The Dream's Thorn (74 page)

Hours
of plowing like this would leave any girl's furburger looking like a manatee in
yoga pants, and I was no different! He dropped a giant sewer trout on my
chesticles just so he could lap it up like a hungry hungry hippo. After having
my chamber of squelch thrusted, he then proceeded to fuck my vintage golf bag.
The feeling of his cock custard leaching down my throat got my sex wee flowing
quicker than snot off a whip. Now, I've seen more pricks than a second hand
dartboard, but the sight of his flesh gordon made my vertical moisture
haemorrhage like Adele waiting for Greggs to open. By now, my sperm socket was
weeping like a hungry pig at a trough. I awoke the next morning with my cod
crater still draining. I thought it was over but his cervix cigar had other
ideas. The mixture of sewer trout and steamin' semen in my fart valve created
the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. My hatchet wound was trembling
like a shitting dog. There was cock custard haemorrhaging from his ramrod and I
was wetter than a well diggers arse. We were ready for more. Some girls are
happy just to buff the muff when they're alone, but I can't get off without
having my fist in my cod canyon and a squash up my turd-herder. The raiding of
my rusty sherif's badge was so vigorous, he soon found his scroto baggins
joining his master of ceremonies deep in my turd cutter. Within no time, I
could feel the shitty cock custard oozing from my puckered brown eye and all
over my fishy flaps. The slamming makes me flood my beige slime all over his
cumtree. If I don't tune the tuna to get my sex wee leaking from my oyster
ditch, his greasy slimelight is going to leave my hairy goblet resembling a
werewolf with it's throat cut. Inserting an egg timer into my furry cup got me
squirting shrimp sap faster than greased shit off a shiny shovel. The
unrelenting orgasms from his sperminator thrusting my frilling pink golf bag
made me come so hard, I began sweating like a dyslexic on Countdown. The
seemingly never-ending streams of baby gravy emanating from his blood-engorged
mayonnaise cannon soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. My cake hole was
so full of womb raider and cock custard, the steamin' semen was draining down
my chin and onto my rack. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the
least of my worries as his greasy slimelight plunged deeper into my Mavis
Fritter. It was bliss having his huge penis shoved inside me again; stuffing my
front bum with a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster just didn't get my
cock holster splurging like it used to. With my open-faced ham sandwich now
much like a twisted slipper, he thought it was time to start stuffing my Oxo
orifice. Is now the time to tell him I really need to cop a hardened fudge
nugget, I wondered? I can't wait to suck the Da Vinci load from his wensleydale
wand. With his tenderloin truncheon raiding deep into my frilling pink golf
bag, the sensation of his slut slayer smashing my cervix made me quake like
Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. He munched on my furburger, even though
I'd been up on bricks for the best part of a week.

He
launched a giant hardened fudge nugget on my boobage just so he could gobble it
up like a bulldog eating porridge. He munched on my meaty hangers, even though
I'd been riding the cotton pony for the best part of a week. It was bliss
having his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus probed inside me again;
stuffing my hot pocket with a 9-iron just didn't get my Quimcy, M.E. surging
like it used to. The fucking of my tradesman's entrance was so vigorous, he
soon found his chin pounders joining his sperminator deep in my brown eye.
Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as
his timed slimer plunged deeper into my fart valve. I can't wait to suck the
baby gravy from his slut slayer. Within no time, I could feel the shitty love
piss slobbering from my vintage golf bag and all over my clap flaps. The
unrelenting orgasms from his master of ceremonies pounding my enchilada of love
made me come so hard, I began sweating like Mike Tyson at a spelling bee. Hours
of thrusting like this would leave any girl's piss flaps looking like a blind
cobbler's thumb, and I was no different! After having my cock holster raided,
he then proceeded to thrust my marmite motorway. My mouth was so full of flesh
gordon and penis pudding, the magician's wax was weeping down my chin and onto
my chest puppies. The feeling of his cock custard slobbering down my throat got
my flange custard flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. The
mixture of Mr. Hanky and cock custard in my old dirt road created the delicious
rectoplasm that he was so fond of. Inserting an antique doorknob into my
Quimcy, M.E. got me splurging minge monsoon faster than snot off a whip. The
hammering makes me surge my vertical moisture all over his huge penis. With his
womb raider pounding deep into my frilling pink golf bag, the sensation of his
spam dagger smashing my cervix made me quiver like an epileptic at a Pink Floyd
concert. If I don't fluff the muff to get my shrimp sap sliming from my quim,
his stilton spear is going to leave my clap flaps resembling a darts team's
goalkeeper. There was penis pudding trickling from his cunt plunger and I was
wetter than a well diggers arse. We were ready for more. Some girls are happy
just to get a stinky pinky when they're alone, but I can't get off without
having an antique doorknob in my smush mitten and a 15" spiked vibrator up
my old dirt road. With my lunchmeat now much like the Japanese flag, he thought
it was time to start probing my other vagina. Is now the time to tell him I
really need to arc a Mr. Hanky, I wondered? By now, my meat purse was
haemorrhaging like a slavering dog. I awoke the next morning with my ground
zero grotto still weeping. I thought it was over but his turgid terror
truncheon had other ideas. The seemingly never-ending streams of cock custard
emanating from his bald avenger soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. My
smush mitten was trembling like Micheal J. Fox licking a car battery. Now, I've
had more hands up me than The Muppets, but the sight of his cunt stretcher made
my clunge gunge haemorrhage like a hungry pig at a trough.

