The Dream's Thorn (149 page)

I
can't wait to consume the creamy load from his battering ram. By now, my cod
crater was dripping like a slavering dog. Inserting a 15" spiked vibrator
into my wizards sleeve got me spritzing fallopian fish stock faster than
greased shit off a shiny shovel. With his blind butler raiding deep into my
herring hole, the sensation of his mutton dagger smashing my cervix made me
quiver like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. If I don't dial the rotary
phone to get my beige slime trickling from my cod cave, his devil's bagpipe is
going to leave my hairy goblet resembling Pete Burns' lips. I awoke the next
morning with my fuck gutter still dribbling. I thought it was over but his
turgid terror truncheon had other ideas. The unrelenting orgasms from his pink
tractor beam plowing my clam-flavoured pothole made me come so hard, I began
sweating like a fat slag in a disco. Now, I've seen more pricks than a second
hand dartboard, but the sight of his skeleton king made my shrimp sap drain
like a slug in a salt mine. There was gentleman's relish haemorrhaging from his
stilton sword and I was wetter than a bathmaid's elbow. We were ready for more.
The fucking of my rusty bullet hole was so vigorous, he soon found his salty
protein grapes joining his piss pipe deep in my soft tight anus. It was bliss
having his womb raider stuffed inside me again; stuffing my clunge pool with a
15" spiked vibrator just didn't get my tuna canal splurging like it used
to. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries
as his muffbuster slid deeper into my Oxo orifice. After having my vaginal
bacon buffet pounded, he then proceeded to raid my chocolate starfish. My cake
hole was so full of eight inches of throbbing pink jesus and love mayonnaise,
the penis pudding was flowing down my chin and onto my cans. Hours of fucking
like this would leave any girl's hairy goblet looking like a horse's collar,
and I was no different! With my beef curtains now much like a dropped burrito,
he thought it was time to start stuffing my other vagina. Is now the time to
tell him I really need to roll a footlong fudge bullet, I wondered? The raiding
makes me squirt my shrimp sap all over his all-beef thermometer. The seemingly
never-ending streams of love piss emanating from his brie baton soon had me
coated like a plasterer's radio. He curled a giant corn-eyed butt snake on my
superdroopers just so he could suck it up like a bulldog eating porridge. The
mixture of hardened fudge nugget and cock snot in my rusty sherif's badge
created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. He munched on my meaty
hangers, even though I'd been up on bricks 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 a squash in my cock holster and a gerbil up my poop chute.
My birth cannon was trembling like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. When he
removed his tenderloin truncheon 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 stink pickle off his greasy slimelight. Within no time, I could
feel the shitty Da Vinci load oozing from my poop chute and all over my piss
flaps.

If
I don't tune the tuna to get my spaff foaming from my fuck gutter, his giggle
stick is going to leave my furburger resembling a stamped bat. My vaginal bacon
buffet was trembling like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. He copped a
giant footlong fudge bullet on my superdroopers just so he could chow down on
it up like a hungry hungry hippo. Inserting a gerbil into my clunge pool got me
gushing pussy batter faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. With his
cream reaper hammering deep into my herring hole, the sensation of his stilton
spear smashing my cervix made me quiver like a tasered slab of chopped liver.
Within no time, I could feel the shitty baby gravy trickling from my puckered
brown eye and all over my vertical garden. Hours of raiding like this would
leave any girl's roast beef platter looking like a sand blasted tomato, and I
was no different! He munched on my velcro triangle, even though I'd had the
painters in for the best part of a week. Leaving my panties sunny side up on
the floor was the least of my worries as his turgid terror truncheon plunged
deeper into my vintage golf bag. By now, my wizards sleeve was dribbling like a
rabid dog. The feeling of his Da Vinci load sliming down my throat got my minge
monsoon flowing quicker than snot off a whip. With my vertical smile now much
like an over inflated dinghy, he thought it was time to start sliding my poo
pipe. Is now the time to tell him I really need to extrude a Mr. Hanky, I
wondered? It was bliss having his cervix cigar slid inside me again; stuffing
my kipper dinghy with a barbie doll just didn't get my whispering eye flooding
like it used to. The unrelenting orgasms from his washington monument hammering
my enchilada of love made me come so hard, I began sweating like a whore in a
confessional. 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
9-iron in my shamevelope and a gerbil up my fudge factory. My throat was so
full of disco stick and creamy load, the cock snot was oozing down my chin and
onto my love bubbles. The slamming makes me spout my fallopian fish stock all
over his love lollipop. The seemingly never-ending streams of man fat emanating
from his bugger king soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. After having
my penis pothole pounded, he then proceeded to slam my balloon knot. The
mixture of stink pickle and love piss in my old dirt road created the delicious
rectoplasm that he was so fond of. There was cock snot draining from his
tenderloin truncheon and I was wetter than a spastic's chin. We were ready for
more. The pounding of my cocoa channel was so vigorous, he soon found his kids
on a swing joining his greasy slimelight deep in my other vagina. Now, I've
been shot over more times than Sarajevo, but the sight of his ample cock made
my vertical moisture trickle like Adele waiting for Greggs to open. I awoke the
next morning with my cum dumpster still frothing. I thought it was over but his
blue-veined custard chucker had other ideas. I can't wait to gobble the penis
pudding from his veiny quim prod.

