Hurriedly claiming the shelter of the comment box, I can arrange my monitor in such a way as to protect me, substantially, from the assfeast at the foot of this gallery; but of course the moans and the aromatics continue to waft through any separation or improvisation of forgetting, to impregnate and infuse dick with unspeakable trauma of distension, and the fuckhole of one's disordered seat with wretched seizures on its vacancy. But, on the whole, you may regard me as liberated from that image, long enough to praise to whatever height the skies may wish to afford today, the cock kouros in the first frame, who is so ideal, so sublime, so pure of penispoetry and staggerstickfucking gorgeous perfection that I think the history of humanity has suddenly been slammed shut in this final churn of surging godknob from tanlined hips of such astounding magic that one can only pray for their thrust to banish forever from one's mind the horrifying exquisiteness of every single feature and proportion found above. What on Earth is this guy doing with a single free moment of cock? We know the gods can be negligent in their expenditures, but what could they possibly have bought from us to let them spend him?
Once again the feverish pace of this environment obsoletes this posting with another - and before one can get there, another - when we all should be back with the mystery of the fratmen guy a gallery or two before. Life did NOT used to be this way. When Dickens published his Pickwick Papers in serial, there was plenty of time to extract the character, for friends to pose with each other in various mimes of delightful situations, and for the young to speculate on the dazzling privileges of maturity. But now, holy reaming rifleshot of fuck, this blog is composed at the breakneck speed of the chase in John Ford's "Stagecoach" (there's a relic for your childish cheek), and I still really, really, really want to mold my soul upon the fuckpith of that frattycock, just to clear my sinuses enough to deal with the first guy here, and hasten then to eat ass as Bystander so properly prophesied, never neglecting the rich, the lush, the rapierlike intervening cocks, and swallow all of Dru's tongue in the Corbyshot between, or feed it my gnawing, churning fuckhole for its genius to exult in the press of tissues far, far more obsequious to its stab than he has ever known. But this is all by way of mere illustration, you understand. Who's to say what lifechanging jointure could likelier happen by sheer happenstance, in hoisting these hovering feet in the 4th frame a mere 5 more degrees, the marvelmaw of moanfill flexing glisteningly its fitness to affix itself about th'uprooted root, castanets of fuckspew swaying hotly to be slapt against the parapet of peace, the slopsome dome of dick the gruesome hostage of this hole's horrendous undertow? And yet you persist in this pace, as if Pharaoh had caught a chill or something, and these mountainous stones all had to stacked ahead of Nature's schedule - the monochrome duet of dangling dick, having to be yanked as rudely as udders at 4am, and not licked to ejaculation one by one by ministrations at a single piercing nipple of each chest. No, this is not right - as the physicist said, remarking on the complete lunacy of a proposed new theorem, "this isn't even wrong."
You must be about 9 years old. Only the truly young think they can actually ignore any boy they want. Or is it, rather, that they spew so fast it doesn't really matter who gets the load, as long as you get his?
I completely adore eating dickhead from the 69 perspective afforded in the 3rd frame; the upper face of the fuckpommel dazzles me with its parabolic curvatures, its plush seamlessness, its adorable vent just gasping to give suckstrands so translucent you can lay them line by line over your Catullus and translate right through them. What this great façade of the pommel of fuck's engaging canter may lack in complexity and baroque luxury, it more than makes up for in its capacity to withstand the repeated slatherings of spatulated tongue without complaint. So gag me on that godknob and soak it well, so I can marvel at the heap of healing meat that steams from my lips and settles into a sustained, metronomic twang for my whole descending ass.
I'm going to ride the cock of that last comment in extravagant delight ~ and eat the gorgeous ass out of the guy in that first frame, fuckhole febrile to my lick of lavish penispleasure in my guts, my cockfuck gutter rushing to enrich its anxious ruts with churning, gushing meat.
I really am delighted by the "You may fuck me if you absolutely have to . . . " attitude of the guy in the 4th frame -- relenting, don't you know, under duress of being approached by the hot-heaved wholething of penis' rhapsody at heart, making an exception on this singular-I-kid-you-not occasion, out of the benignity of character which would hoist anus to any height, baring any circumference of its chaste and pristine pore, just to snaffle a basting of extreme unction in case he expires unexpectedly.
