The Dream's Thorn

by Amy Woods

  He munched on my spam castanets, even though I'd been riding the cotton pony for the best part of a week. The hammering of my chocolate starfish was so vigorous, he soon found his salty protein grapes joining his sperminator deep in my vintage golf bag. My cake hole was so full of skin flute and ectoplasm, the love mayonnaise was trickling down my chin and onto my mammaries. With my clap flaps now much like a clown's pocket, he thought it was time to start stuffing my turd cutter. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cop a toilet twinkie, I wondered? It was bliss having his Ocean's 11 Inches plunged inside me again; stuffing my pink velvet sausage wallet with a 9-iron just didn't get my vaginal bacon buffet squirting like it used to. After having my wunder down under thrusted, he then proceeded to pound my puckered brown eye. I awoke the next morning with my cod canyon still trickling. I thought it was over but his bald-headed yogurt slinger had other ideas. The mixture of butt nugget and man fat in my brown mile created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. The seemingly never-ending streams of ectoplasm emanating from his chorizo howitzer soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. My whispering eye was trembling like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. The feeling of his man fat frothing down my throat got my fallopian fish stock flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. There was cock custard foaming from his pink tractor beam and I was wetter than an Italian cruise ship. We were ready for more. Hours of fucking like this would leave any girl's open-faced ham sandwich looking like badly battered road kill, and I was no different! Now, I've been told the sperm bank will accept my spit, but the sight of his womb ferret made my tuna tunnel tears ooze like a broken fridge freezer. He blasted a giant butt nugget on my rack just so he could consume it up like a bulldog eating porridge. The thrusting makes me squirt my vertical moisture all over his vein cane. By now, my whispering eye was slobbering like a jizz waterfall. If I don't stimulate the genitals through phalangetic motion to get my minge mucus flowing from my clearing in the woods, his long-dong silver is going to leave my vertical garden resembling a bulldog licking piss from a thistle. Inserting a lightbulb into my depravity cavity got me squirting tuna tunnel tears faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. Within no time, I could feel the shitty man fat trickling from my mud flap and all over my hairy goblet. The unrelenting orgasms from his timed slimer raiding my smush mitten made me come so hard, I began sweating like a whore in a confessional. Some girls are happy just to get a stinky pinky when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a squash in my oyster ditch and a 9-iron up my turd cutter. I can't wait to chow down on the cock snot from his blue-veined custard chucker. When he removed his battering ram from my black hole, he was pleasantly surprised to see a footlong fudge bullet staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to devour the toilet twinkie off his chubstep. With his stilton spear plowing deep into my quim, the sensation of his love muscle smashing my cervix made me quake 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 lightbulb in my bearded haddock pasty and my fist up my poo pipe. With my piss flaps now much like the Japanese flag, he thought it was time to start ramming my soft tight anus. Is now the time to tell him I really need to ease a footlong fudge bullet, I wondered? I awoke the next morning with my birth cannon still haemorrhaging. I thought it was over but his blue-veined custard chucker had other ideas. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his cream reaper stuffed deeper into my rusty bullet hole. With his huge penis fucking deep into my fuck trench, the sensation of his purple-headed trouser snake smashing my cervix made me quiver like Vanessa Feltz's diesel-powered vibrator. After having my fuck trench pounded, he then proceeded to fuck my poop chute. By now, my fuck gutter was draining like a broken fridge freezer. My throat was so full of cunt plunger and magician's wax, the love piss was leaching down my chin and onto my cans. My split peach was trembling like a shitting dog. The feeling of his penis pudding dripping down my throat got my flange custard flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. It was bliss having his love muscle shoved inside me again; stuffing my slime hole with a number of chillies just didn't get my chlamydia canal gushing like it used to. The mixture of corn-eyed butt snake and gentleman's relish in my chocolate starfish created the delicious rectal stew that he was so fond of. The unrelenting orgasms from his bald-headed yogurt slinger plowing my quim made me come so hard, I began sweating like a paedo during a prison riot. Inserting an egg timer into my wizards sleeve got me surging beige slime faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. The seemingly never-ending streams of ectoplasm emanating from his thrill drill soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. Now, I've seen more helmets than Hitler, but the sight of his stilton sword made my tuna tunnel tears dribble like a broken coffee maker. The fucking makes me pour my sex wee all over his jebend. If I don't dial the rotary phone to get my minge monsoon leaking from my chlamydia canal, his ample cock is going to leave my piss flaps resembling John Wayne's saddlebags. The plowing of my rusty sherif's badge was so vigorous, he soon found his jingle-jangle jewellery joining his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon deep in my Oxo orifice. He copped a giant butt nugget on my mosquito bites just so he could suck it up like a pig at a trough. Hours of raiding like this would leave any girl's purple cabbage looking like Pete Burns' lips, and I was no different! Within no time, I could feel the shitty Da Vinci load trickling from my mud flap and all over my beef curtains. I can't wait to gobble the penis pudding from his one-eyed milkman. When he removed his blue-veined custard chucker from my poo pipe, he was pleasantly surprised to see a footlong fudge bullet staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to suck the hardened fudge nugget off his slut slayer. He munched on my velcro triangle, even though I'd had Aunt Flo visiting for the best part of a week.

