The Dream's Thorn

by Amy Woods

  When he removed his giggle stick from my brown mile, he was pleasantly surprised to see a sewer trout staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to consume the sewer trout off his throbbing quim dagger. It was bliss having his womb ferret plunged inside me again; stuffing my clam-flavoured pothole with a gerbil just didn't get my hot pocket flowing like it used to. Hours of slamming like this would leave any girl's velcro triangle looking like a badly wrapped kebab, and I was no different! The unrelenting orgasms from his ample cock hammering my sperm socket made me come so hard, I began sweating like Mike Tyson at a spelling bee. By now, my ground zero grotto was dripping like Augustus Gloop's mouth at the sight of Willy Wonka's chocolate river. The raiding of my vintage golf bag was so vigorous, he soon found his sperm factories joining his wensleydale wand deep in my chocolate starfish. With his wensleydale wand pounding deep into my tampon tunnel, the sensation of his jade rod smashing my cervix made me quake like a shitting dog. The feeling of his cock custard slobbering down my throat got my clunge gunge flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. He copped a giant butt nugget on my mammaries just so he could lap it up like a hungry hungry hippo. He munched on my panty hamster, even though I'd been on the rag for the best part of a week. With my meaty hangers now much like a ripped out fireplace, he thought it was time to start ramming my vintage golf bag. Is now the time to tell him I really need to curl a stink pickle, I wondered? If I don't fluff the muff to get my spaff frothing from my whispering eye, his one-eyed monster is going to leave my vertical garden resembling a werewolf with it's throat cut. My throat was so full of jebend and love piss, the man fat was leaking down my chin and onto my twin peaks. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his slut slayer plunged deeper into my soft tight anus. Now, I've seen more foreskins than a rabbi during a baby boom, but the sight of his turgid terror truncheon made my shrimp sap haemorrhage like Augustus Gloop's mouth at the sight of Willy Wonka's chocolate river. I can't wait to suck the man fat from his disco stick. Within no time, I could feel the shitty magician's wax dripping from my rusty bullet hole and all over my velcro triangle. Some girls are happy just to buff the muff when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a number of chillies in my ground zero grotto and a 9-iron up my turd-herder. The mixture of sewer trout and cock snot in my balloon knot created the delicious rectal stew that he was so fond of. After having my clearing in the woods plowed, he then proceeded to raid my Oxo orifice. My tampon tunnel was trembling like jelly. The seemingly never-ending streams of cock custard emanating from his clunger soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. Inserting a 9-iron into my clam-flavoured pothole got me ejecting flange custard faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. The fucking makes me spout my shrimp sap all over his jebend. I awoke the next morning with my split peach still leaching. I thought it was over but his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon had other ideas.

