The Dream's Thorn

by Amy Woods

  I awoke the next morning with my wizards sleeve still oozing. I thought it was over but his cheese-crusted cock had other ideas. After having my spunk dungeon fucked, he then proceeded to hammer my shit winker. I can't wait to devour the cock snot from his timed slimer. With his cunt plunger raiding deep into my penis pothole, the sensation of his cunt stretcher smashing my cervix made me quiver like a rat on acid. Now, I've been told the sperm bank will accept my spit, but the sight of his devil's bagpipe made my clunge gunge leach like Adele waiting for Greggs to open. The unrelenting orgasms from his blue-veined custard chucker thrusting my cod canyon made me come so hard, I began sweating like a pregnant nun. My mouth was so full of cream reaper and love mayonnaise, the magician's wax was sliming down my chin and onto my breasticles. There was Da Vinci load weeping from his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus and I was wetter than an English summer. We were ready for more. He munched on my spam castanets, even though I'd been surfing the crimson tide for the best part of a week. My vaginal bacon buffet was trembling like a shitting dog. The thrusting makes me squirt my flange custard all over his tenderloin truncheon. Some girls are happy just to flick the bean when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a 9-iron in my spunk dungeon and a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster up my marmite motorway. By now, my kipper dinghy was slobbering like there was a midget inside me with a super soaker. He pinched off a giant hardened fudge nugget on my love bubbles just so he could consume it up like a pig at a trough. The hammering of my mud flap was so vigorous, he soon found his trouser conkors joining his ample cock deep in my black hole. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his wensleydale wand stuffed deeper into my balloon knot. The feeling of his gentleman's relish leaking down my throat got my vertical moisture flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. With my flappy meal now much like a hippo's yawn, he thought it was time to start sliding my old dirt road. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cut a corn-eyed butt snake, I wondered? The mixture of hardened fudge nugget and penis pudding in my cocoa channel created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. Inserting a gerbil into my bearded haddock pasty got me spattering sex wee faster than snot off a whip. The seemingly never-ending streams of Da Vinci load emanating from his pink tractor beam soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. Within no time, I could feel the shitty magician's wax foaming from my chocolate starfish and all over my furburger. When he removed his clunger from my brown eye, he was pleasantly surprised to see a stink pickle staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to chow down on the Mr. Hanky off his thrill drill. Hours of plowing like this would leave any girl's piss flaps looking like a dropped burrito, and I was no different! If I don't strum the banjo to get my sex wee draining from my herring hole, his flesh gordon is going to leave my furburger resembling a bucket of smashed crabs.

  I can't wait to chow down on the steamin' semen from his meaty member. Within no time, I could feel the shitty penis pudding sliming from my cocoa channel and all over my spam castanets. I awoke the next morning with my cock holster still foaming. I thought it was over but his wensleydale wand had other ideas. By now, my Quimcy, M.E. was leaking like a hungry pig at a trough. Some girls are happy just to buff the muff when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a 9-iron in my cod cave and a squash up my rusty sherif's badge. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his pink tractor beam rammed deeper into my fudge factory. Now, I've been shot over more times than Sarajevo, but the sight of his tenderloin truncheon made my shrimp sap foam like a hungry pig at a trough. He munched on my hairy goblet, even though I'd been walking the red carpet for the best part of a week. The fucking makes me spout my clunge gunge all over his disco stick. It was bliss having his long-dong silver shoved inside me again; stuffing my gaping clam cavern with an antique doorknob just didn't get my birth cannon pouring like it used to. He launched a giant hardened fudge nugget on my fiery biscuits just so he could devour it up like a hungry hungry hippo. After having my vibrator crater pounded, he then proceeded to raid my Mavis Fritter. My throat was so full of stilton spear and gentleman's relish, the man fat was haemorrhaging down my chin and onto my cans. If I don't tune the tuna to get my clunge gunge slobbering from my Quimcy, M.E., his wensleydale wand is going to leave my roast beef platter resembling a dropped burrito. When he removed his wrist-thick wand from my chocolate starfish, he was pleasantly surprised to see a toilet twinkie staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to gobble the footlong fudge bullet off his brie baton. With his Nelson's Column raiding deep into my mound of love pudding, the sensation of his bugger king smashing my cervix made me quake like a rat on acid. Hours of slamming like this would leave any girl's beef curtains looking like a bulldog in a windtunnel, and I was no different! Inserting an antique doorknob into my pink velvet sausage wallet got me surging vertical moisture faster than snot off a whip. The mixture of stink pickle and gentleman's relish in my vintage golf bag created the delicious porthole pudding that he was so fond of. The feeling of his gentleman's relish frothing down my throat got my flange custard flowing quicker than snot off a whip. With my flappy meal now much like a clown's pocket, he thought it was time to start plunging my mud flap. Is now the time to tell him I really need to blast a footlong fudge bullet, I wondered? The seemingly never-ending streams of cock custard emanating from his batter blaster soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. There was penis pudding frothing from his pink tractor beam and I was wetter than an Italian cruise ship. We were ready for more. The unrelenting orgasms from his cunt stretcher hammering my gaping clam cavern made me come so hard, I began sweating like a midget nun at a penguin shoot. My frilling pink golf bag was trembling like jelly.

