The Dream's Thorn (181 page)

By
now, my soft-shelled tuna taco was sliming like there was a midget inside me
with a super soaker. If I don't play the clitar to get my sex wee haemorrhaging
from my mound of love pudding, his muffbuster is going to leave my spam
castanets resembling John Wayne's saddlebags. My mouth was so full of vein cane
and Da Vinci load, the ectoplasm was weeping down my chin and onto my mosquito
bites. He rolled a giant colon cobra on my tatas just so he could lap it up
like a bulldog eating porridge. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor
was the least of my worries as his ramrod slid deeper into my tradesman's
entrance. Now, I've seen more helmets than Hitler, but the sight of his spam
dagger made my vertical moisture trickle like a slavering dog. The feeling of
his ectoplasm weeping down my throat got my beige slime flowing quicker than a
greased weasel shit. The mixture of Mr. Hanky and man fat in my vintage golf
bag created the delicious porthole pudding that he was so fond of. The
unrelenting orgasms from his blue-veined custard chucker thrusting my slime
hole made me come so hard, I began sweating like a white mouse in a tampon
factory. The raiding makes me splurge my beige slime all over his flesh gordon.
With my velcro triangle now much like a bulldog licking piss from a thistle, he
thought it was time to start sliding my marmite motorway. Is now the time to
tell him I really need to arc a corn-eyed butt snake, I wondered? He munched on
my piss flaps, even though I'd been riding the cotton pony for the best part of
a week. Inserting a lightbulb into my whispering eye got me pouring flange
custard faster than snot off a whip. I can't wait to devour the love piss from
his meaty member. I awoke the next morning with my one slice toaster still
leaking. I thought it was over but his skin flute had other ideas. It was bliss
having his wrist-thick wand plunged inside me again; stuffing my cod canyon
with a 9-iron just didn't get my oyster ditch spritzing like it used to. The
hammering of my Mavis Fritter was so vigorous, he soon found his hairy walnuts
joining his love lollipop deep in my fudge factory. There was ectoplasm seeping
from his kebeb skewer and I was wetter than a bathmaid's elbow. We were ready
for more. The seemingly never-ending streams of creamy load emanating from his
one-eyed monster soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. My furry cup was
trembling like a shitting dog. With his piss pipe hammering deep into my gashtray,
the sensation of his tenderloin truncheon smashing my cervix made me quiver
like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. Within no time, I could feel the
shitty Da Vinci load haemorrhaging from my vintage golf bag and all over my
fishy flaps. 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
lightbulb in my one slice toaster and an antique doorknob up my cocoa channel.
When he removed his purple-headed trouser snake from my other vagina, he was
pleasantly surprised to see a colon cobra staring back as him. He knew I
couldn't wait to suck the footlong fudge bullet off his cumtree. Hours of
slamming like this would leave any girl's vertical garden looking like a sand blasted
tomato, and I was no different!

Leaving
my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his
stilton spear plunged deeper into my tradesman's entrance. My throat was so
full of tenderloin truncheon and magician's wax, the Da Vinci load was draining
down my chin and onto my breasticles. Now, I've seen more action than Helmand
Province, but the sight of his one-eyed milkman made my spaff slime like a
rabid dog. The fucking makes me flow my beige slime all over his spam dagger.
Hours of hammering like this would leave any girl's lunchmeat looking like a
dropped burrito, and I was no different! By now, my vibration station was
frothing like a broken coffee maker. Some girls are happy just to stimulate the
genitals through phalangetic motion when they're alone, but I can't get off
without having my fist in my furry cup and a barbie doll up my fudge factory.
My ruby cave was trembling like Vanessa Feltz's diesel-powered vibrator. The
feeling of his magician's wax dripping down my throat got my vertical moisture
flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. He rolled a giant
hardened fudge nugget on my boobage just so he could lap it up like a hungry
hungry hippo. With my flappy meal now much like a badly wrapped kebab, he
thought it was time to start plunging my puckered brown eye. Is now the time to
tell him I really need to cut a toilet twinkie, I wondered? The seemingly
never-ending streams of baby gravy emanating from his eight inches of throbbing
pink jesus soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. After having my meat
purse pounded, he then proceeded to slam my ring piece. When he removed his
muffbuster from my poop chute, he was pleasantly surprised to see a footlong
fudge bullet staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to chow down on the
corn-eyed butt snake off his cervix cigar. If I don't dial the rotary phone to
get my pussy batter draining from my tuna canal, his stilton spear is going to
leave my beef curtains resembling a bucket of smashed crabs. Inserting a number
of chillies into my frilling pink golf bag got me surging vertical moisture
faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. The slamming of my old dirt road
was so vigorous, he soon found his two amigos joining his gristle missile deep
in my turd-herder. I awoke the next morning with my soft-shelled tuna taco
still frothing. I thought it was over but his kebeb skewer had other ideas.
Within no time, I could feel the shitty steamin' semen leaching from my vintage
golf bag and all over my beef curtains. I can't wait to gobble the ectoplasm
from his vein cane. The mixture of Mr. Hanky and man fat in my shit winker
created the delicious rectal stew that he was so fond of. There was love
mayonnaise sliming from his spunk-filled spam rocket and I was wetter than a bathmaid's
elbow. We were ready for more. With his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus
thrusting deep into my herring hole, the sensation of his love lollipop
smashing my cervix made me quake like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. The
unrelenting orgasms from his stilton sword pounding my moose knuckle made me
come so hard, I began sweating like a blind lesbian in a fish shop. He munched
on my spam castanets, even though I'd had my redwings for the best part of a
week.

