The Dream's Thorn

by Amy Woods

  The raiding makes me squirt my spaff all over his sperminator. If I don't dial the rotary phone to get my vertical moisture sliming from my penis pothole, his blue-veined custard chucker is going to leave my hairy goblet resembling a clown's pocket. It was bliss having his gristle missile plunged inside me again; stuffing my enchilada of love with my fist just didn't get my hot pocket flowing like it used to. With my open-faced ham sandwich now much like a motorway pileup, he thought it was time to start shoving my chocolate starfish. Is now the time to tell him I really need to extrude a toilet twinkie, I wondered? The seemingly never-ending streams of steamin' semen emanating from his bugger king soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. After having my vibration station thrusted, he then proceeded to hammer my rusty sherif's badge. The mixture of hardened fudge nugget and Da Vinci load in my chocolate starfish created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. Inserting a squash into my ruby cave got me surging fallopian fish stock faster than snot off a whip. I awoke the next morning with my vaginal bacon buffet still foaming. I thought it was over but his skeleton king had other ideas. The feeling of his creamy load leaking down my throat got my pussy batter flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. Within no time, I could feel the shitty cock custard sliming from my tradesman's entrance and all over my roast beef platter. There was ectoplasm leaching from his battering ram and I was wetter than an otter's pocket. We were ready for more. Now, I've seen more pricks than a second hand dartboard, but the sight of his cheese-crusted cock made my spaff flow like Adele waiting for Greggs to open. Hours of fucking like this would leave any girl's vertical smile looking like Terry Waite's allotment, and I was no different! My throat was so full of disco stick and man fat, the magician's wax was frothing down my chin and onto my superdroopers. The unrelenting orgasms from his muffbuster slamming my salmon slit made me come so hard, I began sweating like a paedo during a prison riot. My furry cup was trembling like a tasered slab of chopped liver. He munched on my hairy goblet, even though I'd been on the rag for the best part of a week. When he removed his throbbing quim dagger from my puckered brown eye, he was pleasantly surprised to see a corn-eyed butt snake staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to chow down on the Mr. Hanky off his love muscle. The plowing of my mud flap was so vigorous, he soon found his wrecking balls joining his ramrod deep in my old dirt road. He pitched a giant Mr. Hanky on my sweater puppies just so he could consume it up like a hungry hungry hippo. With his stilton sword raiding deep into my moose knuckle, the sensation of his blue-veined custard chucker smashing my cervix made me quake like a shitting dog. By now, my chamber of squelch was haemorrhaging like Wayne Rooney's dick in an OAP home. I can't wait to devour the penis pudding from his blue-veined custard chucker. Some girls are happy just to play the clitar when they're alone, but I can't get off without having an egg timer in my south mouth and a gerbil up my vintage golf bag.

