The Dream's Thorn by Amy Woods Page A

never-ending streams
of cock snot emanating from his bald-headed yogurt slinger soon had me coated
like a plasterer's radio. The plowing makes me eject my shrimp sap all over his
cervix cigar. With his flesh gordon thrusting deep into my soft-shelled tuna
taco, the sensation of his spam javelin smashing my cervix made me quake like a
shitting dog. The mixture of toilet twinkie and steamin' semen in my chocolate
starfish created the delicious sphincter sauce that he was so fond of. I awoke
the next morning with my mound of love pudding still leaking. I thought it was
over but his clunger had other ideas. My cake hole was so full of cunt
stretcher and penis pudding, the cock snot was trickling down my chin and onto
my sweater puppies. Now, I've seen more helmets than Hitler, but the sight of
his skeleton king made my tuna tunnel tears dribble like a slug in a salt mine.
It was bliss having his devil's bagpipe rammed inside me again; stuffing my
stench trench with a lightbulb just didn't get my vibration station splurging
like it used to. I can't wait to devour the love piss from his Nelson's Column.
When he removed his meaty member from my poop chute, he was pleasantly
surprised to see a corn-eyed butt snake staring back as him. He knew I couldn't
wait to suck the corn-eyed butt snake off his chorizo howitzer. If I don't
strum the banjo to get my fallopian fish stock leaking from my Quimcy, M.E.,
his kebeb skewer is going to leave my clap flaps resembling a bucket of smashed
crabs. Some girls are happy just to study english cliterature when they're
alone, but I can't get off without having a 15" spiked vibrator in my
whispering eye and a barbie doll up my mud flap.
    The
seemingly never-ending streams of Da Vinci load emanating from his long-dong
silver soon had me coated like a plasterer's radio. With his eight inches of
throbbing pink jesus thrusting deep into my tuna canal, the sensation of his
spam javelin smashing my cervix made me quiver like Micheal J. Fox licking a
car battery. Some girls are happy just to dial the rotary phone when they're
alone, but I can't get off without having an egg timer in my gaping clam cavern
and an egg timer up my tradesman's entrance. If I don't strum the banjo to get
my minge monsoon slobbering from my gaping clam cavern, his one-eyed monster is
going to leave my hairy goblet resembling Brian May's plughole. Now, I've seen
more action than Helmand Province, but the sight of his wrist-thick wand made
my tuna tunnel tears flow like a broken fridge freezer. The pounding makes me
surge my vertical moisture all over his skin flute. Leaving my panties sunny side
up on the floor was the least of my worries as his wensleydale wand probed
deeper into my brown eye. It was bliss having his love muscle plunged inside me
again; stuffing my stench trench with a lightbulb just didn't get my front bum
ejecting like it used to. Within no time, I could feel the shitty love piss
leaking from my black hole and all over my spam castanets. The unrelenting
orgasms from his jade rod fucking my gammon alley made me come so hard, I began
sweating like a paedo during a prison riot. My cake hole was so full of jade
rod and love piss, the gentleman's relish was haemorrhaging down my chin and
onto my cans. My vibrator crater was trembling like jelly. Hours of thrusting
like this would leave any girl's spam castanets looking like a sand blasted
tomato, and I was no different! With my open-faced ham sandwich now much like a
hippo's yawn, he thought it was time to start shoving my shit winker. Is now
the time to tell him I really need to curl a stink pickle, I wondered? After
having my shamevelope slammed, he then proceeded to hammer my turd cutter. The
raiding of my other vagina was so vigorous, he soon found his salty protein
grapes joining his womb raider deep in my tradesman's entrance. I awoke the
next morning with my vaginal bacon buffet still leaching. I thought it was over
but his blind butler had other ideas. I