The Dream's Thorn (23 page)

There
was ectoplasm weeping from his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon and I was
wetter than an English summer. We were ready for more. Now, I've seen more
japseyes than an oriental optician, but the sight of his thrill drill made my
minge mucus leach like Augustus Gloop's mouth at the sight of Willy Wonka's
chocolate river. Some girls are happy just to finger blast when they're alone,
but I can't get off without having a number of chillies in my pink velvet
sausage wallet and an egg timer up my black hole. Inserting a number of
chillies into my tuna canal got me spritzing shrimp sap faster than greased
shit off a shiny shovel. With his spam dagger plowing deep into my split peach,
the sensation of his long-dong silver smashing my cervix made me quake like
Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. When he removed his cunt plunger from my
puckered brown eye, he was pleasantly surprised to see a toilet twinkie staring
back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to devour the toilet twinkie off his
clunger. I can't wait to suck the man fat from his batter blaster. I awoke the
next morning with my depravity cavity still frothing. I thought it was over but
his jebend had other ideas. If I don't finger blast to get my vertical moisture
dribbling from my shame portal, his vein cane is going to leave my open-faced
ham sandwich resembling a blind cobbler's thumb. The unrelenting orgasms from
his disco stick slamming my shamevelope made me come so hard, I began sweating
like Gary glitter at PC World. The feeling of his ectoplasm leaking down my
throat got my sex wee flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. It
was bliss having his Nelson's Column stuffed inside me again; stuffing my
vibration station with an egg timer just didn't get my one slice toaster
flooding like it used to. My stench trench was trembling like a shitting dog.
The seemingly never-ending streams of ectoplasm emanating from his kebeb skewer
soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. The hammering makes me gush my
spaff all over his turgid terror truncheon. The pounding of my rusty bullet
hole was so vigorous, he soon found his scroto baggins joining his washington
monument deep in my black hole. After having my kipper dinghy fucked, he then
proceeded to slam my poo pipe. With my panty hamster now much like a twisted
slipper, he thought it was time to start plunging my fudge factory. Is now the
time to tell him I really need to pitch a footlong fudge bullet, I wondered?
Within no time, I could feel the shitty Da Vinci load oozing from my old dirt
road and all over my furburger. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor
was the least of my worries as his disco stick rammed deeper into my
tradesman's entrance. My mouth was so full of pink tractor beam and cock
custard, the Da Vinci load was draining down my chin and onto my mosquito
bites. Hours of fucking like this would leave any girl's vertical garden
looking like the south end of a badger going north, and I was no different! He
curled a giant footlong fudge bullet on my mammaries just so he could consume
it up like a bulldog eating porridge. By now, my whispering eye was draining
like a slug in a salt mine. The mixture of footlong fudge bullet and creamy
load in my rusty sherif's badge created the delicious rectal stew that he was
so fond of.

I
awoke the next morning with my hot pocket still frothing. I thought it was over
but his spam javelin had other ideas. The unrelenting orgasms from his brie
baton fucking my clunge pool made me come so hard, I began sweating like Joseph
Fritzel on MTV Cribs. The seemingly never-ending streams of love piss emanating
from his bald-headed yogurt slinger soon had me coated like a plasterer's
radio. My mouth was so full of womb raider and magician's wax, the cock snot
was leaking down my chin and onto my boobage. By now, my gaping clam cavern was
oozing like a leaky tap. The mixture of toilet twinkie and cock snot in my
balloon knot created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. The
feeling of his love mayonnaise leaking down my throat got my flange custard
flowing quicker than snot off a whip. When he removed his cream reaper from my
black hole, he was pleasantly surprised to see a Mr. Hanky staring back as him.
He knew I couldn't wait to gobble the sewer trout off his flesh gordon. Leaving
my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his jade
rod slid deeper into my marmite motorway. It was bliss having his skeleton king
probed inside me again; stuffing my soft-shelled tuna taco with a 10 inch
purple battery-operated monster just didn't get my carp cavity surging like it
used to. Inserting my fist into my chamber of squelch got me spattering
fallopian fish stock faster than snot off a whip. Within no time, I could feel
the shitty Da Vinci load dribbling from my tradesman's entrance and all over my
open-faced ham sandwich. Now, I've seen more japseyes than an oriental optician,
but the sight of his spam javelin made my minge mucus drain like Wayne Rooney's
dick in an OAP home. He munched on my lunchmeat, even though I'd been surfing
the crimson tide for the best part of a week. With my piss flaps now much like
a bulldog licking piss from a thistle, he thought it was time to start plunging
my brown mile. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cut a hardened
fudge nugget, I wondered? There was man fat sliming from his spam dagger and I
was wetter than a spastic's chin. We were ready for more. After having my pink
velvet sausage wallet fucked, he then proceeded to plow my ring piece. My
whispering eye was trembling like jelly. If I don't audition the finger puppets
to get my flange custard leaching from my split peach, his one-eyed milkman is
going to leave my open-faced ham sandwich resembling a gutted trout. The
fucking of my turd-herder was so vigorous, he soon found his man marbles
joining his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus deep in my rusty sherif's
badge. Hours of fucking like this would leave any girl's panty hamster looking
like a badly wrapped kebab, and I was no different! I can't wait to consume the
cock snot from his all-beef thermometer. He dropped a giant colon cobra on my
chesticles just so he could gobble it up like a hungry hungry hippo. Some girls
are happy just to audition the finger puppets when they're alone, but I can't
get off without having my fist in my sperm socket and a number of chillies up
my rusty sherif's badge. The raiding makes me spray my tuna tunnel tears all
over his one-eyed milkman.

He
munched on my purple cabbage, even though I'd had the painters in for the best
part of a week. When he removed his wrist-thick wand from my soft tight anus,
he was pleasantly surprised to see a footlong fudge bullet staring back as him.
He knew I couldn't wait to devour the stink pickle off his spunk-filled spam
rocket. Now, I've seen more helmets than Hitler, but the sight of his
purple-headed trouser snake made my vertical moisture leak like a jizz waterfall.
By now, my salmon slit was haemorrhaging like a leaky tap. With my spam
castanets now much like a shot cat, he thought it was time to start ramming my
fudge factory. Is now the time to tell him I really need to extrude a stink
pickle, I wondered? He extruded a giant sewer trout on my superdroopers just so
he could suck it up like a pig at a trough. The mixture of Mr. Hanky and
ectoplasm in my black hole created the delicious sphincter sauce that he was so
fond of. It was bliss having his master of ceremonies shoved inside me again;
stuffing my shamevelope with an antique doorknob just didn't get my quim
pouring like it used to. Inserting a squash into my salmon slit got me
squirting clunge gunge faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. If I don't
stimulate the genitals through phalangetic motion to get my minge mucus
dribbling from my penis pothole, his washington monument is going to leave my
roast beef platter resembling the south end of a badger going north. The
feeling of his love mayonnaise dripping down my throat got my shrimp sap
flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. I can't wait to lap the baby gravy
from his blind butler. My Quimcy, M.E. was trembling like Micheal J. Fox
licking a car battery. The thrusting of my puckered brown eye was so vigorous,
he soon found his clock weights joining his pink tractor beam deep in my rusty
sherif's badge. I awoke the next morning with my gaping clam cavern still
leaking. I thought it was over but his love muscle had other ideas. Within no
time, I could feel the shitty man fat dribbling from my mud flap and all over
my fishy flaps. 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. Hours of fucking like this would leave any girl's beef curtains looking
like the south end of a badger going north, and I was no different! After
having my Quimcy, M.E. hammered, he then proceeded to pound my Oxo orifice.
Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as
his love lollipop probed deeper into my cocoa channel. There was steamin' semen
weeping from his bald-headed yogurt slinger and I was wetter than an Italian
cruise ship. We were ready for more. The hammering makes me spit my flange
custard all over his womb raider. With his throbbing quim dagger hammering deep
into my Quimcy, M.E., the sensation of his Ocean's 11 Inches smashing my cervix
made me quiver like a tasered slab of chopped liver. Some girls are happy just
to flick the bean when they're alone, but I can't get off without having an
antique doorknob in my spunk dungeon and a gerbil up my chocolate starfish. My
throat was so full of balony pony and magician's wax, the man fat was foaming
down my chin and onto my cans.

He
munched on my meaty hangers, even though I'd been riding the cotton pony for
the best part of a week. With his womb raider slamming deep into my enchilada
of love, the sensation of his greasy slimelight smashing my cervix made me
quake like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. My mouth was so full of
purple-headed trouser snake and love piss, the gentleman's relish was seeping
down my chin and onto my cans. Some girls are happy just to strum the banjo
when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a number of chillies in
my cum dumpster and a 15" spiked vibrator up my marmite motorway. The
slamming makes me spritz my sex wee all over his cunt plunger. There was
ectoplasm leaching from his jebend and I was wetter than a well diggers arse.
We were ready for more. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the
least of my worries as his spam dagger slid deeper into my black hole. I awoke
the next morning with my gaping clam cavern still frothing. I thought it was
over but his piss pipe had other ideas. I can't wait to lap the creamy load
from his mutton dagger. If I don't fish for pearls to get my tuna tunnel tears
weeping from my hatchet wound, his cream reaper is going to leave my roast beef
platter resembling Terry Waite's allotment. The unrelenting orgasms from his thrill
drill hammering my hot pocket made me come so hard, I began sweating like a
paedo during a prison riot. With my piss flaps now much like a hippo's yawn, he
thought it was time to start plunging my marmite motorway. Is now the time to
tell him I really need to roll a stink pickle, I wondered? When he removed his
stilton sword from my tradesman's entrance, he was pleasantly surprised to see
a corn-eyed butt snake staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to lap the
butt nugget off his cumtree. After having my hot pocket slammed, he then
proceeded to slam my soft tight anus. He rolled a giant sewer trout on my rack
just so he could devour it up like a pig at a trough. By now, my chlamydia
canal was foaming like a broken fridge freezer. Hours of slamming like this
would leave any girl's flappy meal looking like a blind cobbler's thumb, and I
was no different! The seemingly never-ending streams of baby gravy emanating
from his all-beef thermometer soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. My
chamber of squelch was trembling like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. The
feeling of his love mayonnaise slobbering down my throat got my sex wee flowing
quicker than snot off a whip. Inserting an antique doorknob into my cod canyon
got me surging spaff faster than snot off a whip. Now, I've seen more pricks
than a second hand dartboard, but the sight of his timed slimer made my sex wee
ooze like a George Foreman grill. The slamming of my marmite motorway was so
vigorous, he soon found his love spuds joining his wensleydale wand deep in my
other vagina. The mixture of corn-eyed butt snake and Da Vinci load in my
turd-herder created the delicious porthole pudding that he was so fond of. It
was bliss having his womb raider shoved inside me again; stuffing my municipal cockwash
with my fist just didn't get my municipal cockwash spattering like it used to.

There
was love mayonnaise seeping from his stilton sword and I was wetter than an
otter's pocket. We were ready for more. Inserting an egg timer into my meat
purse got me gushing minge monsoon faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel.
By now, my fuck gutter was draining like Augustus Gloop's mouth at the sight of
Willy Wonka's chocolate river. The hammering makes me spit my minge monsoon all
over his chorizo howitzer. When he removed his womb raider from my vintage golf
bag, he was pleasantly surprised to see a stink pickle staring back as him. He
knew I couldn't wait to suck the stink pickle off his slut slayer. If I don't
tune the tuna to get my clunge gunge leaching from my pink velvet sausage
wallet, his cheese-crusted cock is going to leave my roast beef platter
resembling a ripped out fireplace. The unrelenting orgasms from his bald-headed
yogurt slinger pounding my frilling pink golf bag made me come so hard, I began
sweating like a fat slag in a disco. Now, I've seen more japseyes than an
oriental optician, but the sight of his pink tractor beam made my fallopian
fish stock seep like Adele waiting for Greggs to open. My throat was so full of
skin flute and gentleman's relish, the steamin' semen was oozing down my chin
and onto my boobage. The fucking of my poo pipe was so vigorous, he soon found
his salty protein grapes joining his stilton sword deep in my balloon knot.
With my hairy goblet now much like a bucket of smashed crabs, he thought it was
time to start probing my vintage golf bag. Is now the time to tell him I really
need to crown a butt nugget, I wondered? Leaving my panties sunny side up on
the floor was the least of my worries as his washington monument rammed deeper
into my Oxo orifice. Some girls are happy just to fish for pearls when they're
alone, but I can't get off without having a lightbulb in my frilling pink golf
bag and an antique doorknob up my soft tight anus. After having my ruby cave
plowed, he then proceeded to raid my balloon knot. Hours of plowing like this
would leave any girl's piss flaps looking like an over inflated dinghy, and I
was no different! He munched on my furburger, even though I'd been on the rag
for the best part of a week. I can't wait to gobble the ectoplasm from his jade
rod. The seemingly never-ending streams of steamin' semen emanating from his
vein cane soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. My stench trench was
trembling like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. He eased out a giant colon cobra
on my rack just so he could consume it up like a pig at a trough. I awoke the
next morning with my clam-flavoured pothole still flowing. I thought it was
over but his skin flute had other ideas. The mixture of hardened fudge nugget
and cock snot in my puckered brown eye created the delicious porthole pudding
that he was so fond of. The feeling of his baby gravy draining down my throat
got my shrimp sap flowing quicker than snot off a whip. It was bliss having his
cream reaper shoved inside me again; stuffing my hot pocket with a squash just
didn't get my shame portal pouring like it used to. With his one-eyed monster
raiding deep into my one slice toaster, the sensation of his gristle missile
smashing my cervix made me quiver like Vanessa Feltz's diesel-powered vibrator.