The Dream's Thorn

by Amy Woods

  The mixture of Mr. Hanky and creamy load in my Oxo orifice created the delicious rectal stew that he was so fond of. When he removed his spunk-filled spam rocket from my Mavis Fritter, he was pleasantly surprised to see a toilet twinkie staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to consume the stink pickle off his turgid terror truncheon. My quim was trembling like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. By now, my kipper dinghy was trickling like a slug in a salt mine. The slamming makes me pour my sex wee all over his washington monument. He dropped a giant Mr. Hanky on my mosquito bites just so he could suck it up like a bulldog eating porridge. The feeling of his love piss draining down my throat got my sex wee flowing quicker than snot off a whip. He munched on my roast beef platter, even though I'd had Aunt Flo visiting for the best part of a week. Within no time, I could feel the shitty love mayonnaise dribbling from my rusty bullet hole and all over my flappy meal. The unrelenting orgasms from his battering ram hammering my chamber of squelch made me come so hard, I began sweating like a midget nun at a penguin shoot. Now, I've seen more foreskins than a rabbi during a baby boom, but the sight of his Nelson's Column made my clunge gunge slime like a broken fridge freezer. I awoke the next morning with my cod canyon still leaching. I thought it was over but his piss pipe had other ideas. Hours of slamming like this would leave any girl's purple cabbage looking like a hippo's yawn, and I was no different! With his chubstep plowing deep into my quim, the sensation of his vein cane smashing my cervix made me quake like jelly. With my beef curtains now much like Terry Waite's allotment, he thought it was time to start shoving my other vagina. Is now the time to tell him I really need to arc a toilet twinkie, I wondered? Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his long-dong silver probed deeper into my vintage golf bag. It was bliss having his brie baton plunged inside me again; stuffing my oyster ditch with a number of chillies just didn't get my cod crater pouring like it used to. The hammering of my balloon knot was so vigorous, he soon found his hairy walnuts joining his chorizo howitzer deep in my Mavis Fritter. The seemingly never-ending streams of Da Vinci load emanating from his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. If I don't buff the muff to get my spaff foaming from my sperm socket, his slut slayer is going to leave my spam castanets resembling a stuntman's knee. After having my cod cave slammed, he then proceeded to hammer my rusty bullet hole. My cake hole was so full of womb raider and magician's wax, the love mayonnaise was leaking down my chin and onto my tatas. There was cock custard slobbering from his Nelson's Column and I was wetter than a spastic's chin. We were ready for more. Inserting a barbie doll into my sperm socket got me flowing beige slime faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. Some girls are happy just to tune the tuna when they're alone, but I can't get off without having an egg timer in my calamari cockring and a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster up my shit winker.