  The raiding of my vintage golf bag was so vigorous, he soon found his wrecking balls joining his batter blaster deep in my puckered brown eye. Now, I've been told the sperm bank will accept my spit, but the sight of his chorizo howitzer made my flange custard froth like a leaky tap. I awoke the next morning with my front bum still leaking. I thought it was over but his stilton spear had other ideas. Some girls are happy just to finger blast when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a barbie doll in my quim and a number of chillies up my marmite motorway. By now, my chamber of squelch was seeping like Adele waiting for Greggs to open. He crowned a giant stink pickle on my superdroopers just so he could consume it up like a pig at a trough. My cake hole was so full of brie baton and cock custard, the magician's wax was haemorrhaging down my chin and onto my tatas. When he removed his ample cock from my chocolate starfish, he was pleasantly surprised to see a sewer trout staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to gobble the butt nugget off his throbbing quim dagger. I can't wait to lap the Da Vinci load from his greasy kebab skewer. Within no time, I could feel the shitty gentleman's relish foaming from my soft tight anus and all over my panty hamster. The unrelenting orgasms from his wensleydale wand slamming my oyster ditch made me come so hard, I began sweating like a gypsy with a mortgage. He munched on my lunchmeat, even though I'd been walking the red carpet for the best part of a week. If I don't buff the muff to get my vertical moisture trickling from my gaping clam cavern, his all-beef thermometer is going to leave my lunchmeat resembling a stamped bat. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his cream reaper rammed deeper into my puckered brown eye. The mixture of Mr. Hanky and penis pudding in my brown eye created the delicious rectal stew that he was so fond of. There was cock custard seeping from his all-beef thermometer and I was wetter than an English summer. We were ready for more. The raiding makes me pour my sex wee all over his jebend. The feeling of his man fat foaming down my throat got my shrimp sap flowing quicker than snot off a whip. Inserting a squash into my penis pothole got me pouring vertical moisture faster than snot off a whip. With my lunchmeat now much like the south end of a badger going north, he thought it was time to start probing my tradesman's entrance. Is now the time to tell h
im I really need to drop a footlong fudge bullet, I wondered? Hours of raiding like this would leave any girl's furburger looking like a bucket of smashed crabs, and I was no different! With his meaty member plowing deep into my meat purse, the sensation of his cheese-crusted cock smashing my cervix made me quiver like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. The seemingly never-ending streams of steamin' semen emanating from his piss pipe soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. After having my shamevelope hammered, he then proceeded to pound my cocoa channel. It was bliss having his Ocean's 11 Inches plunged inside me again; stuffing my shame portal with an antique doorknob just didn't get my fuck trench pouring like it used to.

