The Dream's Thorn (219 page)

With
his bald-headed yogurt slinger slamming deep into my clearing in the woods, the
sensation of his thrill drill smashing my cervix made me quiver like Muhammad
Ali on a tumble dryer. The thrusting of my Mavis Fritter was so vigorous, he
soon found his jingle-jangle jewellery joining his wrist-thick wand deep in my
fudge factory. After having my frilling pink golf bag pounded, he then
proceeded to thrust my tradesman's entrance. The feeling of his cock custard
flowing down my throat got my spaff flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit.
He copped a giant butt nugget on my superdroopers just so he could devour it up
like a pig at a trough. Now, I've seen more helmets than Hitler, but the sight
of his tenderloin truncheon made my fallopian fish stock froth like a slavering
dog. I awoke the next morning with my hot pocket still leaching. I thought it
was over but his Nelson's Column had other ideas. It was bliss having his womb
raider shoved inside me again; stuffing my cock holster with a number of
chillies just didn't get my meat purse flowing like it used to. The seemingly
never-ending streams of ectoplasm emanating from his greasy slimelight soon had
me coated like a plasterer's radio. Inserting a 9-iron into my south mouth got
me squirting vertical moisture faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel.
Hours of thrusting like this would leave any girl's clap flaps looking like a
blind cobbler's thumb, and I was no different! The thrusting makes me spray my
beige slime all over his all-beef thermometer. I can't wait to lap the
gentleman's relish from his battering ram. He munched on my beef curtains, even
though I'd been riding the cotton pony for the best part of a week. My throat
was so full of cheese-crusted cock and cock snot, the Da Vinci load was flowing
down my chin and onto my top bollocks. The mixture of colon cobra and ectoplasm
in my cocoa channel created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. My
bearded haddock pasty was trembling like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery.
With my piss flaps now much like a darts team's goalkeeper, he thought it was
time to start probing my rusty sherif's badge. Is now the time to tell him I
really need to launch a colon cobra, I wondered? When he removed his timed
slimer from my brown mile, he was pleasantly surprised to see a toilet twinkie
staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to gobble the butt nugget off his
ramrod. The unrelenting orgasms from his purple beaver buster pounding my
depravity cavity made me come so hard, I began sweating like a midget nun at a
penguin shoot. By now, my chamber of squelch was sliming like Wayne Rooney's
dick in an OAP home. There was creamy load slobbering from his wensleydale wand
and I was wetter than an Italian cruise ship. We were ready for more. Some
girls are happy just to audition the finger puppets when they're alone, but I
can't get off without having a barbie doll in my vaginal bacon buffet and a
number of chillies up my cocoa channel. If I don't play the clitar to get my
tuna tunnel tears dripping from my depravity cavity, his stilton sword is going
to leave my flappy meal resembling a twisted slipper. Within no time, I could
feel the shitty man fat flowing from my black hole and all over my flappy meal.

With
my vertical smile now much like a bulldog licking piss from a thistle, he
thought it was time to start ramming my cocoa channel. Is now the time to tell
him I really need to drop a footlong fudge bullet, I wondered? My moose knuckle
was trembling like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. He eased out a giant colon
cobra on my tatas just so he could chow down on it up like a hungry hungry
hippo. After having my calamari cockring thrusted, he then proceeded to slam my
turd cutter. It was bliss having his chubstep slid inside me again; stuffing my
mound of love pudding with a lightbulb just didn't get my soft-shelled tuna
taco spouting like it used to. The hammering makes me pour my minge monsoon all
over his meaty member. Hours of pounding like this would leave any girl's panty
hamster looking like a ripped out fireplace, and I was no different! The
unrelenting orgasms from his jade rod fucking my gaping clam cavern made me
come so hard, I began sweating like a paedo during a prison riot. Within no
time, I could feel the shitty baby gravy weeping from my puckered brown eye and
all over my velcro triangle. There was Da Vinci load dribbling from his stilton
spear and I was wetter than a bathmaid's elbow. We were ready for more. Now,
I've seen more foreskins than a rabbi during a baby boom, but the sight of his
vein cane made my pussy batter leach like a rabid dog. Inserting an egg timer
into my ruby cave got me flooding tuna tunnel tears faster than snot off a
whip. The hammering of my tradesman's entrance was so vigorous, he soon found
his wrecking balls joining his skin flute deep in my Mavis Fritter. He munched
on my panty hamster, even though I'd been riding the cotton pony for the best
part of a week. With his slut slayer slamming deep into my ground zero grotto,
the sensation of his womb raider smashing my cervix made me quake like Vanessa
Feltz's diesel-powered vibrator. The feeling of his love piss foaming down my
throat got my pussy batter flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny
shovel. When he removed his purple beaver buster from my shit winker, he was pleasantly
surprised to see a sewer trout staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to
consume the toilet twinkie off his turgid terror truncheon. By now, my quim was
slobbering like a broken fridge freezer. I can't wait to devour the man fat
from his throbbing quim dagger. I awoke the next morning with my clunge pool
still dripping. I thought it was over but his tenderloin truncheon had other
ideas. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my
worries as his womb ferret probed deeper into my poo pipe. The seemingly
never-ending streams of ectoplasm emanating from his tenderloin truncheon soon
had me coated like a plasterer's radio. Some girls are happy just to strum the
banjo when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a 9-iron in my
wunder down under and a gerbil up my rusty sherif's badge. The mixture of
corn-eyed butt snake and love piss in my soft tight anus created the delicious
rectal stew that he was so fond of. My cake hole was so full of ramrod and
penis pudding, the penis pudding was leaking down my chin and onto my
superdroopers.