Now,
I've seen more pricks than a second hand dartboard, but the sight of his
one-eyed monster made my beige slime slobber like a slavering dog. My cake hole
was so full of spam dagger and Da Vinci load, the steamin' semen was dribbling
down my chin and onto my chest puppies. After having my salmon slit hammered,
he then proceeded to slam my poop chute. With his throbbing quim dagger fucking
deep into my clunge pool, the sensation of his giggle stick smashing my cervix
made me quiver like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. He eased out a giant
Mr. Hanky on my top bollocks just so he could suck 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 stilton sword plunged deeper into my shit winker. The fucking of
my shit winker was so vigorous, he soon found his salty protein grapes joining his
spunk-filled spam rocket deep in my turd-herder. By now, my cod crater was
frothing like Wayne Rooney's dick in an OAP home. I can't wait to chow down on
the ectoplasm from his long-dong silver. The feeling of his love piss oozing
down my throat got my sex wee flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny
shovel. Inserting a squash into my south mouth got me spritzing spaff faster
than a greased weasel shit. It was bliss having his batter blaster stuffed
inside me again; stuffing my municipal cockwash with a number of chillies just
didn't get my soft-shelled tuna taco spritzing like it used to. If I don't fish
for pearls to get my beige slime dribbling from my cod crater, his womb raider
is going to leave my fishy flaps resembling a werewolf with it's throat cut.
The unrelenting orgasms from his spam dagger fucking my carp cavity made me
come so hard, I began sweating like a fat slag in a disco. Some girls are happy
just to audition the finger puppets when they're alone, but I can't get off
without having an egg timer in my ruby cave and a number of chillies up my shit
winker. With my vertical smile now much like a manatee in yoga pants, he
thought it was time to start stuffing my cocoa channel. Is now the time to tell
him I really need to launch a corn-eyed butt snake, I wondered? My wunder down
under was trembling like a tasered slab of chopped liver. Within no time, I
could feel the shitty love mayonnaise trickling from my chocolate starfish and
all over my beef curtains. He munched on my velcro triangle, even though I'd
been surfing the crimson tide for the best part of a week. The mixture of butt
nugget and penis pudding in my rusty sherif's badge created the delicious
rectal stew that he was so fond of. The seemingly never-ending streams of
magician's wax emanating from his bald-headed yogurt slinger soon had me coated
like a plasterer's radio. When he removed his wensleydale wand from my turd
cutter, he was pleasantly surprised to see a colon cobra staring back as him.
He knew I couldn't wait to gobble the sewer trout off his gristle missile. I
awoke the next morning with my vibration station still slobbering. I thought it
was over but his throbbing quim dagger had other ideas. Hours of raiding like
this would leave any girl's piss flaps looking like the south end of a badger
going north, and I was no different! The pounding makes me squirt my shrimp sap
all over his slut slayer.

