Who can not empathise with the trepidation in the second face, at the cocksheath's imminent relinquishment of its parabolic protuberance of pith? Is there a more fateful migration of the flesh in all of life, save perhaps for the parting of the ring of fuck's fair clasp, than the retreat of penis' curtain from the certain sight of gasp? Now, in the suave and soothing recession of the slideflesh from the swell, the gaze regroups in conscious dread to grasp the meaning of that head's emergence, as all of life there dwells to burst anew upon the turf of sight, and change the very meaning of the light to one of obedient illumination. :)
Yet, still he clasps the godroot of this shock in consciousness of his hand's obligation, too, to attend upon the honour that he holds by impenetrable endowment of fortune. Very cute pic.
In the 3rd and in the last frames we witness again, across the tapestry of time, that eternal burnishing of blondface in the balsamblast of penisflesh which assures us of the moral constancy of the universe, itself. If we cannot go so far as to stipulate that blondface is what summoned penis to our lives, we can certainly say it has summoned it to its life, and with recurring infallibility. Whose blondface has ever lacked for penisflux's fondest favour, has simply not opened itself to penis' pendant promise of that balm; and of course we cannot include such aberrations in our statistical sample. :)
Finally Dawson sits for a proper portrait of his fecundity of fuckiness, for a lensman who knows a testicle from a toenail. O one can't say how refreshing this is, to observe the flopsome frond lolling from the gathered warmth of its cluster, the penisbiceps capt to call forth hornings of our cock, to emulate intensity and volume in its stalk. Why, there are even toes for Flip, and nipples for the populace, and pits to warm tongue's tip. The whole terrain's a fuck's refrain in features shown so plain, that underwear is rent to bear containment of its stain.
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Who can not empathise with the trepidation in the second face, at the cocksheath's imminent relinquishment of its parabolic protuberance of pith? Is there a more fateful migration of the flesh in all of life, save perhaps for the parting of the ring of fuck's fair clasp, than the retreat of penis' curtain from the certain sight of gasp? Now, in the suave and soothing recession of the slideflesh from the swell, the gaze regroups in conscious dread to grasp the meaning of that head's emergence, as all of life there dwells to burst anew upon the turf of sight, and change the very meaning of the light to one of obedient illumination. :)
Yet, still he clasps the godroot of this shock in consciousness of his hand's obligation, too, to attend upon the honour that he holds by impenetrable endowment of fortune. Very cute pic.
In the 3rd and in the last frames we witness again, across the tapestry of time, that eternal burnishing of blondface in the balsamblast of penisflesh which assures us of the moral constancy of the universe, itself. If we cannot go so far as to stipulate that blondface is what summoned penis to our lives, we can certainly say it has summoned it to its life, and with recurring infallibility. Whose blondface has ever lacked for penisflux's fondest favour, has simply not opened itself to penis' pendant promise of that balm; and of course we cannot include such aberrations in our statistical sample. :)
Finally Dawson sits for a proper portrait of his fecundity of fuckiness, for a lensman who knows a testicle from a toenail. O one can't say how refreshing this is, to observe the flopsome frond lolling from the gathered warmth of its cluster, the penisbiceps capt to call forth hornings of our cock, to emulate intensity and volume in its stalk. Why, there are even toes for Flip, and nipples for the populace, and pits to warm tongue's tip. The whole terrain's a fuck's refrain in features shown so plain, that underwear is rent to bear containment of its stain.
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