It
was bliss having his balony pony stuffed inside me again; stuffing my smush
mitten with a 15" spiked vibrator just didn't get my chlamydia canal
flooding like it used to. With his purple-headed trouser snake hammering deep
into my gaping clam cavern, the sensation of his gristle missile smashing my
cervix made me quiver like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. My mouth was
so full of batter blaster and man fat, the creamy load was oozing down my chin
and onto my top bollocks. The feeling of his cock snot sliming down my throat
got my tuna tunnel tears flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. The
unrelenting orgasms from his cervix cigar pounding my calamari cockring made me
come so hard, I began sweating like a paedo during a prison riot. The mixture
of stink pickle and magician's wax in my brown eye created the delicious
sphincter sauce that he was so fond of. My ground zero grotto was trembling
like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. Inserting a number of chillies into my
slime hole got me flooding minge monsoon faster than snot off a whip. If I
don't finger blast to get my beige slime haemorrhaging from my cum dumpster,
his veiny quim prod is going to leave my furburger resembling a ripped out
fireplace. Some girls are happy just to study english cliterature when they're
alone, but I can't get off without having a lightbulb in my soft-shelled tuna
taco and a 9-iron up my poo pipe. There was man fat foaming from his
spunk-filled spam rocket and I was wetter than an Italian cruise ship. We were
ready for more. Hours of slamming like this would leave any girl's hairy goblet
looking like a twisted slipper, and I was no different! Now, I've seen more
action than Helmand Province, but the sight of his skeleton king made my minge
monsoon leach like someone had poured fairy liquid into Niagara Falls. He
crowned a giant hardened fudge nugget on my top bollocks just so he could
gobble it up like a hungry hungry hippo. With my open-faced ham sandwich now
much like Brian May's plughole, he thought it was time to start ramming my old
dirt road. Is now the time to tell him I really need to pitch a colon cobra, I
wondered? The thrusting of my rusty sherif's badge was so vigorous, he soon
found his scroto baggins joining his jebend deep in my poo pipe. When he
removed his battering ram from my rusty bullet hole, he was pleasantly
surprised to see a colon cobra staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to
chow down on the toilet twinkie off his chorizo howitzer. By now, my vaginal
bacon buffet was slobbering like a jizz waterfall. The seemingly never-ending
streams of steamin' semen emanating from his balony pony soon had me coated
like a plasterer's radio. I can't wait to suck the ectoplasm from his bugger
king. He munched on my furburger, even though I'd had Aunt Flo visiting for the
best part of a week. The raiding makes me surge my fallopian fish stock all
over his meaty member. After having my split peach fucked, he then proceeded to
thrust my brown eye. I awoke the next morning with my sperm socket still
foaming. I thought it was over but his clunger had other ideas. Leaving my
panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his skeleton
king shoved deeper into my balloon knot.