  By now, my ground zero grotto was flowing like a slavering dog. The unrelenting orgasms from his skeleton king slamming my spunk dungeon made me come so hard, I began sweating like Mike Tyson at a spelling bee. He rolled a giant corn-eyed butt snake on my rack just so he could chow down on it up like a bulldog eating porridge. The feeling of his gentleman's relish sliming down my throat got my spaff flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. My fuck trench was trembling like a rat on acid. Inserting a lightbulb into my tuna canal got me flowing minge mucus faster than snot off a whip. Within no time, I could feel the shitty man fat weeping from my cocoa channel and all over my clap flaps. The seemingly never-ending streams of Da Vinci load emanating from his purple-headed trouser snake soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. With my flappy meal now much like badly battered road kill, he thought it was time to start sliding my brown mile. Is now the time to tell him I really need to extrude a colon cobra, I wondered? When he removed his cunt stretcher from my Mavis Fritter, he was pleasantly surprised to see a toilet twinkie staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to consume the footlong fudge bullet off his cervix cigar. If I don't get a stinky pinky to get my flange custard flowing from my pink velvet sausage wallet, his love muscle is going to leave my hairy goblet resembling a bulldog licking piss from a thistle. He munched on my roast beef platter, even though I'd had Aunt Flo visiting for the best part of a week. There was baby gravy draining from his washington monument and I was wetter than a bathmaid's elbow. We were ready for more. After having my split peach slammed, he then proceeded to slam my brown eye. The slamming makes me gush my tuna tunnel tears all over his cream reaper. My throat was so full of wrist-thick wand and cock custard, the steamin' semen was frothing down my chin and onto my rack. Now, I've had more hands up me than The Muppets, but the sight of his spam dagger made my clunge gunge drip like a rabid dog. Some girls are happy just to finger blast when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster in my kipper dinghy and an antique doorknob up my brown mile. Hours of thrusting like this would leave any girl's velcro triangle looking like a gutted trout, and I was no different! It was bliss having his clunger stuffed inside me again; stuffing my ladytown with a number of chillies just didn't get my meat purse spouting like it used to. The mixture of colon cobra and penis pudding in my old dirt road created the delicious sphincter sauce that he was so fond of. With his love muscle plowing deep into my chlamydia canal, the sensation of his washington monument smashing my cervix made me quake like Vanessa Feltz's diesel-powered vibrator. The pounding of my marmite motorway was so vigorous, he soon found his jingle-jangle jewellery joining his wensleydale wand deep in my Mavis Fritter. I can't wait to lap the gentleman's relish from his cunt stretcher. I awoke the next morning with my cum dumpster still slobbering. I thought it was over but his Ocean's 11 Inches had other ideas.

  My cum dumpster was trembling like a tasered slab of chopped liver. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his bugger king slid deeper into my marmite motorway. The thrusting makes me flood my clunge gunge all over his Nelson's Column. The seemingly never-ending streams of penis pudding emanating from his tallywacker soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. Within no time, I could feel the shitty love piss slobbering from my turd-herder and all over my flappy meal. The feeling of his cock custard slobbering down my throat got my minge mucus flowing quicker than snot off a whip. Some girls are happy just to strum the banjo when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a squash in my vibration station and a squash up my fudge factory. If I don't fluff the muff to get my beige slime slobbering from my pink velvet sausage wallet, his clunger is going to leave my velcro triangle resembling an over inflated dinghy. My mouth was so full of spunk-filled spam rocket and ectoplasm, the gentleman's relish was flowing down my chin and onto my mosquito bites. I can't wait to lap the man fat from his long-dong silver. The raiding of my balloon knot was so vigorous, he soon found his love spuds joining his ramrod deep in my mud flap. It was bliss having his tenderloin truncheon stuffed inside me again; stuffing my chlamydia canal with a 15" spiked vibrator just didn't get my ladytown spraying like it used to. I awoke the next morning with my hatchet wound still dribbling. I thought it was over but his gristle missile had other ideas. The mixture of butt nugget and love piss in my turd cutter created the delicious porthole pudding that he was so fond of. Now, I've been told the sperm bank will accept my spit, but the sight of his greasy kebab skewer made my spaff haemorrhage like a hungry pig at a trough. After having my clunge pool hammered, he then proceeded to thrust my brown eye. There was creamy load draining from his love lollipop and I was wetter than a spastic's chin. We were ready for more. Hours of pounding like this would leave any girl's panty hamster looking like the south end of a badger going north, and I was no different! The unrelenting orgasms from his spunk-filled spam rocket raiding my herring hole made me come so hard, I began sweating like a dyslexic on Countdown. Inserting a gerbil into my slime hole got me flooding pussy batter faster than snot off a whip. With
his love lollipop plowing deep into my cod crater, the sensation of his love muscle smashing my cervix made me quiver like a rat on acid. He munched on my meaty hangers, even though I'd had my redwings for the best part of a week. With my panty hamster now much like a badly wrapped kebab, he thought it was time to start plunging my rusty bullet hole. Is now the time to tell him I really need to pinch off a footlong fudge bullet, I wondered? When he removed his skeleton king from my other vagina, he was pleasantly surprised to see a stink pickle staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to gobble the butt nugget off his devil's bagpipe. By now, my meat purse was oozing like Augustus Gloop's mouth at the sight of Willy Wonka's chocolate river.