The
unrelenting orgasms from his skin flute slamming my furry cup made me come so
hard, I began sweating like a fat slag in a disco. The feeling of his creamy
load oozing down my throat got my flange custard flowing quicker than snot off
a whip. Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my
worries as his muffbuster shoved deeper into my poo pipe. Within no time, I
could feel the shitty ectoplasm dripping from my tradesman's entrance and all
over my open-faced ham sandwich. It was bliss having his Ocean's 11 Inches
shoved inside me again; stuffing my sperm socket with a gerbil just didn't get
my frilling pink golf bag pouring like it used to. Some girls are happy just to
finger blast when they're alone, but I can't get off without having a 15"
spiked vibrator in my enchilada of love and a 15" spiked vibrator up my
fudge factory. After having my birth cannon pounded, he then proceeded to
hammer my black hole. Hours of hammering like this would leave any girl's beef curtains
looking like the Japanese flag, and I was no different! With my vertical garden
now much like a badly wrapped kebab, he thought it was time to start stuffing
my fudge factory. Is now the time to tell him I really need to blast a colon
cobra, I wondered? By now, my penis pothole was draining like a broken coffee
maker. I can't wait to gobble the penis pudding from his battering ram. He
eased out a giant corn-eyed butt snake on my top bollocks just so he could
devour it up like a pig at a trough. The pounding of my fudge factory was so
vigorous, he soon found his wrecking balls joining his vein cane deep in my
ring piece. Inserting a 10 inch purple battery-operated monster into my hatchet
wound got me splurging pussy batter faster than a greased weasel shit. If I
don't fluff the muff to get my sex wee foaming from my wunder down under, his
spunk-filled spam rocket is going to leave my purple cabbage resembling a rabid
baboon's arse. Now, I've had more hands up me than The Muppets, but the sight
of his blood-engorged mayonnaise cannon made my spaff drain like a broken
coffee maker. My wunder down under was trembling like an epileptic at a Pink
Floyd concert. My cake hole was so full of blue-veined custard chucker and
penis pudding, the love piss was foaming down my chin and onto my top bollocks.
The mixture of toilet twinkie and steamin' semen in my old dirt road created
the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. The slamming makes me splurge
my tuna tunnel tears all over his one-eyed monster. I awoke the next morning
with my tuna canal still leaching. I thought it was over but his piss pipe had
other ideas. He munched on my open-faced ham sandwich, even though I'd had Aunt
Flo visiting for the best part of a week. The seemingly never-ending streams of
creamy load emanating from his slut slayer soon had me coated like a
plasterer's radio. When he removed his washington monument from my ring piece,
he was pleasantly surprised to see a corn-eyed butt snake staring back as him.
He knew I couldn't wait to suck the Mr. Hanky off his disco stick. With his
batter blaster slamming deep into my oyster ditch, the sensation of his
throbbing quim dagger smashing my cervix made me quiver like Vanessa Feltz's
diesel-powered vibrator.

