trembling like a tasered slab of chopped liver. Hours of thrusting like this would leave any girl's vertical smile looking like a badly wrapped kebab, and I was no different! With my furburger now much like a shot cat, he thought it was time to start shoving my brown mile. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cop a footlong fudge bullet, I wondered? Within no time, I could feel the shitty gentleman's relish sliming from my puckered brown eye and all over my roast beef platter. After having my gaping clam cavern fucked, he then proceeded to fuck my turd cutter. My cake hole was so full of washington monument and magician's wax, the steamin' semen was frothing down my chin and onto my twin peaks. Some girls are happy just to strum the banjo when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a number of chillies in my tuna canal and a gerbil up my cocoa channel. If I don't finger blast to get my minge mucus dripping from my tampon tunnel, his jade rod is going to leave my lunchmeat resembling Brian May's plughole. I can't wait to suck the love piss from his cunt plunger. By now, my penis pothole was slobbering like a slug in a salt mine. The mixture of Mr. Hanky and man fat in my Mavis Fritter created the delicious sphincter sauce that he was so fond of. The pounding makes me surge my clunge gunge all over his pink tractor beam. There was cock custard foaming from his clunger and I was wetter than a spastic's chin. We were ready for more. It was bliss having his blind butler slid inside me again; stuffing my depravity cavity with a number of chillies just didn't get my Quimcy, M.E. spouting like it used to. The seemingly never-ending streams of cock custard emanating from his bugger king soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. Inserting a number of chillies into my gaping clam cavern got me splurging tuna tunnel tears faster than a greased weasel shit. I awoke the next morning with my oyster ditch still weeping. I thought it was over but his skin flute had other ideas. When he removed his bald-headed yogurt slinger from my marmite motorway, he was pleasantly surprised to see a stink pickle staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to suck the sewer trout off his washington monument. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his stilton sword plunged deeper into my mud flap. The thrusting of my other vagina was so vigorous, he soon found his sperm factories joining his thrill drill deep in my puckered brown eye.

  When he removed his cunt stretcher from my tradesman's entrance, he was pleasantly surprised to see a Mr. Hanky staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to gobble the stink pickle off his wrist-thick wand. I can't wait to lap the baby gravy from his piss pipe. He munched on my velcro triangle, even though I'd been up on bricks for the best part of a week. The mixture of colon cobra and steamin' semen in my black hole created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. Within no time, I could feel the shitty love piss dribbling from my rusty sherif's badge and all over my fishy flaps. Hours of fucking like this would leave any girl's vertical garden looking like a ripped out fireplace, and I was no different! The hammering of my black hole was so vigorous, he soon found his wrecking balls joining his vein cane deep in my ring piece. The unrelenting orgasms from his jebend hammering my clearing in the woods made me come so hard, I began sweating like a whore in a confessional. He blasted a giant Mr. Hanky on my fiery biscuits just so he could lap it up like a bulldog eating porridge. If I don't stimulate the genitals through phalangetic motion to get my sex wee leaching from my cod crater, his meaty member is going to leave my hairy goblet resembling Terry Waite's allotment. It was bliss having his piss pipe shoved inside me again; stuffing my shamevelope with a 15" spiked vibrator just didn't get my municipal cockwash spattering like it used to. With my lunchmeat now much like a rabid baboon's arse, he thought it was time to start probing my brown mile. Is now the time to tell him I really need to pitch a butt nugget, I wondered? My throat was so full of cumtree and man fat, the steamin' semen was oozing down my chin and onto my twin peaks. With his skeleton king hammering deep into my slime hole, the sensation of his cream reaper smashing my cervix made me quake like a tasered slab of chopped liver. The pounding makes me pour my beige slime all over his master of ceremonies. My ladytown was trembling like jelly. By now, my vibration station was trickling like a broken fridge freezer. The seemingly never-ending streams of cock snot emanating from his greasy slimelight soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. Now, I've seen more action than Helmand Province, but the sight of his huge penis made my spaff ooze like a jizz waterfall. After having my slime hole thrusted, he then proceeded to plow my rusty bullet hole. The feeling of his cock snot draining down my throat got my flange custard flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his wrist-thick wand stuffed deeper into my chocolate starfish. There was cock custard flowing from his giggle stick and I was wetter than an otter's pocket. We were ready for more. Some girls are happy just to study english cliterature when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a 15" spiked vibrator in my pink velvet sausage wallet and a barbie doll up my brown mile. Inserting a squash into my clunge pool got me squirting minge mucus faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel.

  The slamming of my Mavis Fritter was so vigorous, he soon found his hairy walnuts joining his cunt plunger deep in my black hole. My south mouth was trembling like a shitting dog. Some girls are happy just to strum the banjo when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a 9-iron in my hot pocket and an antique doorknob up my cocoa channel. After having my chlamydia canal pounded, he then proceeded to slam my other vagina. Within no time, I could feel the shitty creamy load oozing from my brown eye and all over my lunchmeat. With my vertical smile now much like a hippo's yawn, he thought it was time to start ramming my puckered brown eye. Is now the time to tell him I really need to roll a sewer trout, I wondered? I can't wait to lap the cock snot from his love muscle. The seemingly never-ending streams of gentleman's relish emanating from his love lollipop soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. Hours of thrusting like this would leave any girl's spam castanets looking like a bucket of smashed crabs, and I was no different! The mixture of colon cobra and baby gravy in my shit winker created the delicious porthole pudding that he was so fond of. With his stilton spear fucking deep into my wunder down under, the sensation of his stilton spear smashing my cervix made me quake like a tasered slab of chopped liver. I awoke the next morning with my ground zero grotto still weeping. I thought it was over but his purple beaver buster had other ideas. When he removed his thrill drill from my poop chute, he was pleasantly surprised to see a butt nugget staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to suck the sewer trout off his batter blaster. The pounding makes me eject my tuna tunnel tears all over his jebend. Leaving my panties sunn
y side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon stuffed deeper into my chocolate starfish. There was cock custard weeping from his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus and I was wetter than a well diggers arse. We were ready for more. Inserting an antique doorknob into my oyster ditch got me spraying shrimp sap faster than a greased weasel shit. He eased out a giant stink pickle on my superdroopers just so he could lap it up like a pig at a trough. It was bliss having his purple-headed trouser snake stuffed inside me again; stuffing my stench trench with a 9-iron just didn't get my clearing in the woods flooding like it used to. The feeling of his steamin' semen leaking down my throat got my sex wee flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. My cake hole was so full of spunk-filled spam rocket and gentleman's relish, the gentleman's relish was oozing down my chin and onto my twin peaks. Now, I've been shot over more times than Sarajevo, but the sight of his turgid terror truncheon made my pussy batter froth like a broken coffee maker. By now, my salmon slit was weeping like a rabid dog. If I don't strum the banjo to get my tuna tunnel tears dribbling from my stench trench, his Ocean's 11 Inches is going to leave my flappy meal resembling a dropped burrito. The unrelenting orgasms from his one-eyed milkman hammering my shamevelope made me come so hard, I began sweating like a white mouse in a tampon factory.