The Dream's Thorn

by Amy Woods

  The mixture of Mr. Hanky and penis pudding in my Oxo orifice created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. The feeling of his ectoplasm flowing down my throat got my tuna tunnel tears flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. If I don't get a stinky pinky to get my minge mucus oozing from my tuna canal, his balony pony is going to leave my piss flaps resembling badly battered road kill. There was penis pudding seeping from his bugger king and I was wetter than a spastic's chin. We were ready for more. He munched on my vertical garden, even though I'd been riding the cotton pony for the best part of a week. After having my hot pocket fucked, he then proceeded to plow my poop chute. With his veiny quim prod fucking deep into my soft-shelled tuna taco, the sensation of his balony pony smashing my cervix made me quiver like Vanessa Feltz's diesel-powered vibrator. My cake hole was so full of long-dong silver and penis pudding, the ectoplasm was haemorrhaging down my chin and onto my sweater puppies. Within no time, I could feel the shitty love piss draining from my turd-herder and all over my piss flaps. Now, I've been told the sperm bank will accept my spit, but the sight of his giggle stick made my minge mucus slobber like someone had poured fairy liquid into Niagara Falls. I can't wait to chow down on the love mayonnaise from his spam javelin. Inserting a 9-iron into my vaginal bacon buffet got me spouting sex wee faster than a greased weasel shit. It was bliss having his vein cane slid inside me again; stuffing my whispering eye with a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster just didn't get my shame portal spraying like it used to. The unrelenting orgasms from his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus hammering my ladytown made me come so hard, I began sweating like a pregnant nun. He arced a giant colon cobra on my cans just so he could consume it up like a bulldog eating porridge. The fucking makes me flood my flange custard all over his kebeb skewer. The fucking of my rusty sherif's badge was so vigorous, he soon found his sperm factories joining his blind butler deep in my brown eye. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his tenderloin truncheon rammed deeper into my poop chute. By now, my salmon slit was sliming like a hungry pig at a trough. My frilling pink golf bag was trembling like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. The seemingly never-ending streams of Da Vinci load emanating from his chorizo howitzer soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. Hours of pounding like this would leave any girl's spam castanets looking like a rabid baboon's arse, and I was no different! Some girls are happy just to strum the banjo when they're alone, but I can't get off without having an antique doorknob in my quim and a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster up my old dirt road. When he removed his purple beaver buster from my turd-herder, he was pleasantly surprised to see a corn-eyed butt snake staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to devour the footlong fudge bullet off his muffbuster. With my fishy flaps now much like a shot cat, he thought it was time to start stuffing my rusty sherif's badge. Is now the time to tell him I really need to extrude a toilet twinkie, I wondered?

  The unrelenting orgasms from his one-eyed milkman thrusting my ground zero grotto made me come so hard, I began sweating like a dyslexic on Countdown. With my beef curtains now much like Terry Waite's allotment, he thought it was time to start shoving my soft tight anus. Is now the time to tell him I really need to crown a sewer trout, I wondered? The feeling of his man fat frothing down my throat got my flange custard flowing quicker than snot off a whip. He crowned a giant colon cobra on my droopies just so he could gobble it up like a hungry hungry hippo. It was bliss having his brie baton probed inside me again; stuffing my moose knuckle with a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster just didn't get my stench trench spattering like it used to. With his purple beaver buster thrusting deep into my tuna canal, the sensation of his chubstep smashing my cervix made me quake like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his cervix cigar probed deeper into my poop chute. Some girls are happy just to strum the banjo when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a number of chillies in my gaping clam cavern and a gerbil up my balloon knot. If I don't get a stinky pinky to get my tuna tunnel tears flowing from my ladytown, his bugger king is going to leave my piss flaps resembling a hippo's yawn. He munched on my roast beef platter, even though I'd been riding the cotton pony for the best part of a week. Now, I've been told the sperm bank will accept my spit, but the sight of his greasy kebab skewer made my tuna tunnel tears haemorrhage like a leaky tap. By now, my vibration station was weeping like a broken fridge freezer. The mixture of colon cobra and cock snot in my brown mile created the delicious sphincter sauce that he was so fond of. The plowing of my fudge factory was so vigorous, he soon found his wrecking balls joining his veiny quim prod deep in my fart valve. Within no time, I could feel the shitty man fat dribbling from my turd-herder and all over my panty hamster. My cake hole was so full of mutton dagger and love mayonnaise, the creamy load was frothing down my chin and onto my mosquito bites. I can't wait to devour the baby gravy from his veiny quim prod. Inserting a 9-iron into my whispering eye got me ejecting flange custard faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. The seemingly never-ending streams of love piss emanating from his sperminator soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. Hours of fucking like this would leave any girl's lunchmeat looking like a werewolf with it's throat cut, and I was no different! The fucking makes me spit my spaff all over his mutton dagger. After having my chlamydia canal raided, he then proceeded to raid my mud flap. My smush mitten was trembling like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. I awoke the next morning with my calamari cockring still slobbering. I thought it was over but his cunt plunger had other ideas. There was penis pudding sliming from his batter blaster and I was wetter than a well diggers arse. We were ready for more.

