The Dream's Thorn

by Amy Woods

  Inserting a 9-iron into my shame portal got me spraying shrimp sap faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. The mixture of toilet twinkie and love piss in my mud flap created the delicious porthole pudding that he was so fond of. Within no time, I could feel the shitty Da Vinci load weeping from my fart valve and all over my fishy flaps. It was bliss having his bald-headed yogurt slinger probed inside me again; stuffing my kipper dinghy with a lightbulb just didn't get my gashtray spattering like it used to. The feeling of his cock custard seeping down my throat got my minge mucus flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. Hours of fucking like this would leave any girl's clap flaps looking like a bulldog licking piss from a thistle, and I was no different! He munched on my hairy goblet, even though I'd had my redwings for the best part of a week. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his spunk-filled spam rocket probed deeper into my ring piece. With my panty hamster now much like a werewolf with it's throat cut, he thought it was time to start ramming my marmite motorway. Is now the time to tell him I really need to crown a footlong fudge bullet, I wondered? When he removed his cunt stretcher from my puckered brown eye, he was pleasantly surprised to see a butt nugget staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to suck the hardened fudge nugget off his chorizo howitzer. The unrelenting orgasms from his womb ferret raiding my smush mitten made me come so hard, I began sweating like Gary glitter at PC World. My mouth was so full of gristle missile and love piss, the magician's wax was oozing down my chin and onto my twin peaks. The seemingly never-ending streams of cock custard emanating from his jebend soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. With his womb ferret fucking deep into my gaping clam cavern, the sensation of his stilton spear smashing my cervix made me quake like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. The slamming makes me gush my minge monsoon all over his cream reaper. I awoke the next morning with my Quimcy, M.E. still oozing. I thought it was over but his timed slimer had other ideas. Some girls are happy just to get a stinky pinky when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a 15" spiked vibrator in my kipper dinghy and a number of chillies up my brown eye. My clearing in the woods was trembling like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. There was cock snot sliming from his one-eyed monster and I was wetter than an otter's pocket. We were ready for more. Now, I've taken more poundings than the Somme, but the sight of his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon made my beige slime ooze like Adele waiting for Greggs to open. By now, my municipal cockwash was draining like a George Foreman grill. He arced a giant sewer trout on my sweater puppies just so he could consume it up like a hungry hungry hippo. I can't wait to chow down on the penis pudding from his chubstep. After having my Quimcy, M.E. hammered, he then proceeded to pound my puckered brown eye. The hammering of my ring piece was so vigorous, he soon found his salty protein grapes joining his sperminator deep in my rusty sherif's badge.

  He crowned a giant footlong fudge bullet on my droopies just so he could suck it up like a hungry hungry hippo. It was bliss having his bald avenger shoved inside me again; stuffing my penis pothole with an antique doorknob just didn't get my chlamydia canal pouring like it used to. Now, I've taken more poundings than the Somme, but the sight of his batter blaster made my minge mucus slime like a leaky tap. With his chorizo howitzer raiding deep into my tampon tunnel, the sensation of his veiny quim prod smashing my cervix made me quiver like a tasered slab of chopped liver. Some girls are happy just to fish for pearls when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster in my oyster ditch and a lightbulb up my puckered brown eye. The unrelenting orgasms from his tallywacker hammering my chlamydia canal made me come so hard, I began sweating like Joseph Fritzel on MTV Cribs. I awoke the next morning with my hatchet wound still dripping. I thought it was over but his wensleydale wand had other ideas. My tuna canal was trembling like Vanessa Feltz's diesel-powered vibrator. When he removed his cunt stretcher from my brown eye, he was pleasantly surprised to see a hardened fudge nugget staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to suck the hardened fudge nugget off his spunk-filled spam rocket. If I don't buff the muff to get my beige slime weeping from my calamari cockring, his timed slimer is going to leave my fishy flaps resembling a stuntman's knee. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his giggle stick shoved deeper into my black hole. By now, my mound of love pudding was frothing like a broken coffee maker. There was penis pudding draining from his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon and I was wetter than a bathmaid's elbow. We were ready for more. The feeling of his magician's wax draining down my throat got my tuna tunnel tears flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. The slamming makes me spit my shrimp sap all over his spam javelin. With my piss flaps now much like Brian May's plughole, he thought it was time to start sliding my poop chute. Is now the time to tell him I really need to roll a butt nugget, I wondered? Hours of hammering like this would leave any girl's spam castanets looking like Brian May's plughole, and I was no different! The mixture of corn-eyed butt snake and gentleman's relish in my marmite motorway created the delicious rectal stew that he was so fond of. My mouth was so full of love muscle and creamy load, the Da Vinci load was oozing down my chin and onto my twin peaks. Within no time, I could feel the shitty Da Vinci load weeping from my poo pipe and all over my vertical smile. He munched on my fishy flaps, even though I'd had the painters in for the best part of a week. The seemingly never-ending streams of magician's wax emanating from his cream reaper soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. After having my fuck trench slammed, he then proceeded to slam my fart valve. The fucking of my marmite motorway was so vigorous, he soon found his family jewels joining his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon deep in my fudge factory. I can't wait to devour the creamy load from his kebeb skewer.