  When he removed his chorizo howitzer from my Oxo orifice, he was pleasantly surprised to see a sewer trout staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to lap the stink pickle off his cheese-crusted cock. My mouth was so full of ramrod and cock custard, the ectoplasm was leaking down my chin and onto my mosquito bites. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his kebeb skewer slid deeper into my Oxo orifice. If I don't dial the rotary phone to get my clunge gunge weeping from my clunge pool, his wensleydale wand is going to leave my lunchmeat resembling a blind cobbler's thumb. With his ramrod pounding deep into my gashtray, the sensation of his jade rod smashing my cervix made me quiver like jelly. The mixture of toilet twinkie and cock custard in my rusty bullet hole created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. Inserting a barbie doll into my clam-flavoured pothole got me spattering beige slime faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. With my furburger now much like Pete Burns' lips, he thought it was time to start plunging my Mavis Fritter. Is now the time to tell him I really need to crown a Mr. Hanky, I wondered? The unrelenting orgasms from his kebeb skewer slamming my hatchet wound made me come so hard, I began sweating like a dyslexic on Countdown. After having my oyster ditch slammed, he then proceeded to plow my turd-herder. I awoke the next morning with my vibration station still dripping. I thought it was over but his sperminator had other ideas. I can't wait to consume the gentleman's relish from his skin flute. Now, I've seen more action than Helmand Province, but the sight of his chorizo howitzer made my spaff weep like someone had poured fairy liquid into Niagara Falls. The seemingly never-ending streams of cock snot emanating from his master of ceremonies soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. My ladytown was trembling like jelly. The feeling of his man fat leaking down my throat got my sex wee flowing quicker than snot off a whip. Hours of hammering like this would leave any girl's clap flaps looking like a twisted slipper, and I was no different! The thrusting makes me spit my flange custard all over his love muscle. There was gentleman's relish trickling from his master of ceremonies and I was wetter than a well diggers arse. We were ready for more. He extruded a giant sewer trout on my chest puppies just so he could gobble it up like a hungry hungry hippo. The hammering of my shit winker was so vigorous, he soon found his wrecking balls joining his gristle missile deep in my poo pipe. Within no time, I could feel the shitty baby gravy oozing from my Oxo orifice and all over my purple cabbage. By now, my Quimcy, M.E. was slobbering like a jizz waterfall. He munched on my purple cabbage, even though I'd been walking the red carpet for the best part of a week. Some girls are happy just to fish for pearls when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a 15" spiked vibrator in my split peach and a squash up my brown eye.

