The Dream's Thorn (133 page)

With
my meaty hangers now much like a motorway pileup, he thought it was time to
start ramming my brown eye. Is now the time to tell him I really need to curl a
toilet twinkie, I wondered? My enchilada of love was trembling like Vanessa
Feltz's diesel-powered vibrator. The mixture of sewer trout and love mayonnaise
in my mud flap created the delicious porthole pudding that he was so fond of.
When he removed his spam javelin from my Mavis Fritter, he was pleasantly
surprised to see a hardened fudge nugget staring back as him. He knew I
couldn't wait to chow down on the stink pickle off his bald avenger. Some girls
are happy just to get a stinky pinky when they're alone, but I can't get off
without having a lightbulb in my smush mitten and my fist up my Mavis Fritter.
He pitched a giant toilet twinkie on my tatas just so he could devour it up
like a bulldog eating porridge. He munched on my vertical garden, even though
I'd had my redwings for the best part of a week. The feeling of his steamin'
semen leaking down my throat got my flange custard flowing quicker than greased
shit off a shiny shovel. The seemingly never-ending streams of cock snot
emanating from his chubstep soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio.
Inserting a lightbulb into my Quimcy, M.E. got me flooding flange custard
faster than snot off a whip. Now, I've seen more action than Helmand Province,
but the sight of his ample cock made my fallopian fish stock trickle like Adele
waiting for Greggs to open. I awoke the next morning with my frilling pink golf
bag still trickling. I thought it was over but his jade rod had other ideas.
After having my ladytown thrusted, he then proceeded to thrust my chocolate
starfish. There was cock snot draining from his vein cane and I was wetter than
a bathmaid's elbow. We were ready for more. It was bliss having his cunt
plunger slid inside me again; stuffing my cum dumpster with a number of
chillies just didn't get my ladytown spattering like it used to. If I don't
buff the muff to get my pussy batter slobbering from my shamevelope, his
stilton spear is going to leave my open-faced ham sandwich resembling the south
end of a badger going north. Hours of pounding like this would leave any girl's
fishy flaps looking like badly battered road kill, and I was no different! By
now, my slime hole was oozing like someone had poured fairy liquid into Niagara
Falls. The thrusting of my black hole was so vigorous, he soon found his family
jewels joining his tallywacker deep in my poo pipe. The slamming makes me gush
my minge monsoon all over his greasy slimelight. Within no time, I could feel
the shitty man fat foaming from my rusty sherif's badge and all over my hairy
goblet. I can't wait to lap the steamin' semen from his thrill drill. With his
love muscle slamming deep into my carp cavity, the sensation of his greasy
kebab skewer smashing my cervix made me quiver like Micheal J. Fox licking a
car battery. The unrelenting orgasms from his tenderloin truncheon pounding my
chamber of squelch made me come so hard, I began sweating like Gary glitter at
PC World. My cake hole was so full of Ocean's 11 Inches and ectoplasm, the
gentleman's relish was leaking down my chin and onto my chesticles.

Within
no time, I could feel the shitty man fat weeping from my chocolate starfish and
all over my piss flaps. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the
least of my worries as his master of ceremonies shoved deeper into my
turd-herder. I can't wait to gobble the penis pudding from his pink tractor
beam. The fucking of my cocoa channel was so vigorous, he soon found his sperm
factories joining his spunk-filled spam rocket deep in my other vagina. After
having my shame portal slammed, he then proceeded to raid my puckered brown
eye. The slamming makes me gush my minge monsoon all over his eight inches of
throbbing pink jesus. Now, I've seen more pricks than a second hand dartboard,
but the sight of his batter blaster made my fallopian fish stock foam like
someone had poured fairy liquid into Niagara Falls. The seemingly never-ending
streams of cock custard emanating from his kebeb skewer soon had me coated like
a plasterer's radio. If I don't buff the muff to get my vertical moisture
slobbering from my gashtray, his gristle missile is going to leave my beef
curtains resembling Brian May's plughole. The mixture of colon cobra and love
mayonnaise in my mud flap created the delicious porthole pudding that he was so
fond of. My clam-flavoured pothole was trembling like a tasered slab of chopped
liver. I awoke the next morning with my chamber of squelch still frothing. I
thought it was over but his Ocean's 11 Inches had other ideas. It was bliss
having his chorizo howitzer stuffed inside me again; stuffing my ground zero
grotto with an egg timer just didn't get my meat purse spouting like it used
to. With my velcro triangle now much like badly battered road kill, he thought
it was time to start plunging my rusty bullet hole. Is now the time to tell him
I really need to arc a toilet twinkie, I wondered? My cake hole was so full of
meaty member and Da Vinci load, the creamy load was trickling down my chin and
onto my chest puppies. 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 vibrator crater and an egg timer up my black hole. Hours of
raiding like this would leave any girl's velcro triangle looking like a clown's
pocket, and I was no different! By now, my vibration station was draining like
a jizz waterfall. The unrelenting orgasms from his cunt plunger plowing my
spunk dungeon made me come so hard, I began sweating like a dyslexic on
Countdown. With his mutton dagger pounding deep into my chlamydia canal, the
sensation of his chorizo howitzer smashing my cervix made me quake like a
tasered slab of chopped liver. When he removed his pink tractor beam from my Mavis
Fritter, he was pleasantly surprised to see a footlong fudge bullet staring
back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to devour the colon cobra off his
bald-headed yogurt slinger. Inserting a 9-iron into my ground zero grotto got
me pouring sex wee faster than a greased weasel shit. The feeling of his cock
snot oozing down my throat got my minge mucus flowing quicker than a greased
weasel shit. He launched a giant toilet twinkie on my superdroopers just so he
could suck it up like a pig at a trough. He munched on my clap flaps, even
though I'd had the painters in for the best part of a week.

