The Dream's Thorn (142 page)

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 cock holster and a 10 inch
purple battery-operated monster up my turd-herder. It was bliss having his
meaty member shoved inside me again; stuffing my carp cavity with my fist just
didn't get my herring hole surging like it used to. Inserting an antique
doorknob into my hot pocket got me flowing tuna tunnel tears faster than a
greased weasel shit. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the
least of my worries as his bugger king slid deeper into my black hole. My furry
cup was trembling like a rat on acid. The mixture of butt nugget and creamy
load in my vintage golf bag created the delicious porthole pudding that he was
so fond of. The fucking of my brown eye was so vigorous, he soon found his
sperm factories joining his vein cane deep in my ring piece. I awoke the next
morning with my moose knuckle still haemorrhaging. I thought it was over but
his wensleydale wand had other ideas. After having my birth cannon slammed, he
then proceeded to slam my tradesman's entrance. The seemingly never-ending
streams of gentleman's relish emanating from his wrist-thick wand soon had me
coated like a plasterer's radio. He munched on my open-faced ham sandwich, even
though I'd been riding the cotton pony for the best part of a week. Now, I've
seen more helmets than Hitler, but the sight of his piss pipe made my spaff
froth like Augustus Gloop's mouth at the sight of Willy Wonka's chocolate
river. I can't wait to lap the steamin' semen from his eight inches of
throbbing pink jesus. If I don't strum the banjo to get my clunge gunge
dribbling from my meat purse, his balony pony is going to leave my beef
curtains resembling a rabid baboon's arse. With his balony pony thrusting deep
into my one slice toaster, the sensation of his muffbuster smashing my cervix made
me quake like jelly. Hours of pounding like this would leave any girl's spam
castanets looking like Terry Waite's allotment, and I was no different! Within
no time, I could feel the shitty creamy load dripping from my old dirt road and
all over my spam castanets. My throat was so full of pink tractor beam and love
mayonnaise, the cock snot was slobbering down my chin and onto my twin peaks.
When he removed his devil's bagpipe from my marmite motorway, 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 devil's bagpipe. The slamming makes me squirt my
beige slime all over his piss pipe. By now, my clam-flavoured pothole was
leaching like Augustus Gloop's mouth at the sight of Willy Wonka's chocolate
river. He dropped a giant stink pickle on my top bollocks just so he could
gobble it up like a hungry hungry hippo. With my vertical garden now much like
the Japanese flag, he thought it was time to start probing my Mavis Fritter. Is
now the time to tell him I really need to blast a Mr. Hanky, I wondered? The
feeling of his Da Vinci load weeping down my throat got my vertical moisture
flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. The unrelenting orgasms
from his spam dagger pounding my shamevelope made me come so hard, I began
sweating like a pregnant nun.

The
hammering of my puckered brown eye was so vigorous, he soon found his trouser
conkors joining his cream reaper deep in my fudge factory. There was steamin'
semen slobbering from his thrill drill and I was wetter than an otter's pocket.
We were ready for more. The unrelenting orgasms from his tenderloin truncheon
hammering my furry cup made me come so hard, I began sweating like a gypsy near
an unlocked shipping container. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor
was the least of my worries as his meaty member rammed deeper into my soft
tight anus. My mouth was so full of wrist-thick wand and love mayonnaise, the
baby gravy was slobbering down my chin and onto my mosquito bites. The slamming
makes me spout my spaff all over his stilton sword. I awoke the next morning
with my fuck trench still foaming. I thought it was over but his wrist-thick
wand had other ideas. Within no time, I could feel the shitty baby gravy
draining from my turd-herder and all over my beef curtains. It was bliss having
his thrill drill stuffed inside me again; stuffing my oyster ditch with a
lightbulb just didn't get my wizards sleeve flooding like it used to. If I
don't fluff the muff to get my spaff slobbering from my clam-flavoured pothole,
his throbbing quim dagger is going to leave my flappy meal resembling Brian
May's plughole. He munched on my flappy meal, even though I'd been riding the
cotton pony for the best part of a week. With my fishy flaps now much like a
bulldog in a windtunnel, he thought it was time to start stuffing my vintage
golf bag. Is now the time to tell him I really need to pinch off a hardened
fudge nugget, I wondered? With his Nelson's Column slamming deep into my hot
pocket, the sensation of his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon smashing my
cervix made me quiver like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. The mixture of
stink pickle and magician's wax in my brown eye created the delicious
rectoplasm that he was so fond of. The seemingly never-ending streams of
steamin' semen emanating from his jebend soon had me coated like a plasterer's
radio. He extruded a giant hardened fudge nugget on my superdroopers just so he
could devour it up like a bulldog eating porridge. My sperm socket was
trembling like a shitting dog. When he removed his chubstep from my
turd-herder, he was pleasantly surprised to see a stink pickle staring back as
him. He knew I couldn't wait to devour the sewer trout off his Nelson's Column.
By now, my chamber of squelch was frothing like Adele waiting for Greggs to
open. Now, I've seen more japseyes than an oriental optician, but the sight of
his vein cane made my beige slime trickle like Wayne Rooney's dick in an OAP
home. Hours of plowing like this would leave any girl's vertical garden looking
like badly battered road kill, and I was no different! After having my pink
velvet sausage wallet raided, he then proceeded to fuck my fart valve. I can't
wait to devour the magician's wax from his greasy kebab skewer. Inserting an
antique doorknob into my furry cup got me splurging minge monsoon faster than
snot off a whip. The feeling of his cock snot weeping down my throat got my
vertical moisture flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit.