  With his spam dagger plowing deep into my mound of love pudding, the sensation of his throbbing quim dagger smashing my cervix made me quiver like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. By now, my gammon alley was leaking like a broken coffee maker. With my vertical garden now much like badly battered road kill, he thought it was time to start ramming my turd cutter. Is now the time to tell him I really need to roll a sewer trout, I wondered? Hours of pounding like this would leave any girl's open-faced ham sandwich looking like a darts team's goalkeeper, and I was no different! The mixture of corn-eyed butt snake and ectoplasm in my Mavis Fritter created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. When he removed his turgid terror truncheon from my mud flap, he was pleasantly surprised to see a Mr. Hanky staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to chow down on the footlong fudge bullet off his stilton sword. I can't wait to consume the cock custard from his womb ferret. If I don't dial the rotary phone to get my sex wee dribbling from my salmon slit, his jade rod is going to leave my vertical garden resembling a blind cobbler's thumb. My south mouth was trembling like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. The hammering makes me splurge my clunge gunge all over his pink tractor beam. He munched on my velcro triangle, even though I'd been surfing the crimson tide for the best part of a week. The unrelenting orgasms from his bugger king plowing my pink velvet sausage wallet made me come so hard, I began sweating like Joseph Fritzel on MTV Cribs. There was steamin' semen dripping from his vein cane and I was wetter than an otter's pocket. We were ready for more. The feeling of his steamin' semen draining down my throat got my vertical moisture flowing quicker than snot off a whip. Some girls are happy just to buff the muff when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a gerbil in my birth cannon and a gerbil up my brown eye. He copped a giant Mr. Hanky on my breasticles just so he could chow down on it up like a pig at a trough. It was bliss having his washington monument slid inside me again; stuffing my vaginal bacon buffet with a 9-iron just didn't get my hatchet wound spouting like it used to. Within no time, I could feel the shitty man fat weeping from my soft tight anus and all over my clap flaps. The seemingly never-ending streams of penis pudding emanating from his devil's b
agpipe soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his skin flute plunged deeper into my turd cutter. My mouth was so full of batter blaster and cock snot, the baby gravy was trickling down my chin and onto my droopies. I awoke the next morning with my chlamydia canal still dripping. I thought it was over but his long-dong silver had other ideas. After having my clearing in the woods fucked, he then proceeded to raid my balloon knot. The thrusting of my puckered brown eye was so vigorous, he soon found his jingle-jangle jewellery joining his mutton dagger deep in my brown mile. Now, I've been shot over more times than Sarajevo, but the sight of his tenderloin truncheon made my fallopian fish stock weep like a leaky tap.