  I awoke the next morning with my whispering eye still trickling. I thought it was over but his cumtree had other ideas. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his bugger king slid deeper into my chocolate starfish. My depravity cavity was trembling like a shitting dog. The hammering makes me squirt my minge mucus all over his bugger king. It was bliss having his pink tractor beam stuffed inside me again; stuffing my tampon tunnel with a lightbulb just didn't get my bearded haddock pasty surging like it used to. After having my one slice toaster raided, he then proceeded to slam my poop chute. The hammering of my ring piece was so vigorous, he soon found his love spuds joining his batter blaster deep in my turd cutter. By now, my herring hole was foaming like Augustus Gloop's mouth at the sight of Willy Wonka's chocolate river. My mouth was so full of kebeb skewer and cock snot, the gentleman's relish was flowing down my chin and onto my cans. With my panty hamster now much like Pete Burns' lips, he thought it was time to start probing my soft tight anus. Is now the time to tell him I really need to ease a butt nugget, I wondered? When he removed his one-eyed monster from my poop chute, he was pleasantly surprised to see a corn-eyed butt snake staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to gobble the colon cobra off his gristle missile. Within no time, I could feel the shitty creamy load sliming from my black hole and all over my lunchmeat. Now, I've been told the sperm bank will accept my spit, but the sight of his pink tractor beam made my pussy batter trickle like Wayne Rooney's dick in an OAP home. If I don't stimulate the genitals through phalangetic motion to get my sex wee oozing from my carp cavity, his thrill drill is going to leave my vertical smile resembling Pete Burns' lips. He munched on my clap flaps, even though I'd been walking the red carpet for the best part of a week. The mixture of sewer trout and man fat in my cocoa channel created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. He crowned a giant hardened fudge nugget on my chesticles just so he could gobble it up like a bulldog eating porridge. The unrelenting orgasms from his chubstep pounding my mound of love pudding made me come so hard, I began sweating like Mike Tyson at a spelling bee. Inserting a 15" spiked vibrator into my sperm socket got me flooding fallopian fish stock faster than a greased weasel shit. Some girls are happy just to strum the banjo w
hen they're alone, but I can't get off without having an egg timer in my cod canyon and a number of chillies up my mud flap. Hours of plowing like this would leave any girl's vertical smile looking like a badly wrapped kebab, and I was no different! With his blue-veined custard chucker plowing deep into my wunder down under, the sensation of his greasy kebab skewer smashing my cervix made me quiver like Vanessa Feltz's diesel-powered vibrator. I can't wait to suck the cock custard from his slut slayer. The seemingly never-ending streams of baby gravy emanating from his cumtree soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. The feeling of his baby gravy foaming down my throat got my flange custard flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel.

  Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his chubstep shoved deeper into my tradesman's entrance. With his gristle missile raiding deep into my south mouth, the sensation of his brie baton smashing my cervix made me quake like Vanessa Feltz's diesel-powered vibrator. It was bliss having his cervix cigar stuffed inside me again; stuffing my chlamydia canal with a lightbulb just didn't get my clearing in the woods flooding like it used to. By now, my fuck trench was leaching like Adele waiting for Greggs to open. When he removed his Ocean's 11 Inches from my rusty sherif's badge, he was pleasantly surprised to see a stink pickle staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to lap the footlong fudge bullet off his spam javelin. The seemingly never-ending streams of love piss emanating from his jebend soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. With my roast beef platter now much like a hippo's yawn, he thought it was time to start stuffing my tradesman's entrance. Is now the time to tell him I really need to ease a toilet twinkie, I wondered? I awoke the next morning with my quim still trickling. I thought it was over but his cheese-crusted cock had other ideas. He munched on my fishy flaps, even though I'd had Aunt Flo visiting for the best part of a week. After having my shame portal slammed, he then proceeded to fuck my poo pipe. Hours of plowing like this would leave any girl's panty hamster looking like badly battered road kill, and I was no different! If I don't dial the rotary phone to get my shrimp sap sliming from my clunge pool, his ramrod is going to leave my hairy goblet resembling a dropped burrito. 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 furry cup and a 9-iron up my rusty bullet hole. My cake hole was so full of purple beaver buster and steamin' semen, the magician's wax was draining down my chin and onto my twin peaks. The feeling of his cock custard leaching down my throat got my vertical moisture flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. My ladytown was trembling like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. Inserting a 9-iron into my gaping clam cavern got me spraying clunge gunge faster than a greased weasel shit. The pounding makes me spritz my pussy batter all over his spam dagger. Within no time, I could feel the shitty penis pudding leaking from my marmite motorway and all over my flappy meal. There was penis pudding dribbling from his stilton spear and I was wetter than a bathmaid's elbow. We were ready for more. The unrelenting orgasms from his bald avenger fucking my enchilada of love made me come so hard, I began sweating like Mike Tyson at a spelling bee. The hammering of my fart valve was so vigorous, he soon found his trouser conkors joining his pink tractor beam deep in my turd-herder. Now, I've taken more poundings than the Somme, but the sight of his long-dong silver made my vertical moisture drip like a rabid dog. I can't wait to suck the gentleman's relish from his long-dong silver. The mixture of footlong fudge bullet and gentleman's relish in my chocolate starfish created the delicious sphincter sauce that he was so fond of.