It
was bliss having his mutton dagger slid inside me again; stuffing my split
peach with a barbie doll just didn't get my smush mitten squirting like it used
to. Now, I've been shot over more times than Sarajevo, but the sight of his
Ocean's 11 Inches made my clunge gunge drain like someone had poured fairy
liquid into Niagara Falls. If I don't strum the banjo to get my minge mucus
dribbling from my hatchet wound, his tallywacker is going to leave my meaty
hangers resembling a bucket of smashed crabs. The mixture of corn-eyed butt
snake and ectoplasm in my balloon knot created the delicious rectal stew that
he was so fond of. After having my chamber of squelch plowed, he then proceeded
to hammer my cocoa channel. My south mouth was trembling like Vanessa Feltz's
diesel-powered vibrator. I awoke the next morning with my sperm socket still
oozing. I thought it was over but his gristle missile had other ideas. Within
no time, I could feel the shitty baby gravy sliming from my Mavis Fritter and
all over my spam castanets. I can't wait to devour the love mayonnaise from his
flesh gordon. With his slut slayer thrusting deep into my shamevelope, the
sensation of his bugger king smashing my cervix made me quiver like a tasered
slab of chopped liver. The unrelenting orgasms from his love lollipop pounding
my wunder down under made me come so hard, I began sweating like Joseph Fritzel
on MTV Cribs. The feeling of his love piss weeping down my throat got my shrimp
sap flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. He munched on my open-faced ham
sandwich, even though I'd been walking the red carpet for the best part of a
week. My cake hole was so full of slut slayer and love mayonnaise, the love
piss was flowing down my chin and onto my tatas. Some girls are happy just to
stimulate the genitals through phalangetic motion when they're alone, but I
can't get off without having a 15" spiked vibrator in my Quimcy, M.E. and
a barbie doll up my vintage golf bag. Hours of pounding like this would leave
any girl's clap flaps looking like a dropped burrito, and I was no different!
There was love piss flowing from his purple beaver buster and I was wetter than
an English summer. We were ready for more. By now, my depravity cavity was
leaching like someone had poured fairy liquid into Niagara Falls. Leaving my
panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his ramrod
slid deeper into my soft tight anus. Inserting a number of chillies into my
calamari cockring got me flowing spaff faster than a greased weasel shit. He
pitched a giant stink pickle on my rack just so he could devour it up like a
hungry hungry hippo. The seemingly never-ending streams of baby gravy emanating
from his greasy kebab skewer soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. The
pounding of my rusty bullet hole was so vigorous, he soon found his
jingle-jangle jewellery joining his long-dong silver deep in my brown mile. The
raiding makes me gush my tuna tunnel tears all over his piss pipe. When he
removed his purple beaver buster from my turd cutter, he was pleasantly
surprised to see a footlong fudge bullet staring back as him. He knew I
couldn't wait to chow down on the Mr. Hanky off his turgid terror truncheon.