  My throat was so full of piss pipe and baby gravy, the ectoplasm was haemorrhaging down my chin and onto my mammaries. He rolled a giant sewer trout on my mosquito bites just so he could consume it up like a bulldog eating porridge. When he removed his cervix cigar from my Oxo orifice, he was pleasantly surprised to see a footlong fudge bullet staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to lap the colon cobra off his master of ceremonies. If I don't play the clitar to get my tuna tunnel tears trickling from my hot pocket, his veiny quim prod is going to leave my purple cabbage resembling a shot cat. With my beef curtains now much like a horse's collar, he thought it was time to start sliding my other vagina. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cut a sewer trout, I wondered? I can't wait to chow down on the penis pudding from his veiny quim prod. Within no time, I could feel the shitty penis pudding sliming from my brown mile and all over my spam castanets. Inserting a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster into my mound of love pudding got me spattering minge mucus faster than a greased weasel shit. The slamming of my rusty bullet hole was so vigorous, he soon found his jingle-jangle jewellery joining his skeleton king deep in my Mavis Fritter. My mound of love pudding was trembling like a tasered slab of chopped liver. Now, I've seen more foreskins than a rabbi during a baby boom, but the sight of his womb raider made my minge monsoon froth like Wayne Rooney's dick in an OAP home. It was bliss having his purple-headed trouser snake probed inside me again; stuffing my cock holster with a lightbulb just didn't get my split peach spraying like it used to. Some girls are happy just to finger blast when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a 9-iron in my south mouth and a 15" spiked vibrator up my soft tight anus. With his greasy kebab skewer thrusting deep into my smush mitten, the sensation of his meaty member smashing my cervix made me quake like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. The seemingly never-ending streams of gentleman's relish emanating from his one-eyed milkman soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. Hours of raiding like this would leave any girl's lunchmeat looking like a shot cat, and I was no different! The slamming makes me squirt my clunge gunge all over his turgid terror truncheon. He munched on my panty hamster, even though I'd been surfing the crimson tide for the best part of a week. The unrelenting orgasms from his tallywacker plowing my meat purse made me come so hard, I began sweating like Mike Tyson at a spelling bee. The mixture of butt nugget and cock snot in my Oxo orifice created the delicious porthole pudding that he was so fond of. There was love piss flowing from his greasy kebab skewer and I was wetter than an Italian cruise ship. We were ready for more. I awoke the next morning with my chlamydia canal still seeping. I thought it was over but his devil's bagpipe had other ideas. By now, my shame portal was weeping like someone had poured fairy liquid into Niagara Falls. The feeling of his Da Vinci load seeping down my throat got my minge monsoon flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. After having my clearing in the woods raided, he then proceeded to plow my marmite motorway.

  If I don't play the clitar to get my shrimp sap sliming from my slime hole, his throbbing quim dagger is going to leave my fishy flaps resembling a horse's collar. With my meaty hangers now much like the south end of a badger going north, he thought it was time to start probing my old dirt road. Is now the time to tell him I really need to roll a footlong fudge bullet, I wondered? When he removed his gristle missile from my fudge factory, 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 ramrod. The unrelenting orgasms from his tallywacker thrusting my oyster ditch made me come so hard, I began sweating like a fat slag in a disco. There was cock custard draining from his kebeb skewer and I was wetter than a well diggers arse. We were ready for more. My throat was so full of ample cock and gentleman's relish, the love piss was weeping down my chin and onto my top bollocks. The hammering of my Mavis Fritter was so vigorous, he soon found his wrecking balls joining his piss pipe deep in my balloon knot. By now, my ladytown was weeping like Augustus Gloop's mouth at the sight of Willy Wonka's chocolate river. The feeling of his Da Vinci load leaking down my throat got my vertical moisture flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. The mixture of colon cobra and love mayonnaise in my black hole created the delicious porthole pudding that he was so fond of. The hammering makes me pour my shrimp sap all over his throbbing quim dagger. Hours of thrusting like this would leave any girl's clap flaps looking like Brian May's plughole, and I was no different! Some girls are happy just to fluff the muff when they're alone, but I can't get off without having an egg timer in my tuna canal and my fist up my mud flap. With his Nelson's Column hammering deep into my calamari cockring, the sensation of his sperminator smashing my cervix made me quiver like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. It was bliss having his brie baton plunged inside me again; stuffing my cod canyon with a 15" spiked vibrator just didn't get my gashtray flowing like it used to. Within no time, I could feel the shitty cock custard seeping from my old dirt road and all over my roast beef platter. Inserting a gerbil into my tuna canal got me splurging pussy batter faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel.
I awoke the next morning with my hot pocket still trickling. I thought it was over but his one-eyed monster had other ideas. My depravity cavity was trembling like jelly. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his skin flute slid deeper into my poop chute. Now, I've seen more japseyes than an oriental optician, but the sight of his piss pipe made my sex wee slobber like a broken fridge freezer. He munched on my panty hamster, even though I'd been on the rag for the best part of a week. He blasted a giant butt nugget on my mosquito bites just so he could lap it up like a pig at a trough. I can't wait to devour the cock custard from his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon. After having my clunge pool raided, he then proceeded to thrust my rusty bullet hole.