  He launched a giant butt nugget on my top bollocks just so he could gobble it up like a pig at a trough. If I don't fluff the muff to get my spaff flowing from my spunk dungeon, his battering ram is going to leave my clap flaps resembling an over inflated dinghy. Now, I've been told the sperm bank will accept my spit, but the sight of his love lollipop made my minge monsoon flow like Adele waiting for Greggs to open. The unrelenting orgasms from his cheese-crusted cock fucking my kipper dinghy made me come so hard, I began sweating like a paedo during a prison riot. Within no time, I could feel the shitty cock custard seeping from my fudge factory and all over my meaty hangers. The raiding makes me spritz my fallopian fish stock all over his cunt stretcher. I awoke the next morning with my cock holster still seeping. I thought it was over but his womb raider had other ideas. The seemingly never-ending streams of magician's wax emanating from his womb raider soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. He munched on my velcro triangle, even though I'd been riding the cotton pony for the best part of a week. My south mouth was trembling like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. Hours of hammering like this would leave any girl's hairy goblet looking like an over inflated dinghy, and I was no different! Inserting a gerbil into my moose knuckle got me surging minge mucus faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. When he removed his tallywacker from my fart valve, he was pleasantly surprised to see a butt nugget staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to devour the hardened fudge nugget off his greasy slimelight. Some girls are happy just to get a stinky pinky when they're alone, but I can't get off without having an egg timer in my kipper dinghy and a 9-iron up my old dirt road. The mixture of sewer trout and Da Vinci load in my Oxo orifice created the delicious porthole pudding that he was so fond of. With his spam dagger pounding deep into my tampon tunnel, the sensation of his sperminator smashing my cervix made me quake like a tasered slab of chopped liver. It was bliss having his master of ceremonies stuffed inside me again; stuffing my hot pocket with a 9-iron just didn't get my smush mitten spritzing like it used to. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his brie baton plunged deeper into my puckered brown eye. With my clap flaps now much like badly battered road kill, he thought it was time to start ramming my turd-herder. Is now the time to tell him I really need to pinch off a butt nugget, I wondered? The slamming of my fudge factory was so vigorous, he soon found his family jewels joining his love muscle deep in my brown mile. After having my frilling pink golf bag raided, he then proceeded to plow my Mavis Fritter. My throat was so full of tallywacker and penis pudding, the cock custard was draining down my chin and onto my love bubbles. The feeling of his love mayonnaise dribbling down my throat got my shrimp sap flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. There was love mayonnaise frothing from his Ocean's 11 Inches and I was wetter than an English summer. We were ready for more. By now, my south mouth was leaching like Adele waiting for Greggs to open.

  He pinched off a giant hardened fudge nugget on my sweater puppies just so he could suck it up like a bulldog eating porridge. The unrelenting orgasms from his stilton sword plowing my enchilada of love made me come so hard, I began sweating like a pregnant nun. Inserting a 9-iron into my herring hole got me spattering spaff faster than snot off a whip. By now, my chamber of squelch was oozing like a jizz waterfall. With my open-faced ham sandwich now much like John Wayne's saddlebags, he thought it was time to start stuffing my rusty sherif's badge. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cop a stink pickle, I wondered? I awoke the next morning with my one slice toaster still trickling. I thought it was over but his wrist-thick wand had other ideas. Within no time, I could feel the shitty love mayonnaise leaking from my turd cutter and all over my vertical smile. When he removed his cunt plunger from my turd-herder, he was pleasantly surprised to see a sewer trout staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to chow down on the sewer trout off his kebeb skewer. The plowing makes me flood my sex wee all over his bald-headed yogurt slinger. My whispering eye was trembling like a rat on acid. He munched on my furburger, even though I'd had the painters in for the best part of a week. If I don't finger blast to get my beige slime leaking from my split peach, his blue-veined custard chucker is going to leave my lunchmeat resembling an over inflated dinghy. The mixture of Mr. Hanky and creamy load in my marmite motorway created the delicious sphincter sauce that he was so fond of. I can't wait to chow down on the ectoplasm from his Nelson's Column. Now, I've seen more foreskins than a rabbi during a baby boom, but the sight of his jebend made my pussy batter froth like a slug in a salt mine. After having my sperm socket fucked, he then proceeded to hammer my Mavis Fritter. The feeling of his creamy load seeping down my throat got my pussy batter flowing quicker than snot off a whip. With his chubstep hammering deep into my clam-flavoured pothole, the sensation of his stilton spear smashing my cervix made me quiver like a shitting dog. The seemingly never-ending streams of gentleman's relish emanating from his balony pony soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. The hammering of my poo pipe was so vigorous, he soon found his hairy walnuts joining his cunt stretcher deep in my rust
y sherif's badge. Some girls are happy just to audition the finger puppets when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a 15" spiked vibrator in my calamari cockring and a barbie doll up my Mavis Fritter. Hours of fucking like this would leave any girl's purple cabbage looking like a stuntman's knee, and I was no different! My mouth was so full of wensleydale wand and magician's wax, the ectoplasm was flowing down my chin and onto my mammaries. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his bald-headed yogurt slinger shoved deeper into my rusty bullet hole. It was bliss having his batter blaster slid inside me again; stuffing my vibration station with an egg timer just didn't get my hot pocket gushing like it used to.

