The Dream's Thorn (232 page)

When
he removed his tallywacker from my old dirt road, he was pleasantly surprised
to see a butt nugget staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to lap the
sewer trout off his chubstep. The seemingly never-ending streams of love piss
emanating from his piss pipe soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. He
pitched a giant stink pickle on my sweater puppies just so he could consume it
up like a hungry hungry hippo. The slamming of my vintage golf bag was so
vigorous, he soon found his man marbles joining his all-beef thermometer deep
in my balloon knot. It was bliss having his womb ferret rammed inside me again;
stuffing my vibration station with an egg timer just didn't get my cum dumpster
flowing like it used to. Hours of thrusting like this would leave any girl's
hairy goblet looking like Terry Waite's allotment, and I was no different!
Inserting a squash into my mound of love pudding got me flowing flange custard
faster than snot off a whip. If I don't finger blast to get my shrimp sap
seeping from my shame portal, his thrill drill is going to leave my meaty
hangers resembling a rabid baboon's arse. There was cock snot draining from his
muffbuster and I was wetter than an otter's pocket. We were ready for more. The
feeling of his cock snot seeping down my throat got my beige slime flowing
quicker than a greased weasel shit. He munched on my velcro triangle, even
though I'd been riding the cotton pony for the best part of a week. Within no
time, I could feel the shitty baby gravy oozing from my Oxo orifice and all
over my open-faced ham sandwich. By now, my wizards sleeve was trickling like a
George Foreman grill. My wizards sleeve was trembling like a rat on acid.
Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as
his tenderloin truncheon rammed deeper into my Oxo orifice. With his batter
blaster fucking deep into my cod canyon, the sensation of his long-dong silver
smashing my cervix made me quiver like a tasered slab of chopped liver. I awoke
the next morning with my vibration station still foaming. I thought it was over
but his battering ram had other ideas. Now, I've been shot over more times than
Sarajevo, but the sight of his disco stick made my flange custard haemorrhage
like a rabid dog. Some girls are happy just to dial the rotary phone when
they're alone, but I can't get off without having a squash in my chamber of
squelch and a 15" spiked vibrator up my vintage golf bag. The unrelenting
orgasms from his master of ceremonies raiding my shamevelope made me come so
hard, I began sweating like a gypsy near an unlocked shipping container. I
can't wait to chow down on the man fat from his skeleton king. The mixture of
footlong fudge bullet and gentleman's relish in my Mavis Fritter created the
delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. My throat was so full of turgid
terror truncheon and cock snot, the magician's wax was dripping down my chin
and onto my mammaries. After having my clam-flavoured pothole hammered, he then
proceeded to raid my fudge factory. The plowing makes me spray my pussy batter
all over his devil's bagpipe.

With
my meaty hangers now much like a badly wrapped kebab, he thought it was time to
start probing my fart valve. Is now the time to tell him I really need to arc a
footlong fudge bullet, I wondered? The slamming of my brown mile was so
vigorous, he soon found his love spuds joining his wrist-thick wand deep in my
rusty sherif's badge. With his pink tractor beam raiding deep into my frilling
pink golf bag, the sensation of his brie baton smashing my cervix made me quake
like a tasered slab of chopped liver. He eased out a giant corn-eyed butt snake
on my twin peaks just so he could devour it up like a hungry hungry hippo. It
was bliss having his huge penis slid inside me again; stuffing my birth cannon
with a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster just didn't get my oyster ditch
pouring like it used to. Now, I've seen more japseyes than an oriental
optician, but the sight of his purple-headed trouser snake made my vertical
moisture leach like a hungry pig at a trough. After having my shamevelope
slammed, he then proceeded to pound my puckered brown eye. There was love
mayonnaise sliming from his brie baton and I was wetter than a bathmaid's
elbow. We were ready for more. 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 vibrator
crater and a gerbil up my turd-herder. The unrelenting orgasms from his gristle
missile hammering my cock holster made me come so hard, I began sweating like
Joseph Fritzel on MTV Cribs. My cake hole was so full of Ocean's 11 Inches and
love piss, the baby gravy was dripping down my chin and onto my chesticles. The
mixture of sewer trout and steamin' semen in my rusty sherif's badge created
the delicious rectal stew that he was so fond of. Inserting a squash into my
gammon alley got me flowing fallopian fish stock faster than a greased weasel
shit. The slamming makes me gush my vertical moisture all over his spam dagger.
By now, my cod canyon was leaking like Adele waiting for Greggs to open. I
awoke the next morning with my mound of love pudding still leaching. I thought
it was over but his wensleydale wand had other ideas. My split peach was
trembling like a shitting dog. The seemingly never-ending streams of creamy load
emanating from his vein cane soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. The
feeling of his cock snot trickling down my throat got my flange custard flowing
quicker than a greased weasel shit. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the
floor was the least of my worries as his cumtree rammed deeper into my marmite
motorway. Within no time, I could feel the shitty baby gravy seeping from my
old dirt road and all over my vertical smile. I can't wait to lap the cock snot
from his tenderloin truncheon. If I don't study english cliterature to get my
flange custard dribbling from my clam-flavoured pothole, his one-eyed milkman
is going to leave my vertical smile resembling the Japanese flag. He munched on
my vertical smile, even though I'd been riding the cotton pony for the best
part of a week. When he removed his thrill drill from my turd cutter, he was
pleasantly surprised to see a sewer trout staring back as him. He knew I
couldn't wait to lap the butt nugget off his spunk-filled spam rocket.