  He pitched a giant stink pickle on my top bollocks just so he could suck it up like a hungry hungry hippo. Some girls are happy just to buff the muff when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster in my smush mitten and an antique doorknob up my fart valve. He munched on my fishy flaps, even though I'd been on the rag for the best part of a week. Hours of fucking like this would leave any girl's vertical garden looking like a bucket of smashed crabs, and I was no different! If I don't study english cliterature to get my pussy batter leaching from my frilling pink golf bag, his battering ram is going to leave my purple cabbage resembling John Wayne's saddlebags. The feeling of his magician's wax slobbering down my throat got my spaff flowing quicker than snot off a whip. By now, my ladytown was leaching like a George Foreman grill. With my purple cabbage now much like a stamped bat, he thought it was time to start ramming my rusty bullet hole. Is now the time to tell him I really need to pinch off a toilet twinkie, I wondered? I can't wait to consume the magician's wax from his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon. After having my gashtray plowed, he then proceeded to raid my tradesman's entrance. The hammering makes me surge my tuna tunnel tears all over his bald-headed yogurt slinger. The mixture of toilet twinkie and steamin' semen in my fudge factory created the delicious rectal stew that he was so fond of. The seemingly never-ending streams of magician's wax emanating from his wrist-thick wand soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. I awoke the next morning with my chamber of squelch still seeping. I thought it was over but his thrill drill had other ideas. Inserting a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster into my furry cup got me squirting vertical moisture faster than a greased weasel shit. My cake hole was so full of bald-headed yogurt slinger and cock custard, the steamin' semen was sliming down my chin and onto my sweater puppies. When he removed his womb raider from my fart valve, he was pleasantly surprised to see a stink pickle staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to gobble the corn-eyed butt snake off his balony pony. My split peach was trembling like a shitting dog. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his purple beaver buster rammed deeper into my turd-herder. With his one-eyed milkman pounding deep into my wizards sleeve, the sensation of his slut slayer smashing my cervix made me quiver like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. The unrelenting orgasms from his cream reaper raiding my fuck gutter made me come so hard, I began sweating like a whore in a confessional. It was bliss having his spunk-filled spam rocket plunged inside me again; stuffing my birth cannon with an antique doorknob just didn't get my clearing in the woods spouting like it used to. The pounding of my tradesman's entrance was so vigorous, he soon found his chin pounders joining his purple-headed trouser snake deep in my mud flap. Within no time, I could feel the shitty steamin' semen slobbering from my brown mile and all over my hairy goblet. Now, I've seen more foreskins than a rabbi during a baby boom, but the sight of his cervix cigar made my fallopian fish stock ooze like a slavering dog.

  When he removed his one-eyed monster from my brown mile, he was pleasantly surprised to see a toilet twinkie staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to suck the toilet twinkie off his stilton spear. The feeling of his man fat dripping down my throat got my shrimp sap flowing quicker than snot off a whip. My vibrator crater was trembling like a rat on acid. The raiding of my poop chute was so vigorous, he soon found his hairy walnuts joining his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus deep in my poop chute. If I don't audition the finger puppets to get my beige slime slobbering from my carp cavity, his spunk-filled spam rocket is going to leave my purple cabbage resembling a badly wrapped kebab. I awoke the next morning with my hatchet wound still leaching. I thought it was over but his spam dagger had other ideas. With my hairy goblet now much like a shot cat, he thought it was time to start ramming my Mavis Fritter. Is now the time to tell him I really need to crown a Mr. Hanky, I wondered? By now, my slime hole was foaming like Adele waiting for Greggs to open. He munched on my flappy meal, even though I'd had my redwings for the best part of a week. The mixture of stink pickle and love piss in my brown eye created the delicious sphincter sauce that he was so fond of. Now, I've seen more action than Helmand Province, but the sight of his cunt plunger made my pussy batter seep like a leaky tap. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his gristle missile rammed deeper into my vintage golf bag. Some girls are happy just to get a stinky pinky when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a barbie doll in my cum dumpster and a gerbil up my rusty bullet hole. Inserting a gerbil into my shamevelope got me flowing minge monsoon faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. My throat was so full of one-eyed milkman and creamy load, the Da Vinci load was trickling down my chin and onto my chesticles. After having my penis pothole raided, he then proceeded to fuck my fudge factory. There was ectoplasm leaking from his one-eyed milkman and I was wetter than an otter's pocket. We were ready for more. The seemingly never-ending streams of love mayonnaise emanating from his cervix cigar soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. The plowing makes me spit my flange custard all over his skeleton king. With his long-dong silver raiding deep into my moose knuckle, the sensation of his bald-headed yogurt slinger smashing my cervix made me quake like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. Within no time, I could feel the shitty creamy load dribbling from my poop chute and all over my piss flaps. It was bliss having his wrist-thick wand probed inside me again; stuffing my slime hole with a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster just didn't get my clam-flavoured pothole spraying like it used to. The unrelenting orgasms from his batter blaster plowing my stench trench made me come so hard, I began sweating like a paedo during a prison riot. I can't wait to lap the penis pudding from his balony pony. Hours of pounding like this would leave any girl's flappy meal looking like a motorway pileup, and I was no different!

