What a blessing, this quota! Please, don't hesitate to make it one a fortnight. Take, for example, the final portrait, lushly asscleft, buoyantly coct, suavely pect, poetically vasculated in the right bicep, plushly labiaed and blondfully browed. Where does one begin, where conceivably could it end? Such lavish swaths of penisdrapery, movingly yielding to the irrepressible rise of love's refulgent soothepith; such stellar urethral resiliency, to indulge the compressing clasp. And here, we speak only of the bullet points of penis: what of the radiantly unbreakable caverns of this cock, spreading urgently away from each other to yield right of way to our gush's gracious conduit, sweeping its way toward the wedgemold's sluicing slit, dulcetly discreet in its flare, t'infuse its separating pair of lobes to stab us easier, within. Oh, but you see one adopting the pace of constant posting, which must abate here if we have to abscond with "inventory" ourselves, in a tag-team plan of hijackings in dead of morning. We haven't so much as slickened anus, yet, nor tasted of love's fucksweat at its gate; while nipples float ebulliently, upon their seething plate. What grossened knob of fuckmeat has yet nourished these sweet lips, what tongue invaded tongue's own space, to lap its game of whips, nor gnawn in bicep's sanguine pit, to contemplate where it might fit. And still this strident dick is firm: there'll come a time when men shall squirm, and claw the very carpet for their traction, such is the blond fatality of cock of this attraction. So, please. Go to Brazil - no, we have Brazil. Go to Newfoundland, and scout out snowy fuck, the better to allow us all t'indulge our blonded luck.
The painting of our tongue is so precious to us that the brush of perfect penisflesh need almost not impart its glaze to gain our abject laving of its flopsome luscious dollop. But there, as they say, is the rub, the lickling friction of our lapstrop lending riot to the roiling slop of spew, our penischurning passion unexhausted with its dew.
3 comments:
Nice set!
XO FFB
What a blessing, this quota! Please, don't hesitate to make it one a fortnight. Take, for example, the final portrait, lushly asscleft, buoyantly coct, suavely pect, poetically vasculated in the right bicep, plushly labiaed and blondfully browed. Where does one begin, where conceivably could it end? Such lavish swaths of penisdrapery, movingly yielding to the irrepressible rise of love's refulgent soothepith; such stellar urethral resiliency, to indulge the compressing clasp. And here, we speak only of the bullet points of penis: what of the radiantly unbreakable caverns of this cock, spreading urgently away from each other to yield right of way to our gush's gracious conduit, sweeping its way toward the wedgemold's sluicing slit, dulcetly discreet in its flare, t'infuse its separating pair of lobes to stab us easier, within. Oh, but you see one adopting the pace of constant posting, which must abate here if we have to abscond with "inventory" ourselves, in a tag-team plan of hijackings in dead of morning. We haven't so much as slickened anus, yet, nor tasted of love's fucksweat at its gate; while nipples float ebulliently, upon their seething plate. What grossened knob of fuckmeat has yet nourished these sweet lips, what tongue invaded tongue's own space, to lap its game of whips, nor gnawn in bicep's sanguine pit, to contemplate where it might fit. And still this strident dick is firm: there'll come a time when men shall squirm, and claw the very carpet for their traction, such is the blond fatality of cock of this attraction. So, please. Go to Brazil - no, we have Brazil. Go to Newfoundland, and scout out snowy fuck, the better to allow us all t'indulge our blonded luck.
The painting of our tongue is so precious to us that the brush of perfect penisflesh need almost not impart its glaze to gain our abject laving of its flopsome luscious dollop. But there, as they say, is the rub, the lickling friction of our lapstrop lending riot to the roiling slop of spew, our penischurning passion unexhausted with its dew.
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