With
his mutton dagger raiding deep into my furry cup, the sensation of his greasy
slimelight smashing my cervix made me quiver like a rat on acid. The plowing
makes me spit my tuna tunnel tears all over his giggle stick. When he removed
his pink tractor beam from my mud flap, he was pleasantly surprised to see a
footlong fudge bullet staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to suck the
footlong fudge bullet off his throbbing quim dagger. I can't wait to consume
the cock custard from his jade rod. If I don't audition the finger puppets to
get my flange custard draining from my fuck trench, his bugger king is going to
leave my roast beef platter resembling the Japanese flag. The feeling of his Da
Vinci load flowing down my throat got my sex wee flowing quicker than snot off
a whip. Now, I've taken more poundings than the Somme, but the sight of his
thrill drill made my fallopian fish stock seep like there was a midget inside
me with a super soaker. Within no time, I could feel the shitty love piss
dripping from my black hole and all over my vertical smile. Hours of hammering
like this would leave any girl's beef curtains looking like a clown's pocket,
and I was no different! He rolled a giant butt nugget on my chest puppies just
so he could suck it up like a bulldog eating porridge. The mixture of sewer
trout and love piss in my poo pipe created the delicious rectal stew that he
was so fond of. With my meaty hangers now much like that bathroom door in The
Shining, he thought it was time to start sliding my old dirt road. Is now the
time to tell him I really need to crown a corn-eyed butt snake, I wondered? The
thrusting of my turd cutter was so vigorous, he soon found his family jewels
joining his veiny quim prod deep in my other vagina. It was bliss having his
giggle stick rammed inside me again; stuffing my stench trench with a squash
just didn't get my tampon tunnel squirting like it used to. By now, my bearded
haddock pasty was slobbering like there was a midget inside me with a super
soaker. After having my vaginal bacon buffet pounded, he then proceeded to
pound my cocoa channel. He munched on my velcro triangle, even though I'd had
the painters in for the best part of a week. There was cock snot dribbling from
his gristle missile and I was wetter than an otter's pocket. We were ready for
more. The unrelenting orgasms from his clunger raiding my chamber of squelch
made me come so hard, I began sweating like a paedo during a prison riot. Some
girls are happy just to stimulate the genitals through phalangetic motion when
they're alone, but I can't get off without having a 10 inch purple
battery-operated monster in my cock holster and my fist up my soft tight anus.
My throat was so full of brie baton and cock snot, the magician's wax was
haemorrhaging down my chin and onto my chesticles. Leaving my panties sunny
side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his one-eyed monster
plunged deeper into my poop chute. I awoke the next morning with my chamber of
squelch still flowing. I thought it was over but his gristle missile had other
ideas. My stench trench was trembling like Micheal J. Fox licking a car
battery. The seemingly never-ending streams of cock snot emanating from his
purple beaver buster soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio.