  Within no time, I could feel the shitty steamin' semen flowing from my Mavis Fritter and all over my beef curtains. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his cervix cigar stuffed deeper into my poop chute. When he removed his Ocean's 11 Inches from my marmite motorway, he was pleasantly surprised to see a toilet twinkie staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to chow down on the butt nugget off his veiny quim prod. I awoke the next morning with my mound of love pudding still haemorrhaging. I thought it was over but his stilton sword had other ideas. The unrelenting orgasms from his one-eyed milkman slamming my moose knuckle made me come so hard, I began sweating like a paedo during a prison riot. I can't wait to lap the gentleman's relish from his mutton dagger. The feeling of his ectoplasm foaming down my throat got my fallopian fish stock flowing quicker than snot off a whip. 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 penis pothole and a gerbil up my poop chute. It was bliss having his greasy slimelight plunged inside me again; stuffing my cod canyon with a barbie doll just didn't get my wizards sleeve spraying like it used to. He launched a giant Mr. Hanky on my cans just so he could suck it up like a pig at a trough. If I don't fluff the muff to get my clunge gunge flowing from my enchilada of love, his purple-headed trouser snake is going to leave my meaty hangers resembling Brian May's plughole. With my spam castanets now much like a badly wrapped kebab, he thought it was time to start stuffing my marmite motorway. Is now the time to tell him I really need to blast a stink pickle, I wondered? After having my cod canyon raided, he then proceeded to plow my brown eye. There was cock custard draining from his stilton sword and I was wetter than a well diggers arse. We were ready for more. Hours of raiding like this would leave any girl's hairy goblet looking like a bulldog in a windtunnel, and I was no different! By now, my hot pocket was dripping like a leaky tap. My cake hole was so full of vein cane and cock snot, the gentleman's relish was slobbering down my chin and onto my tatas. Inserting a 15" spiked vibrator into my carp cavity got me gushing shrimp sap faster than a greased weasel shit. The pounding makes me pour my minge mucus all over his spunk-filled spam ro
cket. Now, I've been told the sperm bank will accept my spit, but the sight of his pink tractor beam made my spaff slobber like a jizz waterfall. My mound of love pudding was trembling like a rat on acid. The fucking of my Mavis Fritter was so vigorous, he soon found his man marbles joining his Nelson's Column deep in my marmite motorway. He munched on my hairy goblet, even though I'd been surfing the crimson tide for the best part of a week. With his washington monument pounding deep into my slime hole, the sensation of his jebend smashing my cervix made me quake like a rat on acid. The mixture of colon cobra and Da Vinci load in my poo pipe created the delicious rectal stew that he was so fond of.

  The unrelenting orgasms from his cunt stretcher fucking my clunge pool made me come so hard, I began sweating like a pregnant nun. The thrusting of my rusty bullet hole was so vigorous, he soon found his man marbles joining his master of ceremonies deep in my brown eye. Now, I've been told the sperm bank will accept my spit, but the sight of his flesh gordon made my spaff trickle like a broken coffee maker. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his ramrod stuffed deeper into my soft tight anus. My ground zero grotto was trembling like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. The mixture of hardened fudge nugget and cock custard in my fart valve created the delicious porthole pudding that he was so fond of. With my purple cabbage now much like a motorway pileup, he thought it was time to start stuffing my mud flap. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cop a Mr. Hanky, I wondered? With his spam javelin raiding deep into my gaping clam cavern, the sensation of his kebeb skewer smashing my cervix made me quiver like Vanessa Feltz's diesel-powered vibrator. Some girls are happy just to dial the rotary phone when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a squash in my municipal cockwash and a 9-iron up my black hole. I awoke the next morning with my spunk dungeon still leaching. I thought it was over but his balony pony had other ideas. There was creamy load flowing 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 penis pudding weeping from my puckered brown eye and all over my meaty hangers. He eased out a giant stink pickle on my cans just so he could suck it up like a bulldog eating porridge. If I don't buff the muff to get my fallopian fish stock seeping from my carp cavity, his greasy kebab skewer is going to leave my piss flaps resembling a shot cat. Hours of pounding like this would leave any girl's spam castanets looking like badly battered road kill, and I was no different! When he removed his gristle missile from my turd-herder, he was pleasantly surprised to see a stink pickle staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to lap the stink pickle off his one-eyed milkman. I can't wait to gobble the baby gravy from his spunk-filled spam rocket. He munched on my panty hamster, even though I'd been riding the cotton pony for the best part of a week. Inserting an egg timer into my whispering eye got me surging vertical moisture faster than snot off a whip. The thrusting makes me pour my shrimp sap all over his wensleydale wand. After having my shamevelope thrusted, he then proceeded to slam my rusty bullet hole. It was bliss having his slut slayer probed inside me again; stuffing my penis pothole with my fist just didn't get my front bum spritzing like it used to. The feeling of his penis pudding leaching down my throat got my flange custard flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. My mouth was so full of kebeb skewer and love piss, the love mayonnaise was trickling down my chin and onto my cans. The seemingly never-ending streams of magician's wax emanating from his womb ferret soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio.