5 comments:
Hurriedly claiming the shelter of the comment box, I can arrange my monitor in such a way as to protect me, substantially, from the assfeast at the foot of this gallery; but of course the moans and the aromatics continue to waft through any separation or improvisation of forgetting, to impregnate and infuse dick with unspeakable trauma of distension, and the fuckhole of one's disordered seat with wretched seizures on its vacancy. But, on the whole, you may regard me as liberated from that image, long enough to praise to whatever height the skies may wish to afford today, the cock kouros in the first frame, who is so ideal, so sublime, so pure of penispoetry and staggerstickfucking gorgeous perfection that I think the history of humanity has suddenly been slammed shut in this final churn of surging godknob from tanlined hips of such astounding magic that one can only pray for their thrust to banish forever from one's mind the horrifying exquisiteness of every single feature and proportion found above. What on Earth is this guy doing with a single free moment of cock? We know the gods can be negligent in their expenditures, but what could they possibly have bought from us to let them spend him?
Once again the feverish pace of this environment obsoletes this posting with another - and before one can get there, another - when we all should be back with the mystery of the fratmen guy a gallery or two before. Life did NOT used to be this way. When Dickens published his Pickwick Papers in serial, there was plenty of time to extract the character, for friends to pose with each other in various mimes of delightful situations, and for the young to speculate on the dazzling privileges of maturity. But now, holy reaming rifleshot of fuck, this blog is composed at the breakneck speed of the chase in John Ford's "Stagecoach" (there's a relic for your childish cheek), and I still really, really, really want to mold my soul upon the fuckpith of that frattycock, just to clear my sinuses enough to deal with the first guy here, and hasten then to eat ass as Bystander so properly prophesied, never neglecting the rich, the lush, the rapierlike intervening cocks, and swallow all of Dru's tongue in the Corbyshot between, or feed it my gnawing, churning fuckhole for its genius to exult in the press of tissues far, far more obsequious to its stab than he has ever known. But this is all by way of mere illustration, you understand. Who's to say what lifechanging jointure could likelier happen by sheer happenstance, in hoisting these hovering feet in the 4th frame a mere 5 more degrees, the marvelmaw of moanfill flexing glisteningly its fitness to affix itself about th'uprooted root, castanets of fuckspew swaying hotly to be slapt against the parapet of peace, the slopsome dome of dick the gruesome hostage of this hole's horrendous undertow? And yet you persist in this pace, as if Pharaoh had caught a chill or something, and these mountainous stones all had to stacked ahead of Nature's schedule - the monochrome duet of dangling dick, having to be yanked as rudely as udders at 4am, and not licked to ejaculation one by one by ministrations at a single piercing nipple of each chest. No, this is not right - as the physicist said, remarking on the complete lunacy of a proposed new theorem, "this isn't even wrong."
You must be about 9 years old. Only the truly young think they can actually ignore any boy they want. Or is it, rather, that they spew so fast it doesn't really matter who gets the load, as long as you get his?
:)
I completely adore eating dickhead from the 69 perspective afforded in the 3rd frame; the upper face of the fuckpommel dazzles me with its parabolic curvatures, its plush seamlessness, its adorable vent just gasping to give suckstrands so translucent you can lay them line by line over your Catullus and translate right through them. What this great façade of the pommel of fuck's engaging canter may lack in complexity and baroque luxury, it more than makes up for in its capacity to withstand the repeated slatherings of spatulated tongue without complaint. So gag me on that godknob and soak it well, so I can marvel at the heap of healing meat that steams from my lips and settles into a sustained, metronomic twang for my whole descending ass.
I'm going to ride the cock of that last comment in extravagant delight ~ and eat the gorgeous ass out of the guy in that first frame, fuckhole febrile to my lick of lavish penispleasure in my guts, my cockfuck gutter rushing to enrich its anxious ruts with churning, gushing meat.
I really am delighted by the "You may fuck me if you absolutely have to . . . " attitude of the guy in the 4th frame -- relenting, don't you know, under duress of being approached by the hot-heaved wholething of penis' rhapsody at heart, making an exception on this singular-I-kid-you-not occasion, out of the benignity of character which would hoist anus to any height, baring any circumference of its chaste and pristine pore, just to snaffle a basting of extreme unction in case he expires unexpectedly.
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