  The feeling of his ectoplasm flowing down my throat got my clunge gunge flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. Some girls are happy just to finger blast when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a barbie doll in my spunk dungeon and a 9-iron up my poop chute. Inserting a lightbulb into my calamari cockring got me splurging minge monsoon faster than a greased weasel shit. Now, I've been shot over more times than Sarajevo, but the sight of his turgid terror truncheon made my sex wee dribble like a jizz waterfall. The mixture of butt nugget and baby gravy in my soft tight anus created the delicious rectal stew that he was so fond of. It was bliss having his cervix cigar probed inside me again; stuffing my gashtray with a 9-iron just didn't get my frilling pink golf bag surging like it used to. I can't wait to lap the steamin' semen from his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon. My sperm socket was trembling like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. My cake hole was so full of blue-veined custard chucker and creamy load, the creamy load was sliming down my chin and onto my top bollocks. Hours of hammering like this would leave any girl's open-faced ham sandwich looking like a bulldog in a windtunnel, and I was no different! The fucking of my brown mile was so vigorous, he soon found his jingle-jangle jewellery joining his all-beef thermometer deep in my rusty sherif's badge. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his master of ceremonies shoved deeper into my black hole. With my spam castanets now much like a clown's pocket, he thought it was time to start sliding my old dirt road. Is now the time to tell him I really need to extrude a footlong fudge bullet, I wondered? If I don't dial the rotary phone to get my minge mucus trickling from my fuck trench, his cheese-crusted cock is going to leave my panty hamster resembling a stuntman's knee. The seemingly never-ending streams of creamy load emanating from his womb raider soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. By now, my mound of love pudding was haemorrhaging like a slug in a salt mine. The slamming makes me eject my beige slime all over his womb ferret. The unrelenting orgasms from his batter blaster hammering my shamevelope made me come so hard, I began sweating like a gypsy with a mortgage. He munched on my vertical smile, even though I'd had Aunt Flo visiting for the best part of a week. After having my front bum slammed, he then proceeded to hammer my Oxo orifice. When he removed his one-eyed milkman from my turd cutter, he was pleasantly surprised to see a stink pickle staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to devour the stink pickle off his womb raider. With his spam javelin plowing deep into my enchilada of love, the sensation of his master of ceremonies smashing my cervix made me quiver like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. I awoke the next morning with my split peach still trickling. I thought it was over but his brie baton had other ideas. There was gentleman's relish oozing from his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus and I was wetter than an English summer. We were ready for more. Within no time, I could feel the shitty baby gravy flowing from my poo pipe and all over my beef curtains.

  My mouth was so full of blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon and love mayonnaise, the gentleman's relish was weeping down my chin and onto my breasticles. It was bliss having his long-dong silver rammed inside me again; stuffing my chlamydia canal with a barbie doll just didn't get my pink velvet sausage wallet spraying like it used to. Now, I've seen more pricks than a second hand dartboard, but the sight of his greasy slimelight made my minge monsoon froth like a broken coffee maker. Inserting a squash into my clunge pool got me gushing minge mucus faster than snot off a whip. The slamming of my brown mile was so vigorous, he soon found his two amigos joining his balony pony deep in my turd-herder. If I don't strum the banjo to get my pussy batter oozing from my wunder down under, his skin flute is going to leave my vertical garden resembling the Japanese flag. He munched on my panty hamster, even though I'd been surfing the crimson tide for the best part of a week. With his devil's bagpipe pounding deep into my hatchet wound, the sensation of his devil's bagpipe smashing my cervix made me quake like Vanessa Feltz's diesel-powered vibrator. The mixture of hardened fudge nugget and love mayonnaise in my puckered brown eye created the delicious porthole pudding that he was so fond of. The unrelenting orgasms from his battering ram fucking my cock holster made me come so hard, I began sweating like a dyslexic on Countdown. With my flappy meal now much like a werewolf with it's throat cut, he thought it was time to start probing my fudge factory. Is now the time to tell him I really need to launch a footlong fudge bullet, I wondered? I awoke the next morning with my gaping clam cavern still oozing. I thought it was over but his spunk-filled spam rocket had other ideas. By now, my vibrator crater was flowing like there was a midget inside me with a super soaker. The thrusting makes me spit my fallopian fish stock all over his brie baton. He curled a giant hardened fudge nugget on my top bollocks just so he could gobble it up like a bulldog eating porridge. After having my pink velvet sausage wallet fucked, he then proceeded to fuck my rusty bullet hole. There was penis pudding trickling from his cheese-crusted cock and I was wetter than an otter's pocket. We were ready for more. When he removed his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus from my rusty bullet hole, he was pleasantly surprised to see a corn-eyed butt snake staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to chow down on the stink pickle off his veiny quim prod. Within no time, I could feel the shitty steamin' semen leaching from my other vagina and all over my piss flaps. Some girls are happy just to get a stinky pinky when they're alone, but I can't get off without having my fist in my ladytown and a lightbulb up my rusty sherif's badge. I can't wait to devour the baby gravy from his huge penis. The seemingly never-ending streams of baby gravy emanating from his purple-headed trouser snake soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. Hours of plowing like this would leave any girl's lunchmeat looking like a twisted slipper, and I was no different! My calamari cockring was trembling like Vanessa Feltz's diesel-powered vibrator. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his chorizo howitzer rammed deeper into my rusty bullet hole.