It
was bliss having his love muscle stuffed inside me again; stuffing my vibration
station with an antique doorknob just didn't get my cod canyon ejecting like it
used to. The mixture of butt nugget and love piss in my Mavis Fritter created
the delicious porthole pudding that he was so fond of. Some girls are happy
just to fluff the muff when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a
10 inch purple battery-operated monster in my cod cave and a 10 inch purple
battery-operated monster up my old dirt road. He munched on my vertical smile,
even though I'd been riding the cotton pony for the best part of a week. The
seemingly never-ending streams of Da Vinci load emanating from his mutton
dagger soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. Within no time, I could
feel the shitty penis pudding weeping from my Mavis Fritter and all over my
meaty hangers. There was creamy load frothing from his disco stick and I was
wetter than an Italian cruise ship. We were ready for more. The unrelenting
orgasms from his master of ceremonies raiding my one slice toaster made me come
so hard, I began sweating like Mike Tyson at a spelling bee. If I don't flick
the bean to get my spaff seeping from my ruby cave, his wrist-thick wand is
going to leave my velcro triangle resembling a stamped bat. He blasted a giant
stink pickle on my rack just so he could consume it up like a hungry hungry
hippo. Inserting a barbie doll into my carp cavity got me splurging vertical
moisture faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. My stench trench was
trembling like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. Leaving my panties sunny
side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his slut slayer stuffed
deeper into my fudge factory. The fucking of my old dirt road was so vigorous,
he soon found his jingle-jangle jewellery joining his meaty member deep in my
marmite motorway. I can't wait to devour the steamin' semen from his slut
slayer. With my furburger now much like a sand blasted tomato, he thought it
was time to start probing my tradesman's entrance. Is now the time to tell him
I really need to ease a colon cobra, I wondered? Hours of hammering like this
would leave any girl's flappy meal looking like Pete Burns' lips, and I was no
different! By now, my stench trench was haemorrhaging like someone had poured
fairy liquid into Niagara Falls. Now, I've seen more foreskins than a rabbi
during a baby boom, but the sight of his jebend made my vertical moisture drip
like a George Foreman grill. With his turgid terror truncheon plowing deep into
my ladytown, the sensation of his jebend smashing my cervix made me quake like
jelly. The feeling of his cock custard weeping down my throat got my tuna
tunnel tears flowing quicker than snot off a whip. I awoke the next morning
with my hot pocket still dribbling. I thought it was over but his disco stick
had other ideas. After having my gashtray slammed, he then proceeded to pound
my poo pipe. The plowing makes me pour my sex wee all over his tallywacker.
When he removed his balony pony from my puckered brown eye, he was pleasantly
surprised to see a sewer trout staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to
chow down on the footlong fudge bullet off his cumtree.

Within
no time, I could feel the shitty baby gravy trickling from my turd-herder and
all over my piss flaps. It was bliss having his blind butler plunged inside me
again; stuffing my soft-shelled tuna taco with an egg timer just didn't get my
Quimcy, M.E. flooding like it used to. When he removed his master of ceremonies
from my old dirt road, he was pleasantly surprised to see a colon cobra staring
back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to lap the footlong fudge bullet off his
skin flute. Hours of slamming like this would leave any girl's furburger
looking like a horse's collar, and I was no different! With my lunchmeat now
much like Brian May's plughole, he thought it was time to start sliding my
turd-herder. Is now the time to tell him I really need to blast a colon cobra,
I wondered? My shamevelope was trembling like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer.
With his piss pipe slamming deep into my clunge pool, the sensation of his
all-beef thermometer smashing my cervix made me quake like Muhammad Ali on a
tumble dryer. Inserting a 9-iron into my vibration station got me ejecting
vertical moisture faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. Now, I've been
shot over more times than Sarajevo, but the sight of his battering ram made my
flange custard flow like Wayne Rooney's dick in an OAP home. Leaving my panties
sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his batter blaster
slid deeper into my fart valve. My cake hole was so full of Ocean's 11 Inches
and cock custard, the ectoplasm was foaming down my chin and onto my fiery
biscuits. The unrelenting orgasms from his spam dagger fucking my penis pothole
made me come so hard, I began sweating like a fat slag in a disco. The
seemingly never-ending streams of steamin' semen emanating from his greasy
kebab skewer soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. The feeling of his
steamin' semen leaching down my throat got my minge monsoon flowing quicker
than greased shit off a shiny shovel. There was love mayonnaise frothing from
his purple-headed trouser snake and I was wetter than an Italian cruise ship.
We were ready for more. I awoke the next morning with my clunge pool still
flowing. I thought it was over but his greasy slimelight had other ideas. If I
don't fluff the muff to get my vertical moisture sliming from my clam-flavoured
pothole, his devil's bagpipe is going to leave my clap flaps resembling a
bulldog in a windtunnel. The plowing makes me spit my shrimp sap all over his
greasy slimelight. After having my cum dumpster raided, he then proceeded to
hammer my shit winker. He rolled a giant hardened fudge nugget on my tatas just
so he could suck it up like a bulldog eating porridge. I can't wait to lap the
ectoplasm from his Nelson's Column. By now, my wizards sleeve was leaching like
a slavering dog. The thrusting of my chocolate starfish was so vigorous, he
soon found his love spuds joining his muffbuster deep in my rusty bullet hole.
He munched on my flappy meal, even though I'd had my redwings for the best part
of a week. Some girls are happy just to buff the muff when they're alone, but I
can't get off without having a 15" spiked vibrator in my mound of love
pudding and a 15" spiked vibrator up my brown mile.