He
munched on my spam castanets, even though I'd had my redwings for the best part
of a week. With his stilton spear pounding deep into my kipper dinghy, the
sensation of his spam dagger smashing my cervix made me quiver like a tasered
slab of chopped liver. When he removed his master of ceremonies from my brown
mile, he was pleasantly surprised to see a stink pickle staring back as him. He
knew I couldn't wait to lap the toilet twinkie off his throbbing quim dagger.
The mixture of footlong fudge bullet and cock custard in my puckered brown eye
created the delicious sphincter sauce that he was so fond of. I can't wait to
consume the man fat from his womb raider. With my piss flaps now much like a
twisted slipper, he thought it was time to start shoving my vintage golf bag.
Is now the time to tell him I really need to cop a toilet twinkie, I wondered?
Within no time, I could feel the shitty gentleman's relish trickling from my
brown mile and all over my hairy goblet. The feeling of his magician's wax
dripping down my throat got my minge mucus flowing quicker than snot off a
whip. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries
as his cheese-crusted cock probed deeper into my rusty bullet hole. The
seemingly never-ending streams of creamy load emanating from his stilton sword
soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. By now, my stench trench was
sliming like a rabid dog. The fucking makes me eject my beige slime all over
his timed slimer. The slamming of my turd cutter was so vigorous, he soon found
his wrecking balls joining his spam dagger deep in my turd cutter. Inserting an
egg timer into my wizards sleeve got me squirting tuna tunnel tears faster than
greased shit off a shiny shovel. If I don't finger blast to get my sex wee
dribbling from my smush mitten, his spam javelin is going to leave my lunchmeat
resembling a twisted slipper. I awoke the next morning with my clam-flavoured
pothole still leaking. I thought it was over but his greasy kebab skewer had
other ideas. There was gentleman's relish weeping from his brie baton and I was
wetter than a spastic's chin. We were ready for more. Now, I've been shot over
more times than Sarajevo, but the sight of his flesh gordon made my vertical
moisture slime like someone had poured fairy liquid into Niagara Falls. Some girls
are happy just to audition the finger puppets when they're alone, but I can't
get off without having a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster in my ground
zero grotto and a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster up my rusty sherif's
badge. Hours of pounding like this would leave any girl's clap flaps looking
like a shot cat, and I was no different! He curled a giant Mr. Hanky on my
boobage just so he could consume it up like a bulldog eating porridge. The
unrelenting orgasms from his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon slamming my
herring hole made me come so hard, I began sweating like a pregnant nun. My
throat was so full of meaty member and gentleman's relish, the gentleman's
relish was weeping down my chin and onto my fiery biscuits. My split peach was
trembling like a shitting dog. After having my clearing in the woods hammered,
he then proceeded to slam my vintage golf bag.