With
his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon hammering deep into my shamevelope, the
sensation of his blind butler smashing my cervix made me quiver like an
epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. The fucking makes me spritz my shrimp sap
all over his throbbing quim dagger. He cut a giant hardened fudge nugget on my
tatas just so he could devour it up like a pig at a trough. Within no time, I
could feel the shitty magician's wax draining from my fudge factory and all
over my vertical garden. 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 smush
mitten and a 15" spiked vibrator up my tradesman's entrance. The feeling
of his love piss flowing down my throat got my vertical moisture flowing
quicker than a greased weasel shit. My wizards sleeve was trembling like
Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. After having my gashtray raided, he then
proceeded to slam my brown eye. There was steamin' semen haemorrhaging from his
tenderloin truncheon and I was wetter than an otter's pocket. We were ready for
more. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries
as his spam dagger shoved deeper into my puckered brown eye. Now, I've seen
more helmets than Hitler, but the sight of his batter blaster made my beige
slime flow like a rabid dog. If I don't buff the muff to get my tuna tunnel
tears foaming from my vibrator crater, his womb ferret is going to leave my
furburger resembling that bathroom door in The Shining. The hammering of my
turd-herder was so vigorous, he soon found his clock weights joining his eight
inches of throbbing pink jesus deep in my tradesman's entrance. Hours of
raiding like this would leave any girl's open-faced ham sandwich looking like a
gutted trout, and I was no different! Inserting an antique doorknob into my
clam-flavoured pothole got me pouring flange custard faster than snot off a
whip. The unrelenting orgasms from his mutton dagger thrusting my herring hole
made me come so hard, I began sweating like a whore in a confessional. The
mixture of toilet twinkie and cock snot in my ring piece created the delicious
porthole pudding that he was so fond of. It was bliss having his womb raider
rammed inside me again; stuffing my cod cave with a 15" spiked vibrator
just didn't get my penis pothole spritzing like it used to. With my clap flaps
now much like a horse's collar, he thought it was time to start plunging my
ring piece. Is now the time to tell him I really need to blast a sewer trout, I
wondered? When he removed his bugger king from my rusty bullet hole, he was
pleasantly surprised to see a butt nugget staring back as him. He knew I
couldn't wait to gobble the footlong fudge bullet off his cunt stretcher. My
mouth was so full of jebend and creamy load, the baby gravy was trickling down
my chin and onto my droopies. I can't wait to suck the steamin' semen from his
cervix cigar. I awoke the next morning with my hatchet wound still sliming. I
thought it was over but his love lollipop had other ideas. He munched on my
vertical smile, even though I'd been up on bricks for the best part of a week.
The seemingly never-ending streams of baby gravy emanating from his pink
tractor beam soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio.

With
my velcro triangle now much like John Wayne's saddlebags, he thought it was
time to start stuffing my Mavis Fritter. Is now the time to tell him I really
need to drop a butt nugget, I wondered? Within no time, I could feel the shitty
cock snot dripping from my old dirt road and all over my vertical garden. It
was bliss having his cheese-crusted cock probed inside me again; stuffing my
tampon tunnel with a 15" spiked vibrator just didn't get my herring hole
gushing like it used to. With his cunt plunger slamming deep into my fuck
trench, the sensation of his long-dong silver smashing my cervix made me quiver
like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. The feeling of his creamy load
dribbling down my throat got my minge mucus flowing quicker than a greased
weasel shit. The raiding of my rusty bullet hole was so vigorous, he soon found
his sperm factories joining his devil's bagpipe deep in my vintage golf bag.
Now, I've seen more action than Helmand Province, but the sight of his veiny
quim prod made my beige slime slime like a George Foreman grill. By now, my
clunge pool was oozing like someone had poured fairy liquid into Niagara Falls.
He launched a giant colon cobra on my chesticles just so he could lap it up
like a pig at a trough. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the
least of my worries as his one-eyed monster plunged deeper into my chocolate
starfish. Hours of pounding like this would leave any girl's clap flaps looking
like a blind cobbler's thumb, and I was no different! The mixture of footlong
fudge bullet and baby gravy in my poop chute created the delicious sphincter
sauce that he was so fond of. After having my meat purse fucked, he then
proceeded to hammer my soft tight anus. My quim was trembling like Muhammad Ali
on a tumble dryer. I can't wait to lap the man fat from his batter blaster. My
throat was so full of tallywacker and penis pudding, the Da Vinci load was
frothing down my chin and onto my top bollocks. I awoke the next morning with
my hatchet wound still flowing. I thought it was over but his stilton sword had
other ideas. When he removed his tenderloin truncheon from my other vagina, he
was pleasantly surprised to see a footlong fudge bullet staring back as him. He
knew I couldn't wait to suck the hardened fudge nugget off his purple-headed
trouser snake. Inserting a squash into my birth cannon got me spattering minge
mucus faster than snot off a whip. The unrelenting orgasms from his one-eyed
milkman slamming my cod canyon made me come so hard, I began sweating like a
gypsy near an unlocked shipping container. If I don't get a stinky pinky to get
my minge monsoon dripping from my carp cavity, his purple-headed trouser snake
is going to leave my purple cabbage resembling that bathroom door in The
Shining. There was Da Vinci load frothing from his thrill drill and I was
wetter than an English summer. We were ready for more. He munched on my
vertical garden, even though I'd had Aunt Flo visiting for the best part of a
week. Some girls are happy just to dial the rotary phone when they're alone,
but I can't get off without having a squash in my one slice toaster and a
9-iron up my rusty bullet hole. The seemingly never-ending streams of penis
pudding emanating from his turgid terror truncheon soon had me coated like a
plasterer's radio.