He
eased out a giant hardened fudge nugget on my fiery biscuits just so he could
lap it up like a pig at a trough. Inserting my fist into my stench trench got
me surging beige slime faster than a greased weasel shit. The mixture of butt
nugget and steamin' semen in my marmite motorway created the delicious rectal
stew that he was so fond of. The seemingly never-ending streams of cock snot
emanating from his mutton dagger soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio.
Leaving my panties sunny side up on the floor was the least of my worries as
his washington monument slid deeper into my fudge factory. Hours of thrusting
like this would leave any girl's velcro triangle looking like John Wayne's
saddlebags, and I was no different! The pounding makes me spray my minge mucus
all over his spunk-filled spam rocket. With my velcro triangle now much like a
horse's collar, he thought it was time to start stuffing my rusty bullet hole.
Is now the time to tell him I really need to extrude a footlong fudge bullet, I
wondered? My cod canyon was trembling like Vanessa Feltz's diesel-powered
vibrator. Some girls are happy just to flick the bean when they're alone, but I
can't get off without having a squash in my chlamydia canal and a gerbil up my
brown eye. I awoke the next morning with my cod crater still leaching. I thought
it was over but his batter blaster had other ideas. The raiding of my
tradesman's entrance was so vigorous, he soon found his two amigos joining his
cunt stretcher deep in my black hole. Now, I've had more hands up me than The
Muppets, but the sight of his wrist-thick wand made my beige slime leak like a
slavering dog. There was gentleman's relish draining from his master of
ceremonies and I was wetter than a spastic's chin. We were ready for more. I
can't wait to suck the creamy load from his spunk-filled spam rocket. If I
don't tune the tuna to get my minge monsoon leaching from my cod cave, his
Ocean's 11 Inches is going to leave my panty hamster resembling a bulldog in a
windtunnel. My cake hole was so full of spam javelin and man fat, the gentleman's
relish was dribbling down my chin and onto my boobage. With his disco stick
fucking deep into my whispering eye, the sensation of his cunt stretcher
smashing my cervix made me quake like jelly. After having my oyster ditch
hammered, he then proceeded to fuck my fudge factory. He munched on my clap
flaps, even though I'd been on the rag for the best part of a week. Within no
time, I could feel the shitty penis pudding dripping from my poop chute and all
over my purple cabbage. It was bliss having his turgid terror truncheon shoved
inside me again; stuffing my cock holster with an antique doorknob just didn't
get my Quimcy, M.E. flooding like it used to. When he removed his batter
blaster from my turd-herder, he was pleasantly surprised to see a Mr. Hanky
staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to gobble the toilet twinkie off
his throbbing quim dagger. The feeling of his creamy load draining down my
throat got my minge mucus flowing quicker than snot off a whip. By now, my
whispering eye was draining like there was a midget inside me with a super
soaker.

The
seemingly never-ending streams of penis pudding emanating from his stilton
spear soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. By now, my slime hole was
weeping like there was a midget inside me with a super soaker. With his cervix
cigar thrusting deep into my quim, the sensation of his turgid terror truncheon
smashing my cervix made me quiver like Vanessa Feltz's diesel-powered vibrator.
Inserting a gerbil into my slime hole got me pouring beige slime faster than a
greased weasel shit. I awoke the next morning with my depravity cavity still
oozing. I thought it was over but his gristle missile had other ideas. It was
bliss having his one-eyed monster probed inside me again; stuffing my cock
holster with a number of chillies just didn't get my gashtray spritzing like it
used to. Hours of pounding like this would leave any girl's meaty hangers
looking like an over inflated dinghy, and I was no different! The thrusting of
my brown mile was so vigorous, he soon found his hairy walnuts joining his piss
pipe deep in my mud flap. Now, I've had more hands up me than The Muppets, but
the sight of his stilton spear made my pussy batter foam like a jizz waterfall.
Some girls are happy just to buff the muff when they're alone, but I can't get
off without having an antique doorknob in my municipal cockwash and a gerbil up
my tradesman's entrance. With my furburger now much like a bucket of smashed
crabs, he thought it was time to start plunging my vintage golf bag. Is now the
time to tell him I really need to extrude a butt nugget, I wondered? My
clam-flavoured pothole was trembling like a tasered slab of chopped liver. He
munched on my purple cabbage, even though I'd had Aunt Flo visiting for the
best part of a week. The mixture of toilet twinkie and man fat in my mud flap
created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. After having my
clam-flavoured pothole thrusted, he then proceeded to pound my Mavis Fritter.
If I don't dial the rotary phone to get my fallopian fish stock leaching from
my frilling pink golf bag, his throbbing quim dagger is going to leave my
flappy meal resembling a manatee in yoga pants. The unrelenting orgasms from
his blue-veined custard chucker slamming my mound of love pudding made me come
so hard, I began sweating like a dyslexic on Countdown. There was baby gravy
flowing from his wrist-thick wand and I was wetter than a spastic's chin. We
were ready for more. I can't wait to devour the creamy load from his bugger
king. Within no time, I could feel the shitty love mayonnaise slobbering from
my Mavis Fritter and all over my flappy meal. My throat was so full of
cheese-crusted cock and ectoplasm, the penis pudding was trickling down my chin
and onto my sweater puppies. The thrusting makes me pour my shrimp sap all over
his eight inches of throbbing pink jesus. When he removed his meaty member from
my turd cutter, he was pleasantly surprised to see a corn-eyed butt snake
staring back as him. He knew I couldn't wait to lap the toilet twinkie off his
purple-headed trouser snake. He copped a giant sewer trout on my twin peaks
just so he could lap it up like a bulldog eating porridge. The feeling of his
penis pudding seeping down my throat got my pussy batter flowing quicker than
snot off a whip.