  It was bliss having his womb raider probed inside me again; stuffing my municipal cockwash with a number of chillies just didn't get my depravity cavity squirting like it used to. There was Da Vinci load flowing from his purple beaver buster and I was wetter than a bathmaid's elbow. We were ready for more. Inserting a gerbil into my chlamydia canal got me flooding fallopian fish stock faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. The unrelenting orgasms from his piss pipe hammering my frilling pink golf bag made me come so hard, I began sweating like a gypsy with a mortgage. My throat was so full of piss pipe and baby gravy, the creamy load was seeping down my chin and onto my mammaries. He munched on my piss flaps, even though I'd been surfing the crimson tide for the best part of a week. He arced a giant toilet twinkie on my top bollocks just so he could devour it up like a bulldog eating porridge. The mixture of footlong fudge bullet and steamin' semen in my old dirt road created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. With his skeleton king slamming deep into my kipper dinghy, the sensation of his meaty member smashing my cervix made me quake like a rat on acid. By now, my spunk dungeon was slobbering like someone had poured fairy liquid into Niagara Falls. I can't wait to gobble the baby gravy from his cunt stretcher. The slamming of my brown mile was so vigorous, he soon found his man marbles joining his cream reaper deep in my cocoa channel. My tampon tunnel was trembling like a tasered slab of chopped liver. The seemingly never-ending streams of creamy load emanating from his throbbing quim dagger soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. If I don't finger blast to get my tuna tunnel tears slobbering from my carp cavity, his kebeb skewer is going to leave my flappy meal resembling a clown's pocket. With my panty hamster now much like John Wayne's saddlebags, he thought it was time to start stuffing my Oxo orifice. Is now the time to tell him I really need to roll a sewer trout, I wondered? The plowing makes me gush my sex wee all over his cunt stretcher. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his bald-headed yogurt slinger shoved deeper into my brown eye. Some girls are happy just to dial the rotary phone when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a barbie doll in my enchilada of love and my fist up my other vagina. After having my cock holster pounded, he then proceeded to pound my Oxo orifice. Within no time, I could feel the shitty cock custard sliming from my Oxo orifice and all over my open-faced ham sandwich. When he removed his blue-veined custard chucker from my tradesman's entrance, he was pleasantly surprised to see a footlong fudge bullet staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to gobble the Mr. Hanky off his wrist-thick wand. I awoke the next morning with my shame portal still haemorrhaging. I thought it was over but his stilton spear had other ideas. Now, I've seen more helmets than Hitler, but the sight of his giggle stick made my minge monsoon slime like a broken fridge freezer. Hours of thrusting like this would leave any girl's meaty hangers looking like Terry Waite's allotment, and I was no different!

  With my roast beef platter now much like a twisted slipper, he thought it was time to start sliding my fart valve. Is now the time to tell him I really need to blast a corn-eyed butt snake, I wondered? By now, my cod canyon was draining like Augustus Gloop's mouth at the sight of Willy Wonka's chocolate river. Now, I've seen more helmets than Hitler, but the sight of his master of ceremonies made my sex wee slime like there was a midget inside me with a super soaker. The fucking of my vintage golf bag was so vigorous, he soon found his man marbles joining his gristle missile deep in my cocoa channel. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his love lollipop stuffed deeper into my marmite motorway. The mixture of toilet twinkie and baby gravy in my shit winker created the delicious rectal stew that he was so fond of. Inserting my fist into my chlamydia canal got me splurging shrimp sap faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. Hours of fucking like this would leave any girl's spam castanets looking like Terry Waite's allotment, and I was no different! There was Da Vinci load oozing from his jebend and I was wetter than a bathmaid's elbow. We were ready for more. After having my kipper dinghy plowed, he then proceeded to thrust my fart valve. The feeling of his ectoplasm leaching down my throat got my flange custard flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. It was bliss having his throbbing quim dagger shoved inside me again; stuffing my clam-flavoured pothole with an antique doorknob just didn't get my smush mitten ejecting like it used to. The unrelenting orgasms from his mutton dagger plowing my sperm socket made me come so hard, I began sweating like a gypsy with a mortgage. If I don't buff the muff to get my minge mucus foaming from my Quimcy, M.E., his battering ram is going to leave my beef curtains r
esembling John Wayne's saddlebags. When he removed his slut slayer from my turd cutter, 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 throbbing quim dagger. My carp cavity was trembling like jelly. I can't wait to gobble the gentleman's relish from his ramrod. My throat was so full of cunt plunger and magician's wax, the baby gravy was foaming down my chin and onto my twin peaks. Within no time, I could feel the shitty penis pudding haemorrhaging from my turd cutter and all over my open-faced ham sandwich. He munched on my beef curtains, even though I'd been walking the red carpet for the best part of a week. With his skeleton king raiding deep into my cod crater, the sensation of his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon smashing my cervix made me quiver like Vanessa Feltz's diesel-powered vibrator. I awoke the next morning with my hot pocket still weeping. I thought it was over but his giggle stick had other ideas. Some girls are happy just to fluff the muff when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a squash in my shame portal and an egg timer up my vintage golf bag. The plowing makes me spit my flange custard all over his stilton sword. He eased out a giant butt nugget on my boobage just so he could suck it up like a hungry hungry hippo.