The
mixture of Mr. Hanky and Da Vinci load in my rusty bullet hole created the
delicious sphincter sauce that he was so fond of. The unrelenting orgasms from
his balony pony fucking my meat purse made me come so hard, I began sweating
like a gypsy with a mortgage. My depravity cavity was trembling like Muhammad
Ali on a tumble dryer. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the
least of my worries as his love lollipop shoved deeper into my fudge factory.
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 chlamydia canal and a
15" spiked vibrator up my fart valve. Within no time, I could feel the
shitty man fat frothing from my black hole and all over my beef curtains. After
having my calamari cockring plowed, he then proceeded to fuck my Mavis Fritter.
My throat was so full of cervix cigar and cock snot, the cock custard was
seeping down my chin and onto my chesticles. He munched on my hairy goblet,
even though I'd had my redwings for the best part of a week. The pounding makes
me eject my minge monsoon all over his all-beef thermometer. I can't wait to
devour the magician's wax from his blue-veined custard chucker. By now, my meat
purse was weeping like Augustus Gloop's mouth at the sight of Willy Wonka's
chocolate river. The seemingly never-ending streams of gentleman's relish
emanating from his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon soon had me coated like a
plasterer's radio. He arced a giant colon cobra on my fiery biscuits just so he
could gobble it up like a pig at a trough. There was Da Vinci load
haemorrhaging from his all-beef thermometer and I was wetter than a bathmaid's
elbow. We were ready for more. When he removed his batter blaster from my Mavis
Fritter, he was pleasantly surprised to see a Mr. Hanky staring back as him. He
knew I couldn't wait to consume the footlong fudge bullet off his spunk-filled
spam rocket. The feeling of his creamy load slobbering down my throat got my
flange custard flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. Inserting
a number of chillies into my ground zero grotto got me surging tuna tunnel
tears faster than snot off a whip. Hours of fucking like this would leave any
girl's lunchmeat looking like a ripped out fireplace, and I was no different!
With my panty hamster now much like a bulldog licking piss from a thistle, he
thought it was time to start shoving my old dirt road. Is now the time to tell
him I really need to cop a sewer trout, I wondered? The hammering of my Oxo
orifice was so vigorous, he soon found his sperm factories joining his
wrist-thick wand deep in my vintage golf bag. Now, I've been told the sperm
bank will accept my spit, but the sight of his stilton spear made my beige
slime seep like there was a midget inside me with a super soaker. I awoke the
next morning with my wunder down under still dribbling. I thought it was over
but his wrist-thick wand had other ideas. With his purple beaver buster
pounding deep into my herring hole, the sensation of his slut slayer smashing
my cervix made me quiver like a shitting dog. It was bliss having his love
lollipop stuffed inside me again; stuffing my cock holster with a number of
chillies just didn't get my south mouth squirting like it used to.

After
having my whispering eye hammered, he then proceeded to pound my mud flap.
There was penis pudding weeping from his cervix cigar and I was wetter than an
Italian cruise ship. We were ready for more. With my furburger now much like a
sand blasted tomato, he thought it was time to start stuffing my other vagina.
Is now the time to tell him I really need to blast a colon cobra, I wondered?
The unrelenting orgasms from his piss pipe plowing my herring hole made me come
so hard, I began sweating like a midget nun at a penguin shoot. Hours of thrusting
like this would leave any girl's lunchmeat looking like badly battered road
kill, and I was no different! The seemingly never-ending streams of cock
custard emanating from his battering ram soon had me coated like a plasterer's
radio. The pounding of my turd cutter was so vigorous, he soon found his
jingle-jangle jewellery joining his brie baton deep in my Mavis Fritter. My
throat was so full of balony pony and love mayonnaise, the creamy load was
sliming down my chin and onto my tatas. My cod crater was trembling like jelly.
He munched on my roast beef platter, even though I'd been up on bricks for the
best part of a week. When he removed his womb raider from my poo pipe, he was
pleasantly surprised to see a sewer trout staring back as him. He knew I couldn't
wait to lap the colon cobra off his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus. By
now, my birth cannon was dripping like someone had poured fairy liquid into
Niagara Falls. Inserting a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster into my
wizards sleeve got me spouting vertical moisture faster than a greased weasel
shit. He arced a giant stink pickle on my fiery biscuits just so he could suck
it up like a pig at a trough. Now, I've taken more poundings than the Somme,
but the sight of his all-beef thermometer made my shrimp sap froth like a leaky
tap. Some girls are happy just to tune the tuna when they're alone, but I can't
get off without having a barbie doll in my vibration station and a 10 inch
purple battery-operated monster up my poop chute. It was bliss having his piss
pipe rammed inside me again; stuffing my gashtray with a barbie doll just
didn't get my cod canyon flowing like it used to. Leaving my panties sunny side
up on the floor was the least of my worries as his cervix cigar plunged deeper
into my old dirt road. If I don't flick the bean to get my flange custard
foaming from my tampon tunnel, his greasy kebab skewer is going to leave my
lunchmeat resembling a clown's pocket. The raiding makes me spritz my sex wee
all over his cheese-crusted cock. I can't wait to chow down on the cock custard
from his jebend. Within no time, I could feel the shitty magician's wax
dripping from my rusty sherif's badge and all over my roast beef platter. The
feeling of his cock custard leaking down my throat got my flange custard
flowing quicker than snot off a whip. With his pink tractor beam slamming deep
into my Quimcy, M.E., the sensation of his slut slayer smashing my cervix made
me quake like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. I awoke the next morning with my
slime hole still flowing. I thought it was over but his cunt stretcher had
other ideas.