  It was bliss having his love lollipop rammed inside me again; stuffing my hatchet wound with a squash just didn't get my wizards sleeve spritzing like it used to. After having my one slice toaster plowed, he then proceeded to slam my cocoa channel. He munched on my velcro triangle, even though I'd had my redwings for the best part of a week. With his master of ceremonies hammering deep into my salmon slit, the sensation of his jebend smashing my cervix made me quake like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. I awoke the next morning with my tuna canal still dribbling. I thought it was over but his batter blaster had other ideas. My carp cavity was trembling like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. By now, my frilling pink golf bag was leaking like a broken fridge freezer. The thrusting makes me flood my flange custard all over his giggle stick. I can't wait to lap the man fat from his all-beef thermometer. With my meaty hangers now much like a clown's pocket, he thought it was time to start plunging my mud flap. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cop a colon cobra, I wondered? My throat was so full of love lollipop and creamy load, the man fat was draining down my chin and onto my top bollocks. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his sperminator rammed deeper into my mud flap. The unrelenting orgasms from his master of ceremonies hammering my clunge pool made me come so hard, I began sweating like a dyslexic on Countdown. Hours of thrusting like this would leave any girl's flappy meal looking like a bucket of smashed crabs, and I was no different! There was penis pudding dribbling from his bald-headed yogurt slinger and I was wetter than an otter's pocket. We were ready for more. Within no time, I could feel the shitty cock snot sliming from my Oxo orifice and all over my velcro triangle. Inserting an antique doorknob into my chamber of squelch got me ejecting minge monsoon faster than a greased weasel shit. The feeling of his gentleman's relish haemorrhaging down my throat got my pussy batter flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. Now, I've been told the sperm bank will accept my spit, but the sight of his vein cane made my vertical moisture flow like a broken coffee maker. The thrusting of my fudge factory was so vigorous, he soon found his scroto baggins joining his turgid terror truncheon deep in my puckered brown eye. When he removed his clunger from my balloon knot, he was pleasantly surprised to see a sewer trout staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to lap the toilet twinkie off his devil's bagpipe. The mixture of corn-eyed butt snake and steamin' semen in my balloon knot created the delicious sphincter sauce that he was so fond of. The seemingly never-ending streams of love piss emanating from his stilton spear soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. He launched a giant corn-eyed butt snake on my tatas just so he could gobble it up like a bulldog eating porridge. If I don't audition the finger puppets to get my clunge gunge oozing from my frilling pink golf bag, his spam dagger is going to leave my vertical garden resembling a badly wrapped kebab.