  My gammon alley was trembling like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. The unrelenting orgasms from his wrist-thick wand hammering my oyster ditch made me come so hard, I began sweating like a white mouse in a tampon factory. There was ectoplasm leaching from his giggle stick and I was wetter than an English summer. We were ready for more. By now, my gammon alley was slobbering like a rabid dog. With my open-faced ham sandwich now much like a ripped out fireplace, he thought it was time to start stuffing my other vagina. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cop a footlong fudge bullet, I wondered? I can't wait to gobble the gentleman's relish from his huge penis. My throat was so full of one-eyed monster and baby gravy, the magician's wax was oozing down my chin and onto my cans. Now, I've seen more helmets than Hitler, but the sight of his blue-veined custard chucker made my spaff seep like someone had poured fairy liquid into Niagara Falls. Within no time, I could feel the shitty magician's wax sliming from my ring piece and all over my spam castanets. Inserting a number of chillies into my penis pothole got me flowing minge monsoon faster than a greased weasel shit. The raiding of my tradesman's entrance was so vigorous, he soon found his scroto baggins joining his ramrod deep in my Oxo orifice. The feeling of his Da Vinci load dribbling down my throat got my minge monsoon flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. When he removed his piss pipe from my poop chute, 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 ample cock. 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 ladytown and a barbie doll up my vintage golf bag. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his master of ceremonies plunged deeper into my ring piece. The seemingly never-ending streams of cock snot emanating from his one-eyed monster soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. The mixture of footlong fudge bullet and love mayonnaise in my puckered brown eye created the delicious rectal stew that he was so fond of. He munched on my flappy meal, even though I'd had the painters in for the best part of a week. If I don't get a stinky pinky to get my sex wee weeping from my clearing in the woods, his skeleton king is going to leave my flappy meal resembling the Japanese flag. I awoke the next morning with my chamber of squelch still leaking. I thought it was over but his jebend had other ideas. He eased out a giant sewer trout on my sweater puppies just so he could chow down on it up like a pig at a trough. After having my birth cannon pounded, he then proceeded to fuck my poop chute. The fucking makes me gush my minge mucus all over his slut slayer. Hours of plowing like this would leave any girl's hairy goblet looking like a stuntman's knee, and I was no different! It was bliss having his bald avenger plunged inside me again; stuffing my depravity cavity with a number of chillies just didn't get my calamari cockring spraying like it used to.

  When he removed his jebend from my mud flap, he was pleasantly surprised to see a hardened fudge nugget staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to devour the toilet twinkie off his bugger king. The pounding of my marmite motorway was so vigorous, he soon found his love spuds joining his ramrod deep in my poo pipe. Hours of plowing like this would leave any girl's vertical smile looking like a clown's pocket, and I was no different! The unrelenting orgasms from his one-eyed monster pounding my cock holster made me come so hard, I began sweating like a midget nun at a penguin shoot. The seemingly never-ending streams of ectoplasm emanating from his Ocean's 11 Inches soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. There was penis pudding seeping from his slut slayer and I was wetter than a well diggers arse. We were ready for more. He launched a giant footlong fudge bullet on my superdroopers just so he could gobble it up like a bulldog eating porridge. The mixture of colon cobra and baby gravy in my mud flap created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. After having my cod cave plowed, he then proceeded to pound my turd-herder. My cake hole was so full of one-eyed milkman and man fat, the love mayonnaise was leaching down my chin and onto my love bubbles. With his stilton sword thrusting deep into my tampon tunnel, the sensation of his wrist-thick wand smashing my cervix made me quiver like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his slut slayer slid deeper into my cocoa channel. My enchilada of love was trembling like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. Within no time, I could feel the shitty man fat haemorrhaging from my fudge factory and
all over my spam castanets. By now, my cod crater was flowing like there was a midget inside me with a super soaker. Some girls are happy just to study english cliterature when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a number of chillies in my shamevelope and a 9-iron up my turd cutter. He munched on my purple cabbage, even though I'd been up on bricks for the best part of a week. If I don't strum the banjo to get my tuna tunnel tears weeping from my ladytown, his giggle stick is going to leave my open-faced ham sandwich resembling Terry Waite's allotment. Inserting an antique doorknob into my bearded haddock pasty got me spraying minge mucus faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. I can't wait to consume the gentleman's relish from his wensleydale wand. With my hairy goblet now much like Terry Waite's allotment, he thought it was time to start ramming my rusty bullet hole. Is now the time to tell him I really need to extrude a corn-eyed butt snake, I wondered? I awoke the next morning with my ladytown still sliming. I thought it was over but his slut slayer had other ideas. It was bliss having his chubstep stuffed inside me again; stuffing my smush mitten with a 15" spiked vibrator just didn't get my kipper dinghy pouring like it used to. The plowing makes me pour my flange custard all over his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon. The feeling of his Da Vinci load frothing down my throat got my vertical moisture flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit.