Yes, I don't think you'd be clawed apart if you were to take Saturday off for a nice contemplative smoke in your garden, after this lot. You do not often hear me discussing the sucking of penis, the drapething of lusciousness pouring from fucky boytummy having so much more to offer than the moaning glugging engrossment of its gorgeousness in nonstop swooning enstuffment of one's face with its salubrious slopstrop; and, no doubt, the eventual horrendous horning of the godlike dick third from the bottom would command a far better accommodation than one's bobbing, grieving gorge. But that is gorgeous godmeat in unnervingly reckless spillage from that sucktummy, even ignoring that it probably comes with one of those anal things tucked up behind its lushly rolling root, which could just as easily settle on one's upturned face with the soothingest spread of straddling orbs of bubblebutt ever to embrace one's concentration -- but now you've done it, you see, you've bent him over and diverted my dicksavouring slurpthing to the silken crevice of my maw's most constant muff; and this was great and succulent dickmass, too, of whose male molt I'd already slathered my slickerous share of premonitory paste in pristine strands of prayer beads, penisboggling blissglaze weaving suck's own swaying hammock from my tongue; but I guess you counted on that, to glossen glistening anus with humectants of its gladdest baste. Oh, but reckon not these complications of my grateful slakething as some contradictions in this treasuretasting suck, for even as this fuckhole gleams with glazings of its gracious gate, the aqueous gruel still drizzles from the bulb I did inflate, to salvage that elixir for my own to masturbate, to press its praise more forcefully than face can e'er relate. Still, there's something about his dick that speaks to me of rushing freight, of effluents voluminous to flow from its sweet weight, and flood the oral cavities in lavish bursting spate. I don't know - have dicks and throats been joined before in simultaneous state, so the gushing rush of penis' flush is rescued from wank's fate? Now wouldn't that be marvelous, if dick could find a home, as lips affixed upon another marveled at its foam - a kind of endless feedback loop of penisflux in surge, a sort of reciprocitied velocity of purge? Why not see if you can figure out something like that, in your smoke?
Yeah, Bystander. Get down there and really love that cock. Let's remember what that godthing is as it soaps your tongue with cockglaze, and glazes your lips in salty succulence, the praisepith prodding your trembling palate to implant its urethra in the trough your tongue was dealt for its swell. You lick that luscious thing, now, and let it seethe beneath your disbelieving nostrils in aromatic truth, to drip its rapture's residues from its suavely sculpted sluice. This is as close as you are going to get to ingesting that gorgeous godboy: this dick, this godthing -- and you, and your thirst.
Well, we can't get out of here without dealing with that fuck on the red sheets, these balls so anxious to collide, you can't believe they weren't lashed together to be sure of it. This is one glad and gorgeous bottom getting gored in gracious glide here, his testicles poaching lusciously from their recent suck. It must have been some unbearable boner that let that top break off from their delectation, or I'm sure they'd be sealed up in his face as we speak. But still they seethe to get their knock of scrotum's slapping solace, and top had better heave that thing for balls to sing of rapture to enthrall us.
Now, however, the classic Boystation sunshine wank is gigantically enhanced by the warmth of the pebble bed he lies on, the polished rocks delicious in support of rising dick, creamy cups of boybutt cast as bubbles on their tickling probe, love's penispith progressing past its precious curtain to exult in the riparian breeze. Have you seen a mouth more reconciled to its ordeal than this one, almost snarky in response to seething dick, pecs enbunched to serve a lunching lick? This is all the buoyancy of deep subconscious cockplay, the flux of penisfamine miming currents well beneath the river's surface, an undertow of fuckneed swirling fast before our eyes, the great shaft of cock filling firm to flaunt the fabled finial of its flaring polished pith. Oh, this will be very, very good, with time suspended as extended is dick's reach, the treasureflesh in practice of what mouths so often preach.
5 comments:
Bunch of hot posts, as always!