  It was bliss having his timed slimer stuffed inside me again; stuffing my vaginal bacon buffet with a gerbil just didn't get my bearded haddock pasty pouring like it used to. When he removed his cumtree from my rusty bullet hole, he was pleasantly surprised to see a stink pickle staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to consume the footlong fudge bullet off his washington monument. The unrelenting orgasms from his womb ferret hammering my soft-shelled tuna taco made me come so hard, I began sweating like a gypsy with a mortgage. The raiding makes me eject my beige slime all over his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus. By now, my moose knuckle was slobbering like a hungry pig at a trough. There was man fat weeping from his all-beef thermometer and I was wetter than an otter's pocket. We were ready for more. My cake hole was so full of cream reaper and love piss, the creamy load was sliming down my chin and onto my chest puppies. He munched on my spam castanets, even though I'd had Aunt Flo visiting for the best part of a week. 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 birth cannon and a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster up my turd cutter. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his spam javelin plunged deeper into my cocoa channel. He pitched a giant stink pickle on my top bollocks just so he could suck it up like a hungry hungry hippo. I can't wait to gobble the baby gravy from his flesh gordon. With my hairy goblet now much like a stamped bat,
he thought it was time to start stuffing my soft tight anus. Is now the time to tell him I really need to pitch a toilet twinkie, I wondered? If I don't play the clitar to get my flange custard leaching from my tampon tunnel, his turgid terror truncheon is going to leave my vertical smile resembling a werewolf with it's throat cut. I awoke the next morning with my penis pothole still flowing. I thought it was over but his cheese-crusted cock had other ideas. The seemingly never-ending streams of penis pudding emanating from his cunt plunger soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. My smush mitten was trembling like a tasered slab of chopped liver. After having my frilling pink golf bag hammered, he then proceeded to fuck my fudge factory. The hammering of my ring piece was so vigorous, he soon found his love spuds joining his piss pipe deep in my poo pipe. Within no time, I could feel the shitty love mayonnaise weeping from my turd-herder and all over my open-faced ham sandwich. Inserting a number of chillies into my split peach got me squirting beige slime faster than a greased weasel shit. With his stilton spear raiding deep into my one slice toaster, the sensation of his wensleydale wand smashing my cervix made me quiver like a tasered slab of chopped liver. The mixture of footlong fudge bullet and creamy load in my puckered brown eye created the delicious rectal stew that he was so fond of. The feeling of his love piss oozing down my throat got my minge monsoon flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. Hours of hammering like this would leave any girl's clap flaps looking like a clown's pocket, and I was no different!

  With his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus thrusting deep into my slime hole, the sensation of his bugger king smashing my cervix made me quake like a rat on acid. The raiding of my rusty sherif's badge was so vigorous, he soon found his man berries joining his greasy slimelight deep in my puckered brown eye. After having my calamari cockring thrusted, he then proceeded to plow my balloon knot. He pitched a giant butt nugget on my mammaries just so he could chow down on it up like a hungry hungry hippo. Within no time, I could feel the shitty love piss weeping from my chocolate starfish and all over my fishy flaps. If I don't tune the tuna to get my pussy batter dribbling from my penis pothole, his Ocean's 11 Inches is going to leave my velcro triangle resembling a twisted slipper. The mixture of Mr. Hanky and Da Vinci load in my marmite motorway created the delicious porthole pudding that he was so fond of. The plowing makes me spritz my fallopian fish stock all over his love muscle. I awoke the next morning with my ladytown still frothing. I thought it was over but his sperminator had other ideas. Hours of slamming like this would leave any girl's hairy goblet looking like Pete Burns' lips, and I was no different! Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his mutton dagger shoved deeper into my black hole. It was bliss having his greasy slimelight shoved inside me again; stuffing my front bum with an egg timer just didn't get my shame portal spraying like it used to. The unrelenting orgasms from his spam dagger plowing my depravity cavity made me come so hard, I began sweating like a pregnant nun. Now, I've been shot over more times than Sarajevo, but the sight of his washington monument made my shrimp sap leach like a rabid dog. There was love mayonnaise dripping from his Nelson's Column and I was wetter than an Italian cruise ship. We were ready for more. I can't wait to gobble the love mayonnaise from his timed slimer. By now, my bearded haddock pasty was dripping like someone had poured fairy liquid into Niagara Falls. My furry cup was trembling like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. My mouth was so full of cumtree and love piss, the love mayonnaise was weeping down my chin and onto my twin peaks. He munched on my beef curtains, even though I'd been riding the cotton pony for the best part of a week. When he removed his muffbuster 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 devour the colon cobra off his pink tractor beam. Inserting a gerbil into my furry cup got me squirting fallopian fish stock faster than a greased weasel shit. The feeling of his ectoplasm flowing down my throat got my vertical moisture flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. Some girls are happy just to study english cliterature when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster in my salmon slit and a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster up my Mavis Fritter. With my meaty hangers now much like a dropped burrito, he thought it was time to start plunging my rusty sherif's badge. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cut a footlong fudge bullet, I wondered?