  My throat was so full of slut slayer and man fat, the man fat was seeping down my chin and onto my droopies. By now, my Quimcy, M.E. was foaming like a jizz waterfall. Inserting a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster into my split peach got me spraying minge monsoon faster than snot off a whip. The feeling of his cock custard frothing down my throat got my sex wee flowing quicker than snot off a whip. After having my penis pothole slammed, he then proceeded to hammer my poo pipe. The unrelenting orgasms from his sperminator plowing my depravity cavity made me come so hard, I began sweating like a gypsy near an unlocked shipping container. The thrusting of my tradesman's entrance was so vigorous, he soon found his love spuds joining his cheese-crusted cock deep in my Mavis Fritter. He munched on my furburger, even though I'd been surfing the crimson tide for the best part of a week. Hours of fucking like this would leave any girl's beef curtains looking like Pete Burns' lips, and I was no different! There was cock custard oozing from his one-eyed monster and I was wetter than a well diggers arse. We were ready for more. When he removed his chubstep from my rusty sherif's badge, he was pleasantly surprised to see a Mr. Hanky staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to lap the stink pickle off his greasy kebab skewer. The mixture of butt nugget and penis pudding in my rusty bullet hole created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. My cock holster was trembling like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. Now, I've had more hands up me than The Muppets, but the sight of his turgid terror truncheon made my tuna tunnel tears slime like someone had poured fairy liquid into Niagara Falls. I can't wait to devour the love mayonnaise from his turgid terror truncheon. With my hairy goblet now much like a twisted slipper, he thought it was time to start probing my ring piece. Is now the time to tell him I really need to roll a stink pickle, I wondered? It was bliss having his one-eyed monster rammed inside me again; stuffing my kipper dinghy with an egg timer just didn't get my soft-shelled tuna taco spouting like it used to. Some girls are happy just to get a stinky pinky when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a number of chillies in my birth cannon and a 9-iron up my brown mile. With his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus plowing deep into my wizards sleeve, the sensation of his spunk-filled spam rocket smashing my cervix made me quake like a rat on acid. The raiding makes me spout my fallopian fish stock all over his master of ceremonies. He curled a giant sewer trout on my rack just so he could gobble it up like a bulldog eating porridge. If I don't finger blast to get my fallopian fish stock leaching from my bearded haddock pasty, his stilton sword is going to leave my meaty hangers resembling the south end of a badger going north. I awoke the next morning with my cod cave still sliming. I thought it was over but his cumtree had other ideas. Within no time, I could feel the shitty creamy load sliming from my rusty bullet hole and all over my furburger. The seemingly never-ending streams of Da Vinci load emanating from his stilton spear soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio.

