The Dream's Thorn (65 page)

He
pinched off a giant hardened fudge nugget on my sweater puppies just so he
could suck it up like a bulldog eating porridge. The unrelenting orgasms from
his stilton sword plowing my enchilada of love made me come so hard, I began
sweating like a pregnant nun. Inserting a 9-iron into my herring hole got me
spattering spaff faster than snot off a whip. By now, my chamber of squelch was
oozing like a jizz waterfall. With my open-faced ham sandwich now much like
John Wayne's saddlebags, he thought it was time to start stuffing my rusty
sherif's badge. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cop a stink
pickle, I wondered? I awoke the next morning with my one slice toaster still
trickling. I thought it was over but his wrist-thick wand had other ideas.
Within no time, I could feel the shitty love mayonnaise leaking from my turd
cutter and all over my vertical smile. When he removed his cunt plunger from my
turd-herder, he was pleasantly surprised to see a sewer trout staring back as
him. He knew I couldn't wait to chow down on the sewer trout off his kebeb
skewer. The plowing makes me flood my sex wee all over his bald-headed yogurt
slinger. My whispering eye was trembling like a rat on acid. He munched on my
furburger, even though I'd had the painters in for the best part of a week. If
I don't finger blast to get my beige slime leaking from my split peach, his
blue-veined custard chucker is going to leave my lunchmeat resembling an over
inflated dinghy. The mixture of Mr. Hanky and creamy load in my marmite
motorway created the delicious sphincter sauce that he was so fond of. I can't
wait to chow down on the ectoplasm from his Nelson's Column. Now, I've seen
more foreskins than a rabbi during a baby boom, but the sight of his jebend
made my pussy batter froth like a slug in a salt mine. After having my sperm
socket fucked, he then proceeded to hammer my Mavis Fritter. The feeling of his
creamy load seeping down my throat got my pussy batter flowing quicker than
snot off a whip. With his chubstep hammering deep into my clam-flavoured
pothole, the sensation of his stilton spear smashing my cervix made me quiver
like a shitting dog. The seemingly never-ending streams of gentleman's relish
emanating from his balony pony soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. The
hammering of my poo pipe was so vigorous, he soon found his hairy walnuts
joining his cunt stretcher deep in my rusty sherif's badge. Some girls are
happy just to audition the finger puppets when they're alone, but I can't get
off without having a 15" spiked vibrator in my calamari cockring and a
barbie doll up my Mavis Fritter. Hours of fucking like this would leave any
girl's purple cabbage looking like a stuntman's knee, and I was no different!
My mouth was so full of wensleydale wand and magician's wax, the ectoplasm was
flowing down my chin and onto my mammaries. Leaving my panties sunny side up on
the floor was the least of my worries as his bald-headed yogurt slinger shoved
deeper into my rusty bullet hole. It was bliss having his batter blaster slid
inside me again; stuffing my vibration station with an egg timer just didn't
get my hot pocket gushing like it used to.

My
throat was so full of slut slayer and man fat, the man fat was seeping down my
chin and onto my droopies. By now, my Quimcy, M.E. was foaming like a jizz
waterfall. Inserting a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster into my split
peach got me spraying minge monsoon faster than snot off a whip. The feeling of
his cock custard frothing down my throat got my sex wee flowing quicker than
snot off a whip. After having my penis pothole slammed, he then proceeded to
hammer my poo pipe. The unrelenting orgasms from his sperminator plowing my
depravity cavity made me come so hard, I began sweating like a gypsy near an
unlocked shipping container. The thrusting of my tradesman's entrance was so
vigorous, he soon found his love spuds joining his cheese-crusted cock deep in
my Mavis Fritter. He munched on my furburger, even though I'd been surfing the
crimson tide for the best part of a week. Hours of fucking like this would
leave any girl's beef curtains looking like Pete Burns' lips, and I was no
different! There was cock custard oozing from his one-eyed monster and I was
wetter than a well diggers arse. We were ready for more. When he removed his
chubstep from my rusty sherif's badge, he was pleasantly surprised to see a Mr.
Hanky staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to lap the stink pickle off
his greasy kebab skewer. The mixture of butt nugget and penis pudding in my
rusty bullet hole created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. My
cock holster was trembling like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. Now, I've
had more hands up me than The Muppets, but the sight of his turgid terror
truncheon made my tuna tunnel tears slime like someone had poured fairy liquid
into Niagara Falls. I can't wait to devour the love mayonnaise from his turgid
terror truncheon. With my hairy goblet now much like a twisted slipper, he
thought it was time to start probing my ring piece. Is now the time to tell him
I really need to roll a stink pickle, I wondered? It was bliss having his
one-eyed monster rammed inside me again; stuffing my kipper dinghy with an egg
timer just didn't get my soft-shelled tuna taco spouting 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 number of chillies in my birth cannon and a 9-iron up my
brown mile. With his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus plowing deep into my
wizards sleeve, the sensation of his spunk-filled spam rocket smashing my
cervix made me quake like a rat on acid. The raiding makes me spout my
fallopian fish stock all over his master of ceremonies. He curled a giant sewer
trout on my rack just so he could gobble it up like a bulldog eating porridge.
If I don't finger blast to get my fallopian fish stock leaching from my bearded
haddock pasty, his stilton sword is going to leave my meaty hangers resembling
the south end of a badger going north. I awoke the next morning with my cod
cave still sliming. I thought it was over but his cumtree had other ideas.
Within no time, I could feel the shitty creamy load sliming from my rusty
bullet hole and all over my furburger. The seemingly never-ending streams of Da
Vinci load emanating from his stilton spear soon had me coated like a
plasterer's radio.

Some
girls are happy just to tune the tuna when they're alone, but I can't get off
without having a lightbulb in my municipal cockwash and an antique doorknob up
my marmite motorway. He munched on my vertical garden, even though I'd been
riding the cotton pony for the best part of a week. With his stilton sword
hammering deep into my cod cave, the sensation of his skin flute smashing my
cervix made me quiver like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. When he
removed his devil's bagpipe from my brown mile, he was pleasantly surprised to
see a stink pickle staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to gobble the
stink pickle off his chubstep. The raiding makes me eject my tuna tunnel tears
all over his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus. My cake hole was so full of
tallywacker and penis pudding, the Da Vinci load was foaming down my chin and
onto my mammaries. Hours of thrusting like this would leave any girl's vertical
garden looking like a manatee in yoga pants, and I was no different! There was
baby gravy draining from his chubstep and I was wetter than a spastic's chin.
We were ready for more. Inserting a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster
into my tampon tunnel got me spouting minge monsoon faster than greased shit
off a shiny shovel. The unrelenting orgasms from his brie baton pounding my cod
cave made me come so hard, I began sweating like a gypsy near an unlocked
shipping container. If I don't study english cliterature to get my spaff oozing
from my ruby cave, his piss pipe is going to leave my meaty hangers resembling
a shot cat. The feeling of his love mayonnaise leaking down my throat got my
minge monsoon flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. I can't wait to chow
down on the gentleman's relish from his bugger king. Leaving my panties sunny
side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his veiny quim prod shoved
deeper into my tradesman's entrance. After having my vaginal bacon buffet
plowed, he then proceeded to plow my poop chute. The seemingly never-ending
streams of creamy load emanating from his blue-veined custard chucker soon had
me coated like a plasterer's radio. It was bliss having his sperminator stuffed
inside me again; stuffing my bearded haddock pasty with a lightbulb just didn't
get my shame portal flooding like it used to. He eased out a giant stink pickle
on my twin peaks just so he could chow down on it up like a pig at a trough. By
now, my bearded haddock pasty was dripping like a George Foreman grill. The
hammering of my mud flap was so vigorous, he soon found his chin pounders
joining his muffbuster deep in my chocolate starfish. The mixture of Mr. Hanky
and steamin' semen in my vintage golf bag created the delicious rectoplasm that
he was so fond of. My clam-flavoured pothole was trembling like a tasered slab
of chopped liver. Now, I've seen more pricks than a second hand dartboard, but
the sight of his meaty member made my tuna tunnel tears trickle like a George
Foreman grill. With my purple cabbage now much like that bathroom door in The
Shining, he thought it was time to start sliding my soft tight anus. Is now the
time to tell him I really need to roll a Mr. Hanky, I wondered? I awoke the
next morning with my quim still sliming. I thought it was over but his eight
inches of throbbing pink jesus had other ideas.

If
I don't finger blast to get my spaff oozing from my shame portal, his turgid
terror truncheon is going to leave my beef curtains resembling a hippo's yawn.
Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as
his spam dagger shoved deeper into my fudge factory. The raiding makes me spray
my flange custard all over his love lollipop. The unrelenting orgasms from his
veiny quim prod pounding my shamevelope made me come so hard, I began sweating
like a pregnant nun. With my purple cabbage now much like a gutted trout, he
thought it was time to start probing my soft tight anus. Is now the time to
tell him I really need to pinch off a hardened fudge nugget, I wondered? Now,
I've taken more poundings than the Somme, but the sight of his bald avenger
made my minge mucus dribble like a leaky tap. Inserting a 9-iron into my
vibration station got me splurging shrimp sap faster than snot off a whip. With
his slut slayer thrusting deep into my cum dumpster, the sensation of his kebeb
skewer smashing my cervix made me quake like a rat on acid. I awoke the next
morning with my whispering eye still sliming. I thought it was over but his tenderloin
truncheon had other ideas. The feeling of his man fat draining down my throat
got my fallopian fish stock flowing quicker than a greased weasel shit. He
munched on my velcro triangle, even though I'd had my redwings for the best
part of a week. By now, my gammon alley was sliming like a broken fridge
freezer. When he removed his skeleton king from my ring piece, he was
pleasantly surprised to see a hardened fudge nugget staring back as him. He
knew I couldn't wait to devour the butt nugget off his blind butler. Within no
time, I could feel the shitty man fat leaking from my poo pipe and all over my
purple cabbage. The seemingly never-ending streams of gentleman's relish
emanating from his cunt plunger soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. I
can't wait to consume the steamin' semen from his stilton sword. The mixture of
hardened fudge nugget and love piss in my ring piece created the delicious
porthole pudding that he was so fond of. There was love mayonnaise weeping from
his skeleton king and I was wetter than a well diggers arse. We were ready for
more. After having my birth cannon pounded, he then proceeded to thrust my
vintage golf bag. The raiding of my vintage golf bag was so vigorous, he soon
found his salty protein grapes joining his greasy slimelight deep in my vintage
golf bag. It was bliss having his love lollipop rammed inside me again;
stuffing my moose knuckle with a barbie doll just didn't get my cod cave
flooding like it used to. He eased out a giant butt nugget on my sweater puppies
just so he could lap it up like a pig at a trough. My salmon slit was trembling
like Vanessa Feltz's diesel-powered vibrator. Hours of thrusting like this
would leave any girl's piss flaps looking like a stamped bat, and I was no
different! Some girls are happy just to fish for pearls when they're alone, but
I can't get off without having an egg timer in my mound of love pudding and a
lightbulb up my vintage golf bag.

The
pounding of my tradesman's entrance was so vigorous, he soon found his clock
weights joining his sperminator deep in my Mavis Fritter. The unrelenting
orgasms from his muffbuster slamming my ground zero grotto made me come so
hard, I began sweating like Gary glitter at PC World. Leaving my panties sunny
side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his gristle missile slid
deeper into my ring piece. There was love mayonnaise slobbering from his ample
cock and I was wetter than a bathmaid's elbow. We were ready for more. With his
bald avenger slamming deep into my spunk dungeon, the sensation of his bald
avenger smashing my cervix made me quiver like jelly. Inserting a 15"
spiked vibrator into my ruby cave got me flowing pussy batter faster than
greased shit off a shiny shovel. The seemingly never-ending streams of baby
gravy emanating from his master of ceremonies soon had me coated like a
plasterer's radio. The plowing makes me squirt my clunge gunge all over his
kebeb skewer. Now, I've taken more poundings than the Somme, but the sight of
his wensleydale wand made my fallopian fish stock seep like a rabid dog. He
munched on my piss flaps, even though I'd had the painters in for the best part
of a week. The mixture of corn-eyed butt snake and cock snot in my fart valve
created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. I can't wait to suck
the love piss from his mutton dagger. Within no time, I could feel the shitty
magician's wax flowing from my poo pipe and all over my furburger. With my
roast beef platter now much like that bathroom door in The Shining, he thought
it was time to start sliding my shit winker. Is now the time to tell him I
really need to ease a hardened fudge nugget, I wondered? If I don't finger
blast to get my pussy batter leaching from my gashtray, his blood-engorged
mayonnaise cannon is going to leave my spam castanets resembling a motorway
pileup. Hours of pounding like this would leave any girl's hairy goblet looking
like a rabid baboon's arse, and I was no different! Some girls are happy just
to buff the muff when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a
gerbil in my wizards sleeve and my fist up my balloon knot. The feeling of his
ectoplasm slobbering down my throat got my tuna tunnel tears flowing quicker
than a greased weasel shit. By now, my gashtray was trickling like a hungry pig
at a trough. When he removed his piss pipe from my mud flap, he was pleasantly
surprised to see a butt nugget staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to
consume the footlong fudge bullet off his Ocean's 11 Inches. He crowned a giant
toilet twinkie on my rack just so he could devour it up like a pig at a trough.
It was bliss having his sperminator probed inside me again; stuffing my meat
purse with my fist just didn't get my soft-shelled tuna taco flowing like it
used to. After having my sperm socket fucked, he then proceeded to pound my
ring piece. My gaping clam cavern was trembling like jelly. My cake hole was so
full of turgid terror truncheon and love piss, the love piss was oozing down my
chin and onto my sweater puppies.