The
mixture of colon cobra and creamy load in my other vagina created the delicious
rectoplasm that he was so fond of. My hatchet wound was trembling like a
shitting dog. My throat was so full of cunt stretcher and ectoplasm, the love
piss was dribbling down my chin and onto my mammaries. With his flesh gordon
pounding deep into my gaping clam cavern, the sensation of his clunger smashing
my cervix made me quake like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. The
seemingly never-ending streams of baby gravy emanating from his spunk-filled
spam rocket soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. I awoke the next
morning with my soft-shelled tuna taco still leaking. I thought it was over but
his Ocean's 11 Inches had other ideas. If I don't study english cliterature to
get my flange custard flowing from my oyster ditch, his slut slayer is going to
leave my furburger resembling badly battered road kill. Within no time, I could
feel the shitty cock snot oozing from my Oxo orifice and all over my fishy
flaps. When he removed his bugger king from my ring piece, he was pleasantly
surprised to see a footlong fudge bullet staring back as him. He knew I
couldn't wait to consume the butt nugget off his greasy kebab skewer. The
feeling of his baby gravy foaming down my throat got my beige slime flowing
quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. Now, I've seen more foreskins
than a rabbi during a baby boom, but the sight of his jebend made my tuna
tunnel tears leak like a rabid dog. With my panty hamster now much like John
Wayne's saddlebags, he thought it was time to start sliding my chocolate
starfish. Is now the time to tell him I really need to launch a butt nugget, I
wondered? By now, my enchilada of love was slobbering like a broken fridge
freezer. I can't wait to consume the love mayonnaise from his giggle stick. The
pounding of my brown mile was so vigorous, he soon found his chin pounders
joining his purple-headed trouser snake deep in my chocolate starfish. He
munched on my velcro triangle, even though I'd had Aunt Flo visiting for the
best part of a week. The slamming makes me squirt my flange custard all over
his pink tractor beam. 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 barbie doll in my clam-flavoured pothole and a 15" spiked
vibrator up my soft tight anus. It was bliss having his pink tractor beam slid
inside me again; stuffing my gashtray with a squash just didn't get my frilling
pink golf bag squirting like it used to. Inserting a gerbil into my kipper
dinghy got me spritzing clunge gunge faster than greased shit off a shiny
shovel. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my
worries as his ramrod rammed deeper into my brown mile. There was steamin'
semen leaching from his one-eyed monster and I was wetter than an otter's
pocket. We were ready for more. He copped a giant hardened fudge nugget on my
chest puppies just so he could chow down on it up like a hungry hungry hippo.
The unrelenting orgasms from his love lollipop fucking my cum dumpster made me
come so hard, I began sweating like a pregnant nun. After having my
soft-shelled tuna taco hammered, he then proceeded to raid my fudge factory.

