The Dream's Thorn by Amy Woods Page B

toaster and a 15" spiked vibrator up my
poo pipe. There was gentleman's relish flowing from his all-beef thermometer
and I was wetter than a spastic's chin. We were ready for more. The fucking
makes me spout my sex wee all over his stilton sword. The feeling of his
gentleman's relish draining down my throat got my minge monsoon flowing quicker
than a greased weasel shit. By now, my shamevelope was seeping like a broken
fridge freezer. It was bliss having his wrist-thick wand shoved inside me
again; stuffing my herring hole with a 9-iron just didn't get my mound of love
pudding spouting like it used to. Within no time, I could feel the shitty
steamin' semen sliming from my turd cutter and all over my piss flaps. With my
purple cabbage now much like a bucket of smashed crabs, he thought it was time
to start probing my turd cutter. Is now the time to tell him I really need to
cut a Mr. Hanky, I wondered? I can't wait to suck the love mayonnaise from his
jebend. I awoke the next morning with my ruby cave still trickling. I thought
it was over but his batter blaster had other ideas. Leaving my panties sunny
side up on the floor was the least of my worries as his spam dagger rammed
deeper into my turd cutter. The mixture of sewer trout and love mayonnaise in
my other vagina created the delicious rectoplasm that he was so fond of. My
vibrator crater was trembling like Muhammad Ali on a tumble dryer. The
unrelenting orgasms from his pink tractor beam hammering my Quimcy, M.E. made
me come so hard, I began sweating like Joseph Fritzel on MTV Cribs. The
pounding of my fart valve was so vigorous, he soon found his love spuds joining
his chorizo howitzer deep in my fart valve. Now, I've seen more pricks than a
second hand dartboard, but the sight of his chubstep made my tuna tunnel tears
leak like a broken fridge freezer. If I don't study english cliterature to get
my minge mucus slobbering from my chamber of squelch, his greasy kebab skewer
is going to leave my clap flaps resembling Terry Waite's allotment. Hours of
plowing like this would leave any girl's vertical smile looking like a hippo's
yawn, and I was no different!
    Hours
of pounding like this would leave any girl's vertical garden looking like a
rabid baboon's arse, and I was no different! There was cock custard foaming
from his bald avenger and I was wetter than a well diggers arse. We were ready for
more. The feeling of his love mayonnaise trickling down my throat got my pussy
batter flowing quicker than greased shit off a shiny shovel. By now, my
calamari cockring was seeping like a George Foreman grill. He munched on my
furburger, even though I'd had Aunt Flo visiting for the best part of a week.
Some girls are happy just to get a stinky pinky when they're alone, but I can't
get off without having a squash in my quim and a lightbulb up my cocoa channel.
Now, I've had more hands up me than The Muppets, but the sight of his spam
javelin made my sex wee slobber like a George Foreman grill. The seemingly
never-ending streams of cock snot emanating from his clunger soon had me coated
like a plasterer's radio. With his master of ceremonies raiding deep into my
cock holster, the sensation of his skin flute smashing my cervix made me quiver
like a shitting dog. It was bliss having his brie baton stuffed inside me
again; stuffing my ladytown with a number of chillies just didn't get my
shamevelope gushing like it used to. My wizards sleeve was trembling like an
epileptic at a Pink Floyd concert. The unrelenting orgasms from his washington
monument fucking my quim made me come so hard, I began sweating like a whore in
a confessional. If I don't fish for pearls to get my shrimp sap weeping from my
clam-flavoured pothole, his skin flute is going to leave my furburger
resembling a sand blasted tomato. With my open-faced ham sandwich now much like
a bucket of smashed crabs, he thought it was time to start ramming my balloon
knot. Is now the time to tell him I really need to arc a stink