Love, FFB
Yes, I don't think you'd be clawed apart if you were to take Saturday off for a nice contemplative smoke in your garden, after this lot. You do not often hear me discussing the sucking of penis, the drapething of lusciousness pouring from fucky boytummy having so much more to offer than the moaning glugging engrossment of its gorgeousness in nonstop swooning enstuffment of one's face with its salubrious slopstrop; and, no doubt, the eventual horrendous horning of the godlike dick third from the bottom would command a far better accommodation than one's bobbing, grieving gorge. But that is gorgeous godmeat in unnervingly reckless spillage from that sucktummy, even ignoring that it probably comes with one of those anal things tucked up behind its lushly rolling root, which could just as easily settle on one's upturned face with the soothingest spread of straddling orbs of bubblebutt ever to embrace one's concentration -- but now you've done it, you see, you've bent him over and diverted my dicksavouring slurpthing to the silken crevice of my maw's most constant muff; and this was great and succulent dickmass, too, of whose male molt I'd already slathered my slickerous share of premonitory paste in pristine strands of prayer beads, penisboggling blissglaze weaving suck's own swaying hammock from my tongue; but I guess you counted on that, to glossen glistening anus with humectants of its gladdest baste. Oh, but reckon not these complications of my grateful slakething as some contradictions in this treasuretasting suck, for even as this fuckhole gleams with glazings of its gracious gate, the aqueous gruel still drizzles from the bulb I did inflate, to salvage that elixir for my own to masturbate, to press its praise more forcefully than face can e'er relate. Still, there's something about his dick that speaks to me of rushing freight, of effluents voluminous to flow from its sweet weight, and flood the oral cavities in lavish bursting spate. I don't know - have dicks and throats been joined before in simultaneous state, so the gushing rush of penis' flush is rescued from wank's fate? Now wouldn't that be marvelous, if dick could find a home, as lips affixed upon another marveled at its foam - a kind of endless feedback loop of penisflux in surge, a sort of reciprocitied velocity of purge? Why not see if you can figure out something like that, in your smoke?
Yeah, Bystander. Get down there and really love that cock. Let's remember what that godthing is as it soaps your tongue with cockglaze, and glazes your lips in salty succulence, the praisepith prodding your trembling palate to implant its urethra in the trough your tongue was dealt for its swell. You lick that luscious thing, now, and let it seethe beneath your disbelieving nostrils in aromatic truth, to drip its rapture's residues from its suavely sculpted sluice. This is as close as you are going to get to ingesting that gorgeous godboy: this dick, this godthing -- and you, and your thirst.
I wonder who it was who got to eat this gorgeous massage client before I did. I was picking up traces of pretty good riesling in that slot, and I gotta admit, riesling and guyhole are a dynamite combination. But of course sobriety is the most compelling mode of guyhole feast, such nuances of delectation are not for solvents less sympathetic than saliva. As I got past the riesling, then, this ass was like the Champs-Elysées in morning, without a car in sight; just me on my bicycle tongue, lapping up the lanes without a care in the world, the warm baguette of my dick the only rising scent to share with delicious jockwarm anus, lushening to be spread upon my breadpith bobbing hotly for its jam.
Well, we can't get out of here without dealing with that fuck on the red sheets, these balls so anxious to collide, you can't believe they weren't lashed together to be sure of it. This is one glad and gorgeous bottom getting gored in gracious glide here, his testicles poaching lusciously from their recent suck. It must have been some unbearable boner that let that top break off from their delectation, or I'm sure they'd be sealed up in his face as we speak. But still they seethe to get their knock of scrotum's slapping solace, and top had better heave that thing for balls to sing of rapture to enthrall us.
Now, however, the classic Boystation sunshine wank is gigantically enhanced by the warmth of the pebble bed he lies on, the polished rocks delicious in support of rising dick, creamy cups of boybutt cast as bubbles on their tickling probe, love's penispith progressing past its precious curtain to exult in the riparian breeze. Have you seen a mouth more reconciled to its ordeal than this one, almost snarky in response to seething dick, pecs enbunched to serve a lunching lick? This is all the buoyancy of deep subconscious cockplay, the flux of penisfamine miming currents well beneath the river's surface, an undertow of fuckneed swirling fast before our eyes, the great shaft of cock filling firm to flaunt the fabled finial of its flaring polished pith. Oh, this will be very, very good, with time suspended as extended is dick's reach, the treasureflesh in practice of what mouths so often preach.
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