The
mixture of sewer trout and love piss in my Mavis Fritter created the delicious
sphincter sauce that he was so fond of. After having my clearing in the woods
pounded, he then proceeded to plow my fart valve. The unrelenting orgasms from
his wrist-thick wand raiding my sperm socket made me come so hard, I began
sweating like a pregnant nun. The fucking makes me surge my spaff all over his
spunk-filled spam rocket. When he removed his jade rod from my rusty sherif's
badge, he was pleasantly surprised to see a toilet twinkie staring back as him.
He knew I couldn't wait to devour the corn-eyed butt snake off his blue-veined
custard chucker. He munched on my meaty hangers, even though I'd been riding
the cotton pony for the best part of a week. If I don't study english
cliterature to get my sex wee oozing from my tampon tunnel, his devil's bagpipe
is going to leave my velcro triangle resembling a horse's collar. With my
furburger now much like a sand blasted tomato, he thought it was time to start
stuffing my brown mile. Is now the time to tell him I really need to ease a
corn-eyed butt snake, I wondered? My cake hole was so full of bald-headed
yogurt slinger and love piss, the creamy load was haemorrhaging down my chin
and onto my rack. Within no time, I could feel the shitty man fat leaching from
my Oxo orifice and all over my meaty hangers. There was love mayonnaise oozing
from his ramrod and I was wetter than an otter's pocket. We were ready for
more. My fuck gutter was trembling like a tasered slab of chopped liver. It was
bliss having his jebend stuffed inside me again; stuffing my soft-shelled tuna
taco with a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster just didn't get my ladytown
splurging like it used to. The feeling of his Da Vinci load dripping down my
throat got my flange custard flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny
shovel. Hours of plowing like this would leave any girl's piss flaps looking
like a badly wrapped kebab, and I was no different! I can't wait to lap the
magician's wax from his washington monument. I awoke the next morning with my
calamari cockring still foaming. I thought it was over but his wensleydale wand
had other ideas. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of
my worries as his love lollipop shoved deeper into my marmite motorway. Some
girls are happy just to study english cliterature when they're alone, but I
can't get off without having an egg timer in my spunk dungeon and a number of
chillies up my mud flap. The raiding of my poop chute was so vigorous, he soon
found his sperm factories joining his stilton spear deep in my puckered brown
eye. With his gristle missile raiding deep into my stench trench, the sensation
of his long-dong silver smashing my cervix made me quiver like a tasered slab
of chopped liver. He eased out a giant colon cobra on my sweater puppies just
so he could devour it up like a bulldog eating porridge. The seemingly
never-ending streams of ectoplasm emanating from his cervix cigar soon had me
coated like a plasterer's radio. Inserting a gerbil into my herring hole got me
gushing vertical moisture faster than snot off a whip. By now, my frilling pink
golf bag was draining like a hungry pig at a trough.

He
munched on my fishy flaps, even though I'd been on the rag for the best part of
a week. When he removed his cumtree from my old dirt road, he was pleasantly
surprised to see a corn-eyed butt snake staring back as him. He knew I couldn't
wait to devour the colon cobra off his stilton spear. The hammering makes me
squirt my minge mucus all over his timed slimer. The feeling of his cock
custard haemorrhaging down my throat got my fallopian fish stock flowing
quicker than snot off a whip. If I don't audition the finger puppets to get my
vertical moisture trickling from my ground zero grotto, his eight inches of
throbbing pink jesus is going to leave my velcro triangle resembling a rabid
baboon's arse. With my spam castanets now much like a bucket of smashed crabs,
he thought it was time to start sliding my tradesman's entrance. Is now the
time to tell him I really need to pitch a Mr. Hanky, I wondered? Inserting a 10
inch purple battery-operated monster into my whispering eye got me pouring
beige slime faster than a greased weasel shit. After having my birth cannon
hammered, he then proceeded to hammer my old dirt road. The seemingly
never-ending streams of steamin' semen emanating from his mutton dagger soon
had me coated like a plasterer's radio. He pitched a giant toilet twinkie on my
droopies just so he could consume it up like a hungry hungry hippo. There was
man fat flowing from his bald-headed yogurt slinger and I was wetter than an
Italian cruise ship. We were ready for more. With his muffbuster plowing deep
into my shamevelope, the sensation of his womb raider smashing my cervix made
me quiver like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. The unrelenting orgasms
from his jade rod thrusting my quim made me come so hard, I began sweating like
a blind lesbian in a fish shop. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor
was the least of my worries as his love lollipop slid deeper into my balloon
knot. Hours of hammering like this would leave any girl's spam castanets looking
like a bucket of smashed crabs, and I was no different! I awoke the next
morning with my cod canyon still frothing. I thought it was over but his
washington monument had other ideas. Now, I've seen more helmets than Hitler,
but the sight of his wensleydale wand made my tuna tunnel tears seep like a
slavering dog. 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 municipal cockwash and a gerbil up my turd-herder. The hammering of my
vintage golf bag was so vigorous, he soon found his trouser conkors joining his
one-eyed milkman deep in my brown eye. I can't wait to consume the baby gravy
from his spunk-filled spam rocket. Within no time, I could feel the shitty love
piss slobbering from my old dirt road and all over my hairy goblet. My throat
was so full of veiny quim prod and Da Vinci load, the Da Vinci load was leaking
down my chin and onto my breasticles. It was bliss having his Nelson's Column
rammed inside me again; stuffing my cock holster with a 15" spiked
vibrator just didn't get my vibration station squirting like it used to. The
mixture of colon cobra and man fat in my marmite motorway created the delicious
sphincter sauce that he was so fond of. My meat purse was trembling like a
tasered slab of chopped liver.