  With his master of ceremonies thrusting deep into my split peach, the sensation of his turgid terror truncheon smashing my cervix made me quiver like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. There was gentleman's relish flowing from his all-beef thermometer and I was wetter than a spastic's chin. We were ready for more. When he removed his throbbing quim dagger from my turd cutter, he was pleasantly surprised to see a toilet twinkie staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to gobble the footlong fudge bullet off his gristle missile. My south mouth was trembling like a shitting dog. The feeling of his Da Vinci load leaching down my throat got my spaff flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his cunt stretcher probed deeper into my rusty bullet hole. He munched on my piss flaps, even though I'd had my redwings for the best part of a week. The thrusting of my brown eye was so vigorous, he soon found his trouser conkors joining his slut slayer deep in my old dirt road. It was bliss having his spunk-filled spam rocket rammed inside me again; stuffing my moose knuckle with a lightbulb just didn't get my shame portal spouting like it used to. I awoke the next morning with my kipper dinghy still haemorrhaging. I thought it was over but his cumtree had other ideas. The hammering makes me spritz my vertical moisture all over his Ocean's 11 Inches. Now, I've had more hands up me than The Muppets, but the sight of his Ocean's 11 Inches made my tuna tunnel tears foam like a broken fridge freezer. Some girls are happy just to play the clitar when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a barbie doll in my mound of love pudding and a barbie doll up my other vagina. Hours of raiding like this would leave any girl's velcro triangle looking like a manatee in yoga pants, and I was no different! The seemingly never-ending streams of magician's wax emanating from his ramrod soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. Inserting a lightbulb into my vaginal bacon buffet got me squirting flange custard faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. My mouth was so full of muffbuster and ectoplasm, the baby gravy was dripping down my chin and onto my mosquito bites. The mixture of colon cobra and love mayonnaise in my shit winker created the delicious porthole pudding that he was so fond of. I can't wait to chow down on the cock custard from his veiny quim prod. Within no time, I could feel the shitty Da Vinci load weeping from my soft tight anus and all over my purple cabbage. With my panty hamster now much like a stuntman's knee, he thought it was time to start plunging my mud flap. Is now the time to tell him I really need to drop a Mr. Hanky, I wondered? By now, my one slice toaster was flowing like a hungry pig at a trough. The unrelenting orgasms from his slut slayer pounding my bearded haddock pasty made me come so hard, I began sweating like a blind lesbian in a fish shop. If I don't tune the tuna to get my spaff slobbering from my ground zero grotto, his stilton spear is going to leave my piss flaps resembling a blind cobbler's thumb. He pitched a giant hardened fudge nugget on my tatas just so he could suck it up like a pig at a trough.

  Hours of pounding like this would leave any girl's piss flaps looking like a stuntman's knee, and I was no different! Within no time, I could feel the shitty baby gravy leaking from my cocoa channel and all over my purple cabbage. When he removed his skin flute from my vintage golf bag, he was pleasantly surprised to see a Mr. Hanky staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to consume the butt nugget off his tenderloin truncheon. I can't wait to devour the creamy load from his love muscle. The feeling of his baby gravy leaking down my throat got my shrimp sap flowing quicker than snot off a whip. He munched on my open-faced ham sandwich, even though I'd had the painters in for the best part of a week. With my lunchmeat now much like an over inflated dinghy, he thought it was time to start sliding my Mavis Fritter. Is now the time to tell him I really need to blast a butt nugget, I wondered? By now, my depravity cavity was weeping like a jizz waterfall. My cake hole was so full of batter blaster and cock snot, the magician's wax was draining down my chin and onto my mammaries. He blasted a giant butt nugget on my cans just so he could chow down on it up like a bulldog eating porridge. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his battering ram slid deeper into my balloon knot. There was love piss foaming from his spunk-filled spam rocket and I was wetter than a spastic's chin. We were ready for more. After having my gashtray pounded, he then proceeded to hammer my chocolate starfish. I awoke the next morning with my birth cannon still sliming. I thought it was over but his womb raider had other ideas. Inserting a 9-iron into my birth cannon got me spraying shrimp sap faster than a greased
weasel shit. It was bliss having his timed slimer rammed inside me again; stuffing my meat purse with a 9-iron just didn't get my clam-flavoured pothole spouting like it used to. The seemingly never-ending streams of love piss emanating from his gristle missile soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. The plowing makes me spit my beige slime all over his muffbuster. With his greasy slimelight raiding deep into my chlamydia canal, the sensation of his ramrod smashing my cervix made me quiver like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. The mixture of corn-eyed butt snake and magician's wax in my vintage golf bag created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. Now, I've been told the sperm bank will accept my spit, but the sight of his vein cane made my shrimp sap foam like a leaky tap. The slamming of my Mavis Fritter was so vigorous, he soon found his chin pounders joining his blind butler deep in my marmite motorway. The unrelenting orgasms from his cervix cigar pounding my smush mitten made me come so hard, I began sweating like a gypsy near an unlocked shipping container. My salmon slit was trembling like a tasered slab of chopped liver. If I don't tune the tuna to get my minge mucus sliming from my chlamydia canal, his vein cane is going to leave my meaty hangers resembling Pete Burns' lips.