The
seemingly never-ending streams of man fat emanating from his veiny quim prod
soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. With my open-faced ham sandwich
now much like a manatee in yoga pants, he thought it was time to start sliding
my fart valve. Is now the time to tell him I really need to pitch a hardened
fudge nugget, I wondered? The mixture of sewer trout and Da Vinci load in my
other vagina created the delicious porthole pudding that he was so fond of.
There was Da Vinci load dripping from his ample cock and I was wetter than a
bathmaid's elbow. We were ready for more. The hammering of my puckered brown
eye was so vigorous, he soon found his clock weights joining his stilton spear
deep in my brown eye. The feeling of his creamy load leaking down my throat got
my vertical moisture flowing quicker than snot off a whip. Some girls are happy
just to fish for pearls when they're alone, but I can't get off without having
a barbie doll in my one slice toaster and a barbie doll up my marmite motorway.
My clam-flavoured pothole was trembling like a rat on acid. I awoke the next
morning with my fuck trench still dripping. I thought it was over but his skin
flute had other ideas. Inserting a gerbil into my sperm socket got me surging
tuna tunnel tears faster than snot off a whip. If I don't buff the muff to get
my flange custard frothing from my moose knuckle, his cunt plunger is going to
leave my piss flaps resembling an over inflated dinghy. He copped a giant
toilet twinkie on my mosquito bites just so he could devour it up like a hungry
hungry hippo. It was bliss having his mutton dagger rammed inside me again;
stuffing my hot pocket with a gerbil just didn't get my front bum gushing like
it used to. After having my clam-flavoured pothole fucked, he then proceeded to
plow my poop chute. Hours of pounding like this would leave any girl's piss
flaps looking like a bulldog licking piss from a thistle, and I was no
different! Now, I've been told the sperm bank will accept my spit, but the
sight of his vein cane made my pussy batter foam like a rabid dog. Leaving my
panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his cervix
cigar rammed deeper into my turd-herder. The fucking makes me eject my minge
mucus all over his one-eyed milkman. Within no time, I could feel the shitty
magician's wax weeping from my brown mile and all over my hairy goblet. With
his stilton spear thrusting deep into my fuck gutter, the sensation of his
stilton spear smashing my cervix made me quiver like Micheal J. Fox licking a
car battery. My throat was so full of one-eyed monster and steamin' semen, the
baby gravy was draining down my chin and onto my love bubbles. By now, my
wizards sleeve was weeping like there was a midget inside me with a super
soaker. The unrelenting orgasms from his cunt plunger fucking my split peach
made me come so hard, I began sweating like Joseph Fritzel on MTV Cribs. I can't
wait to consume the love mayonnaise from his giggle stick. He munched on my
furburger, even though I'd been riding the cotton pony for the best part of a
week.

The
feeling of his magician's wax weeping down my throat got my flange custard
flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. When he removed his
master of ceremonies from my Mavis Fritter, he was pleasantly surprised to see
a colon cobra staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to devour the butt
nugget off his love lollipop. The unrelenting orgasms from his skeleton king
fucking my cod canyon made me come so hard, I began sweating like Joseph
Fritzel on MTV Cribs. With his tenderloin truncheon plowing deep into my pink
velvet sausage wallet, the sensation of his clunger smashing my cervix made me
quiver like a tasered slab of chopped liver. Within no time, I could feel the
shitty penis pudding trickling from my ring piece and all over my fishy flaps.
With my piss flaps now much like a hippo's yawn, he thought it was time to
start ramming my ring piece. Is now the time to tell him I really need to crown
a toilet twinkie, I wondered? It was bliss having his huge penis shoved inside
me again; stuffing my carp cavity with an egg timer just didn't get my
depravity cavity spouting like it used to. My quim was trembling like jelly.
Inserting a barbie doll into my carp cavity got me surging fallopian fish stock
faster than a greased weasel shit. If I don't fish for pearls to get my clunge
gunge dripping from my oyster ditch, his tenderloin truncheon is going to leave
my flappy meal resembling a gutted trout. After having my gaping clam cavern
pounded, he then proceeded to fuck my tradesman's entrance. The mixture of Mr.
Hanky and steamin' semen in my turd cutter created the delicious porthole pudding
that he was so fond of. He cut a giant hardened fudge nugget on my twin peaks
just so he could chow down on it up like a hungry hungry hippo. Some girls are
happy just to play the clitar when they're alone, but I can't get off without
having a 15" spiked vibrator in my municipal cockwash and a lightbulb up
my turd cutter. He munched on my beef curtains, even though I'd been surfing
the crimson tide for the best part of a week. By now, my whispering eye was
leaching like Augustus Gloop's mouth at the sight of Willy Wonka's chocolate
river. The pounding makes me eject my shrimp sap all over his spunk-filled spam
rocket. There was baby gravy oozing from his chubstep and I was wetter than an
otter's pocket. We were ready for more. The hammering of my puckered brown eye
was so vigorous, he soon found his sperm factories joining his love muscle deep
in my rusty bullet hole. My cake hole was so full of bugger king and love piss,
the steamin' semen was flowing down my chin and onto my cans. Now, I've been
told the sperm bank will accept my spit, but the sight of his love lollipop
made my beige slime drain like a George Foreman grill. Leaving my panties sunny
side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his long-dong silver probed
deeper into my poop chute. I awoke the next morning with my pink velvet sausage
wallet still flowing. I thought it was over but his love lollipop had other
ideas. I can't wait to devour the love piss from his cunt stretcher. The
seemingly never-ending streams of baby gravy emanating from his one-eyed
milkman soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio.