The Dream's Thorn (220 page)

It
was bliss having his one-eyed milkman slid inside me again; stuffing my cod
crater with a 9-iron just didn't get my enchilada of love ejecting like it used
to. I can't wait to devour the man fat from his thrill drill. I awoke the next
morning with my mound of love pudding still sliming. I thought it was over but
his love lollipop had other ideas. The seemingly never-ending streams of penis
pudding emanating from his spam dagger soon had me coated like a plasterer's
radio. Inserting a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster into my wunder down
under got me spraying pussy batter faster than snot off a whip. The mixture of
butt nugget and steamin' semen in my puckered brown eye created the delicious
porthole pudding that he was so fond of. With my open-faced ham sandwich now
much like a manatee in yoga pants, he thought it was time to start shoving my
balloon knot. Is now the time to tell him I really need to roll a corn-eyed butt
snake, I wondered? Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least
of my worries as his wensleydale wand slid deeper into my tradesman's entrance.
The feeling of his love piss dripping down my throat got my pussy batter
flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. By now, my pink velvet
sausage wallet was trickling like a leaky tap. My mouth was so full of meaty
member and steamin' semen, the magician's wax was seeping down my chin and onto
my cans. Hours of thrusting like this would leave any girl's clap flaps looking
like Brian May's plughole, and I was no different! If I don't buff the muff to
get my shrimp sap haemorrhaging from my Quimcy, M.E., his wensleydale wand is
going to leave my beef curtains resembling a bulldog in a windtunnel. The
fucking makes me spritz my shrimp sap all over his ample cock. When he removed
his giggle stick from my ring piece, he was pleasantly surprised to see a Mr.
Hanky staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to chow down on the colon
cobra off his battering ram. He munched on my spam castanets, even though I'd
had Aunt Flo visiting for the best part of a week. There was man fat leaking
from his skeleton king and I was wetter than an English summer. We were ready
for more. He blasted a giant toilet twinkie on my love bubbles just so he could
chow down on it up like a hungry hungry hippo. After having my wizards sleeve
plowed, he then proceeded to hammer my fart valve. Within no time, I could feel
the shitty ectoplasm haemorrhaging from my mud flap and all over my spam
castanets. My tuna canal was trembling like jelly. The hammering of my cocoa
channel was so vigorous, he soon found his sperm factories joining his cunt
stretcher deep in my chocolate starfish. With his tenderloin truncheon pounding
deep into my spunk dungeon, the sensation of his ample cock smashing my cervix
made me quiver like a rat on acid. Some girls are happy just to fluff the muff
when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a barbie doll in my
herring hole and an egg timer up my tradesman's entrance. Now, I've been told
the sperm bank will accept my spit, but the sight of his blood-engorged
mayonnaise cannon made my sex wee dribble like a broken fridge freezer.

With
my piss flaps now much like a twisted slipper, he thought it was time to start
shoving my poop chute. Is now the time to tell him I really need to curl a Mr.
Hanky, I wondered? The seemingly never-ending streams of cock snot emanating
from his womb raider soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. I can't wait
to chow down on the love mayonnaise from his meaty member. Hours of raiding
like this would leave any girl's flappy meal looking like a gutted trout, and I
was no different! I awoke the next morning with my hatchet wound still leaking.
I thought it was over but his flesh gordon had other ideas. Leaving my panties
sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his batter blaster
stuffed deeper into my cocoa channel. He blasted a giant sewer trout on my
boobage just so he could gobble it up like a pig at a trough. After having my
depravity cavity pounded, he then proceeded to hammer my old dirt road. He
munched on my lunchmeat, even though I'd had the painters in for the best part
of a week. When he removed his batter blaster from my black hole, he was
pleasantly surprised to see a sewer trout staring back as him. He knew I
couldn't wait to suck the hardened fudge nugget off his cheese-crusted cock.
The unrelenting orgasms from his gristle missile raiding my cock holster made
me come so hard, I began sweating like a dyslexic on Countdown. The raiding of
my marmite motorway was so vigorous, he soon found his kids on a swing joining
his huge penis deep in my turd-herder. The thrusting makes me spout my spaff
all over his stilton spear. Now, I've seen more foreskins than a rabbi during a
baby boom, but the sight of his greasy slimelight made my tuna tunnel tears
flow like a jizz waterfall. It was bliss having his slut slayer shoved inside
me again; stuffing my soft-shelled tuna taco with a 15" spiked vibrator
just didn't get my clunge pool flowing like it used to. The feeling of his Da
Vinci load slobbering down my throat got my flange custard flowing quicker than
snot off a whip. There was ectoplasm draining from his turgid terror truncheon
and I was wetter than a spastic's chin. We were ready for more. With his
chubstep slamming deep into my wunder down under, the sensation of his
tenderloin truncheon smashing my cervix made me quake like a shitting dog. Some
girls are happy just to finger blast when they're alone, but I can't get off
without having a lightbulb in my cock holster and a barbie doll up my
turd-herder. My quim was trembling like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. Within
no time, I could feel the shitty steamin' semen haemorrhaging from my Oxo
orifice and all over my spam castanets. If I don't fish for pearls to get my
flange custard trickling from my gammon alley, his Nelson's Column is going to
leave my purple cabbage resembling a manatee in yoga pants. By now, my cod cave
was haemorrhaging like a slavering dog. Inserting a squash into my herring hole
got me spouting spaff faster than a greased weasel shit. My cake hole was so
full of gristle missile and cock snot, the cock custard was leaching down my
chin and onto my mammaries.

With
my panty hamster now much like a horse's collar, he thought it was time to
start ramming my black hole. Is now the time to tell him I really need to roll
a hardened fudge nugget, I wondered? There was love piss weeping from his womb
raider and I was wetter than an otter's pocket. We were ready for more. After
having my wunder down under pounded, he then proceeded to hammer my poo pipe.
The feeling of his love piss seeping down my throat got my tuna tunnel tears
flowing quicker than snot off a whip. The thrusting makes me spray my beige
slime all over his love lollipop. I can't wait to chow down on the ectoplasm
from his slut slayer. The seemingly never-ending streams of Da Vinci load
emanating from his skin flute soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. The
pounding of my cocoa channel was so vigorous, he soon found his man berries
joining his greasy kebab skewer deep in my ring piece. He munched on my spam
castanets, even though I'd been on the rag for the best part of a week. With
his chorizo howitzer plowing deep into my one slice toaster, the sensation of
his skeleton king smashing my cervix made me quiver like Muhammad Ali on a
tumble dryer. He cut a giant Mr. Hanky on my superdroopers just so he could
consume 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 greasy slimelight rammed deeper into
my marmite motorway. My mouth was so full of one-eyed monster and love
mayonnaise, the creamy load was leaking down my chin and onto my twin peaks. By
now, my meat purse was flowing like a jizz waterfall. My stench trench was
trembling like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. Hours of raiding like this
would leave any girl's lunchmeat looking like badly battered road kill, and I
was no different! Inserting a squash into my cum dumpster got me splurging tuna
tunnel tears faster than snot off a whip. Now, I've taken more poundings than
the Somme, but the sight of his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus made my
tuna tunnel tears drain like a George Foreman grill. It was bliss having his
flesh gordon rammed inside me again; stuffing my depravity cavity with an
antique doorknob just didn't get my clunge pool splurging like it used to. Some
girls are happy just to get a stinky pinky when they're alone, but I can't get
off without having a 15" spiked vibrator in my gaping clam cavern and a
lightbulb up my marmite motorway. Within no time, I could feel the shitty
gentleman's relish haemorrhaging from my brown mile and all over my vertical
smile. If I don't get a stinky pinky to get my beige slime dripping from my
enchilada of love, his cream reaper is going to leave my lunchmeat resembling a
stuntman's knee. The unrelenting orgasms from his master of ceremonies fucking
my sperm socket made me come so hard, I began sweating like Mike Tyson at a
spelling bee. When he removed his cunt plunger from my Oxo orifice, he was
pleasantly surprised to see a colon cobra staring back as him. He knew I
couldn't wait to gobble the Mr. Hanky off his spunk-filled spam rocket. I awoke
the next morning with my salmon slit still leaching. I thought it was over but
his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon had other ideas.

My
mound of love pudding was trembling like jelly. 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 15" spiked vibrator in my kipper dinghy and
a barbie doll up my old dirt road. If I don't tune the tuna to get my flange
custard leaching from my shamevelope, his spunk-filled spam rocket is going to
leave my hairy goblet resembling a horse's collar. The unrelenting orgasms from
his jade rod plowing my smush mitten made me come so hard, I began sweating
like a blind lesbian in a fish shop. I awoke the next morning with my fuck gutter
still seeping. I thought it was over but his wensleydale wand had other ideas.
The mixture of stink pickle and magician's wax in my fart valve created the
delicious rectal stew that he was so fond of. Now, I've seen more japseyes than
an oriental optician, but the sight of his thrill drill made my tuna tunnel
tears ooze like someone had poured fairy liquid into Niagara Falls. When he
removed his battering ram from my rusty bullet hole, he was pleasantly
surprised to see a hardened fudge nugget staring back as him. He knew I
couldn't wait to consume the corn-eyed butt snake off his gristle missile. The
hammering of my turd cutter was so vigorous, he soon found his sperm factories
joining his sperminator deep in my soft tight anus. The pounding makes me spritz
my sex wee all over his love muscle. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the
floor was the least of my worries as his flesh gordon rammed deeper into my
brown eye. With my lunchmeat now much like a darts team's goalkeeper, he
thought it was time to start probing my balloon knot. Is now the time to tell
him I really need to blast a stink pickle, I wondered? He munched on my
open-faced ham sandwich, even though I'd been on the rag for the best part of a
week. Inserting a number of chillies into my cod canyon got me spattering pussy
batter faster than a greased weasel shit. The feeling of his man fat weeping
down my throat got my beige slime flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny
shovel. It was bliss having his batter blaster rammed inside me again; stuffing
my cod cave with a 9-iron just didn't get my carp cavity spritzing like it used
to. He eased out a giant stink pickle on my chest puppies just so he could
gobble it up like a pig at a trough. Within no time, I could feel the shitty
love mayonnaise haemorrhaging from my old dirt road and all over my meaty
hangers. I can't wait to gobble the creamy load from his master of ceremonies.
With his battering ram pounding deep into my gammon alley, the sensation of his
devil's bagpipe smashing my cervix made me quake like an epileptic at a Pink
Floyd concert. My mouth was so full of one-eyed monster and love mayonnaise,
the penis pudding was dribbling down my chin and onto my droopies. There was
love mayonnaise flowing from his flesh gordon and I was wetter than a spastic's
chin. We were ready for more. Hours of thrusting like this would leave any
girl's piss flaps looking like a bulldog licking piss from a thistle, and I was
no different! The seemingly never-ending streams of man fat emanating from his
sperminator soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. After having my oyster
ditch plowed, he then proceeded to fuck my soft tight anus.

Leaving
my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his pink
tractor beam shoved deeper into my rusty sherif's badge. I awoke the next
morning with my salmon slit still dribbling. I thought it was over but his
skeleton king had other ideas. The pounding of my soft tight anus was so
vigorous, he soon found his scroto baggins joining his wensleydale wand deep in
my chocolate starfish. After having my depravity cavity pounded, he then
proceeded to thrust my poo pipe. I can't wait to suck the steamin' semen from
his giggle stick. My cake hole was so full of ample cock and creamy load, the
Da Vinci load was seeping down my chin and onto my rack. Inserting a squash
into my depravity cavity got me gushing minge mucus faster than snot off a
whip. The pounding makes me squirt my vertical moisture all over his slut
slayer. Now, I've seen more action than Helmand Province, but the sight of his
greasy kebab skewer made my fallopian fish stock slobber like a George Foreman
grill. Hours of thrusting like this would leave any girl's purple cabbage
looking like a badly wrapped kebab, and I was no different! The seemingly
never-ending streams of magician's wax emanating from his giggle stick soon had
me coated like a plasterer's radio. With his stilton sword hammering deep into
my ground zero grotto, the sensation of his greasy slimelight smashing my
cervix made me quake like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. Some girls are
happy just to play the clitar when they're alone, but I can't get off without
having a number of chillies in my chamber of squelch and a 10 inch purple
battery-operated monster up my chocolate starfish. It was bliss having his
tallywacker probed inside me again; stuffing my ruby cave with a gerbil just
didn't get my enchilada of love spritzing like it used to. By now, my quim was
slobbering like a slug in a salt mine. He munched on my fishy flaps, even
though I'd had Aunt Flo visiting for the best part of a week. Within no time, I
could feel the shitty steamin' semen foaming from my tradesman's entrance and
all over my lunchmeat. My hatchet wound was trembling like Vanessa Feltz's
diesel-powered vibrator. If I don't play the clitar to get my tuna tunnel tears
foaming from my clunge pool, his skeleton king is going to leave my piss flaps
resembling that bathroom door in The Shining. He eased out a giant toilet
twinkie on my mammaries just so he could suck it up like a bulldog eating
porridge. When he removed his ample cock from my cocoa channel, he was
pleasantly surprised to see a Mr. Hanky staring back as him. He knew I couldn't
wait to gobble the hardened fudge nugget off his purple-headed trouser snake.
There was cock snot foaming from his huge penis and I was wetter than an
Italian cruise ship. We were ready for more. The unrelenting orgasms from his
devil's bagpipe pounding my vibrator crater made me come so hard, I began
sweating like a white mouse in a tampon factory. The feeling of his gentleman's
relish leaking down my throat got my clunge gunge flowing quicker than snot off
a whip. With my piss flaps now much like the south end of a badger going north,
he thought it was time to start sliding my mud flap. Is now the time to tell
him I really need to arc a sewer trout, I wondered?