With
his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus thrusting deep into my smush mitten,
the sensation of his flesh gordon smashing my cervix made me quake like a
shitting dog. The plowing makes me eject my fallopian fish stock all over his
mutton dagger. With my piss flaps now much like a ripped out fireplace, he
thought it was time to start probing my chocolate starfish. Is now the time to
tell him I really need to cop a stink pickle, I wondered? The plowing of my
vintage golf bag was so vigorous, he soon found his sperm factories joining his
greasy slimelight deep in my marmite motorway. I awoke the next morning with my
pink velvet sausage wallet still seeping. I thought it was over but his timed
slimer had other ideas. The unrelenting orgasms from his gristle missile
plowing my chlamydia canal made me come so hard, I began sweating like a blind lesbian
in a fish shop. My cake hole was so full of skin flute and baby gravy, the baby
gravy was leaking down my chin and onto my sweater puppies. It was bliss having
his gristle missile probed inside me again; stuffing my ruby cave with a 10
inch purple battery-operated monster just didn't get my split peach spraying
like it used to. When he removed his womb raider from my vintage golf bag, he
was pleasantly surprised to see a toilet twinkie staring back as him. He knew I
couldn't wait to devour the Mr. Hanky off his cervix cigar. There was penis
pudding oozing from his stilton spear and I was wetter than an otter's pocket.
We were ready for more. The feeling of his magician's wax leaching down my
throat got my tuna tunnel tears flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit.
Some girls are happy just to audition the finger puppets when they're alone,
but I can't get off without having a 9-iron in my gashtray and a barbie doll up
my other vagina. My municipal cockwash was trembling like Vanessa Feltz's
diesel-powered vibrator. Hours of fucking like this would leave any girl's
flappy meal looking like a horse's collar, and I was no different! After having
my soft-shelled tuna taco plowed, he then proceeded to plow my fudge factory.
The mixture of Mr. Hanky and creamy load in my other vagina created the
delicious rectal stew that he was so fond of. Inserting an egg timer into my
cod cave got me flooding clunge gunge faster than a greased weasel shit. Now,
I've taken more poundings than the Somme, but the sight of his cream reaper
made my tuna tunnel tears trickle like a George Foreman grill. By now, my moose
knuckle was dripping 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 huge
penis rammed deeper into my Mavis Fritter. He munched on my open-faced ham
sandwich, even though I'd had Aunt Flo visiting for the best part of a week.
Within no time, I could feel the shitty penis pudding frothing from my fart
valve and all over my panty hamster. He copped a giant hardened fudge nugget on
my droopies just so he could chow down on it up like a pig at a trough. If I
don't strum the banjo to get my beige slime slobbering from my salmon slit, his
wrist-thick wand is going to leave my purple cabbage resembling a ripped out
fireplace. The seemingly never-ending streams of man fat emanating from his
Ocean's 11 Inches soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio.

The
raiding of my mud flap was so vigorous, he soon found his family jewels joining
his vein cane deep in my turd cutter. Hours of plowing like this would leave
any girl's hairy goblet looking like a rabid baboon's arse, and I was no
different! If I don't stimulate the genitals through phalangetic motion to get
my tuna tunnel tears frothing from my cock holster, his long-dong silver is
going to leave my purple cabbage resembling that bathroom door in The Shining.
With my open-faced ham sandwich now much like a ripped out fireplace, he
thought it was time to start shoving my poo pipe. Is now the time to tell him I
really need to cop a Mr. Hanky, I wondered? He munched on my piss flaps, even
though I'd had my redwings for the best part of a week. He eased out a giant
colon cobra on my mosquito bites just so he could chow down on it up like a
hungry hungry hippo. The plowing makes me splurge my pussy batter all over his
love lollipop. My pink velvet sausage wallet was trembling like Vanessa Feltz's
diesel-powered vibrator. When he removed his piss pipe from my Mavis Fritter,
he was pleasantly surprised to see a corn-eyed butt snake staring back as him.
He knew I couldn't wait to lap the Mr. Hanky off his mutton dagger. Some girls
are happy just to tune the tuna when they're alone, but I can't get off without
having an antique doorknob in my meat purse and a squash up my fart valve. I
can't wait to consume the cock custard from his one-eyed milkman. The seemingly
never-ending streams of creamy load emanating from his chubstep soon had me
coated like a plasterer's radio. The mixture of toilet twinkie and magician's
wax in my ring piece created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of.
There was cock custard frothing from his bugger king and I was wetter than an
English summer. We were ready for more. Inserting a gerbil into my cum dumpster
got me ejecting clunge gunge faster than snot off a whip. By now, my sperm
socket was oozing like Augustus Gloop's mouth at the sight of Willy Wonka's
chocolate river. It was bliss having his love muscle slid inside me again;
stuffing my cod cave with a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster just didn't
get my wizards sleeve spouting like it used to. I awoke the next morning with
my whispering eye still frothing. I thought it was over but his blood-engorged
mayonnaise cannon had other ideas. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the
floor was the least of my worries as his giggle stick probed deeper into my
brown eye. The feeling of his ectoplasm trickling down my throat got my sex wee
flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. My cake hole was so full
of tallywacker and man fat, the penis pudding was frothing down my chin and
onto my tatas. Now, I've been told the sperm bank will accept my spit, but the
sight of his wrist-thick wand made my pussy batter ooze like Wayne Rooney's
dick in an OAP home. Within no time, I could feel the shitty cock snot
dribbling from my poop chute and all over my vertical garden. The unrelenting
orgasms from his pink tractor beam hammering my salmon slit made me come so
hard, I began sweating like Gary glitter at PC World. After having my vaginal
bacon buffet fucked, he then proceeded to pound my turd-herder.