  Hours of plowing like this would leave any girl's furburger looking like a manatee in yoga pants, and I was no different! He dropped a giant sewer trout on my chesticles just so he could lap it up like a hungry hungry hippo. After having my chamber of squelch thrusted, he then proceeded to fuck my vintage golf bag. The feeling of his cock custard leaching down my throat got my sex wee flowing quicker than snot off a whip. Now, I've seen more pricks than a second hand dartboard, but the sight of his flesh gordon made my vertical moisture haemorrhage like Adele waiting for Greggs to open. By now, my sperm socket was weeping like a hungry pig at a trough. I awoke the next morning with my cod crater still draining. I thought it was over but his cervix cigar had other ideas. The mixture of sewer trout and steamin' semen in my fart valve created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. My hatchet wound was trembling like a shitting dog. There was cock custard haemorrhaging from his ramrod and I was wetter than a well diggers arse. We were ready for more. Some girls are happy just to buff the muff when they're alone, but I can't get off without having my fist in my cod canyon and a squash up my turd-herder. The raiding of my rusty sherif's badge was so vigorous, he soon found his scroto baggins joining his master of ceremonies deep in my turd cutter. Within no time, I could feel the shitty cock custard oozing from my puckered brown eye and all over my fishy flaps. The slamming makes me flood my beige slime all over his cumtree. If I don't tune the tuna to get my sex wee leaking from my oyster ditch, his greasy slimelight is going to leave my hairy goblet resembling a werewolf with it's throat cut. Inserting an egg timer into my furry cup got me squirting shrimp sap faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. The unrelenting orgasms from his sperminator thrusting my frilling pink golf bag made me come so hard, I began sweating like a dyslexic on Countdown. The seemingly never-ending streams of baby gravy emanating from his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. My cake hole was so full of womb raider and cock custard, the steamin' semen was draining down my chin and onto my rack. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his greasy slimelight plunged deeper into my Mavis Fritter. It was bliss having his huge penis shoved inside me again; stuffing my front bum with a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster just didn't get my cock holster splurging like it used to. With my open-faced ham sandwich now much like a twisted slipper, he thought it was time to start stuffing my Oxo orifice. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cop a hardened fudge nugget, I wondered? I can't wait to suck the Da Vinci load from his wensleydale wand. With his tenderloin truncheon raiding deep into my frilling pink golf bag, the sensation of his slut slayer smashing my cervix made me quake like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. He munched on my furburger, even though I'd been up on bricks for the best part of a week.

  He launched a giant hardened fudge nugget on my boobage just so he could gobble it up like a bulldog eating porridge. He munched on my meaty hangers, even though I'd been riding the cotton pony for the best part of a week. It was bliss having his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus probed inside me again; stuffing my hot pocket with a 9-iron just didn't get my Quimcy, M.E. surging like it used to. The fucking of my tradesman's entrance was so vigorous, he soon found his chin pounders joining his sperminator deep in my brown eye. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his timed slimer plunged deeper into my fart valve. I can't wait to suck the baby gravy from his slut slayer. Within no time, I could feel the shitty love piss slobbering from my vintage golf bag and all over my clap flaps. The unrelenting orgasms from his master of ceremonies pounding my enchilada of love made me come so hard, I began sweating like Mike Tyson at a spelling bee. Hours of thrusting like this would leave any girl's piss flaps looking like a blind cobbler's thumb, and I was no different! After having my cock holster raided, he then proceeded to thrust my marmite motorway. My mouth was so full of flesh gordon and penis pudding, the magician's wax was weeping down my chin and onto my chest puppies. The feeling of his cock custard slobbering down my throat got my flange custard flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. The mixture of Mr. Hanky and cock custard in my old dirt road created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. Inserting an antique doorknob into my Quimcy, M.E. got me splurging minge monsoon faster than snot off a whip. The hammering makes me surge my vertical moisture all over his huge penis. With his womb raider pounding deep into my frilling pink golf bag, the sensation of his spam dagger
smashing my cervix made me quiver like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. If I don't fluff the muff to get my shrimp sap sliming from my quim, his stilton spear is going to leave my clap flaps resembling a darts team's goalkeeper. There was penis pudding trickling from his cunt plunger and I was wetter than a well diggers arse. We were ready for more. Some girls are happy just to get a stinky pinky when they're alone, but I can't get off without having an antique doorknob in my smush mitten and a 15" spiked vibrator up my old dirt road. With my lunchmeat now much like the Japanese flag, he thought it was time to start probing my other vagina. Is now the time to tell him I really need to arc a Mr. Hanky, I wondered? By now, my meat purse was haemorrhaging like a slavering dog. I awoke the next morning with my ground zero grotto still weeping. I thought it was over but his turgid terror truncheon had other ideas. The seemingly never-ending streams of cock custard emanating from his bald avenger soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. My smush mitten was trembling like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. Now, I've had more hands up me than The Muppets, but the sight of his cunt stretcher made my clunge gunge haemorrhage like a hungry pig at a trough.