  Some girls are happy just to tune the tuna when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a lightbulb in my municipal cockwash and an antique doorknob up my marmite motorway. He munched on my vertical garden, even though I'd been riding the cotton pony for the best part of a week. With his stilton sword hammering deep into my cod cave, the sensation of his skin flute smashing my cervix made me quiver like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. When he removed his devil's bagpipe from my brown mile, he was pleasantly surprised to see a stink pickle staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to gobble the stink pickle off his chubstep. The raiding makes me eject my tuna tunnel tears all over his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus. My cake hole was so full of tallywacker and penis pudding, the Da Vinci load was foaming down my chin and onto my mammaries. Hours of thrusting like this would leave any girl's vertical garden looking like a manatee in yoga pants, and I was no different! There was baby gravy draining from his chubstep and I was wetter than a spastic's chin. We were ready for more. Inserting a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster into my tampon tunnel got me spouting minge monsoon faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. The unrelenting orgasms from his brie baton pounding my cod cave made me come so hard, I began sweating like a gypsy near an unlocked shipping container. If I don't study english cliterature to get my spaff oozing from my ruby cave, his piss pipe is going to leave my meaty hangers resembling a shot cat. The feeling of his love mayonnaise leaking down my throat got my minge monsoon flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. I can't wait to chow down on the gentleman's relish from his bugger king. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his veiny quim prod shoved deeper into my tradesman's entrance. After having my vaginal bacon buffet plowed, he then proceeded to plow my poop chute. The seemingly never-ending streams of creamy load emanating from his blue-veined custard chucker soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. It was bliss having his sperminator stuffed inside me again; stuffing my bearded haddock pasty with a lightbulb just didn't get my shame portal flooding like it used to. He eased out a giant stink pickle on my twin peaks just so he could chow down on it up like a pig at a trough. By now, my bearded haddock pasty was dripping like a George Foreman grill. The hammering of my mud flap was so vigorous, he soon found his chin pounders joining his muffbuster deep in my chocolate starfish. The mixture of Mr. Hanky and steamin' semen in my vintage golf bag created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. My clam-flavoured pothole was trembling like a tasered slab of chopped liver. Now, I've seen more pricks than a second hand dartboard, but the sight of his meaty member made my tuna tunnel tears trickle like a George Foreman grill. With my purple cabbage now much like that bathroom door in The Shining, he thought it was time to start sliding my soft tight anus. Is now the time to tell him I really need to roll a Mr. Hanky, I wondered? I awoke the next morning with my quim still sliming. I thought it was over but his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus had other ideas.

  If I don't finger blast to get my spaff oozing from my shame portal, his turgid terror truncheon is going to leave my beef curtains resembling a hippo's yawn. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his spam dagger shoved deeper into my fudge factory. The raiding makes me spray my flange custard all over his love lollipop. The unrelenting orgasms from his veiny quim prod pounding my shamevelope made me come so hard, I began sweating like a pregnant nun. With my purple cabbage now much like a gutted trout, he thought it was time to start probing my soft tight anus. Is now the time to tell him I really need to pinch off a hardened fudge nugget, I wondered? Now, I've taken more poundings than the Somme, but the sight of his bald avenger made my minge mucus dribble like a leaky tap. Inserting a 9-iron into my vibration station got me splurging shrimp sap faster than snot off a whip. With his slut slayer thrusting deep into my cum dumpster, the sensation of his kebeb skewer smashing my cervix made me quake like a rat on acid. I awoke the next morning with my whispering eye still sliming. I thought it was over but his tenderloin truncheon had other ideas. The feeling of his man fat draining down my throat got my fallopian fish stock flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. He munched on my velcro triangle, even though I'd had my redwings for the best part of a week. By now, my gammon alley was sliming like a broken fridge freezer. When he removed his skeleton king from my ring piece, he was pleasantly surprised to see a h
ardened fudge nugget staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to devour the butt nugget off his blind butler. Within no time, I could feel the shitty man fat leaking from my poo pipe and all over my purple cabbage. The seemingly never-ending streams of gentleman's relish emanating from his cunt plunger soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. I can't wait to consume the steamin' semen from his stilton sword. The mixture of hardened fudge nugget and love piss in my ring piece created the delicious porthole pudding that he was so fond of. There was love mayonnaise weeping from his skeleton king and I was wetter than a well diggers arse. We were ready for more. After having my birth cannon pounded, he then proceeded to thrust my vintage golf bag. The raiding of my vintage golf bag was so vigorous, he soon found his salty protein grapes joining his greasy slimelight deep in my vintage golf bag. It was bliss having his love lollipop rammed inside me again; stuffing my moose knuckle with a barbie doll just didn't get my cod cave flooding like it used to. He eased out a giant butt nugget on my sweater puppies just so he could lap it up like a pig at a trough. My salmon slit was trembling like Vanessa Feltz's diesel-powered vibrator. Hours of thrusting like this would leave any girl's piss flaps looking like a stamped bat, and I was no different! Some girls are happy just to fish for pearls when they're alone, but I can't get off without having an egg timer in my mound of love pudding and a lightbulb up my vintage golf bag.