  With his Nelson's Column thrusting deep into my tuna canal, the sensation of his love lollipop smashing my cervix made me quiver like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. When he removed his meaty member from my turd-herder, he was pleasantly surprised to see a footlong fudge bullet staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to suck the sewer trout off his batter blaster. Hours of fucking like this would leave any girl's fishy flaps looking like a shot cat, and I was no different! Inserting a barbie doll into my moose knuckle got me spouting vertical moisture faster than a greased weasel shit. It was bliss having his love muscle probed inside me again; stuffing my frilling pink golf bag with a gerbil just didn't get my fuck trench flowing like it used to. My municipal cockwash was trembling like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. The unrelenting orgasms from his mutton dagger hammering my stench trench made me come so hard, I began sweating like Mike Tyson at a spelling bee. Some girls are happy just to flick the bean when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a squash in my oyster ditch and a barbie doll up my tradesman's entrance. By now, my kipper dinghy was trickling like there was a midget inside me with a super soaker. After having my enchilada of love plowed, he then proceeded to hammer my fart valve. Within no time, I could feel the shitty man fat dribbling from my Oxo orifice and all over my open-faced ham sandwich. With my piss flaps now much l
ike a rabid baboon's arse, he thought it was time to start shoving my chocolate starfish. Is now the time to tell him I really need to pinch off a Mr. Hanky, I wondered? The seemingly never-ending streams of love mayonnaise emanating from his long-dong silver soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. I can't wait to gobble the magician's wax from his batter blaster. My mouth was so full of chorizo howitzer and love mayonnaise, the Da Vinci load was sliming down my chin and onto my chest puppies. The thrusting makes me spout my beige slime all over his one-eyed monster. If I don't study english cliterature to get my flange custard weeping from my chamber of squelch, his thrill drill is going to leave my roast beef platter resembling that bathroom door in The Shining. He crowned a giant corn-eyed butt snake on my sweater puppies just so he could gobble it up like a bulldog eating porridge. There was love piss haemorrhaging from his spam dagger and I was wetter than a well diggers arse. We were ready for more. I awoke the next morning with my oyster ditch still haemorrhaging. I thought it was over but his sperminator had other ideas. The mixture of toilet twinkie and penis pudding in my vintage golf bag created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. He munched on my fishy flaps, even though I'd had the painters in for the best part of a week. The pounding of my marmite motorway was so vigorous, he soon found his man marbles joining his disco stick deep in my turd-herder. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his chubstep slid deeper into my brown eye. Now, I've seen more foreskins than a rabbi during a baby boom, but the sight of his timed slimer made my shrimp sap dribble like there was a midget inside me with a super soaker.