He's right, after all - the guy on the red bed. What is more welcome than the sight of resolute penis, on axis, its knob resolved in churning fist to breach our fuckspace with its fill, beloved altercations causing ours to spout its swill? We can hear it, the crackling friction of the spit, and we can smell it, the lush precum that we suct it to emit; but mainly we can see it, the flaring pith enthralling, teaching anus where to sit, the strident horn appalling in the measure of its fit. I'm glad he knows the power of the daunting thing he wields; I want his cock for fuckling, and the torrents that it yields.
Is the last guy, tasting the fruits of his nourishing fuck, the same fellow who fed anus so generously in the previous post? He certainly deserves a richly nuanced gush for that, savouring hopefully of the very slot which so diversely extracted it, in inspiration, intoxication, and extruding clasp of raptest horn, solaced beyond measure to exult in suckling slideflesh of his lush, lubricious hole, his strokespace stoked beyond its yolk to bring him to this pass. Now all of love's endearing concussions of cock are wafted in such arcs of restitution as if own exploded spew returned as the triumphal extract of that first exploratory tasting of his ass, the infinite feedback loop of fuck affirmed again in strands of sumptuous lusciousness. But, no more science - no more theology: here the drench of fuck is flung to seal him in its flux, until the first elated tongue shall lap it to his own to ease his thirst.
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He's right, after all - the guy on the red bed. What is more welcome than the sight of resolute penis, on axis, its knob resolved in churning fist to breach our fuckspace with its fill, beloved altercations causing ours to spout its swill? We can hear it, the crackling friction of the spit, and we can smell it, the lush precum that we suct it to emit; but mainly we can see it, the flaring pith enthralling, teaching anus where to sit, the strident horn appalling in the measure of its fit. I'm glad he knows the power of the daunting thing he wields; I want his cock for fuckling, and the torrents that it yields.
Is the last guy, tasting the fruits of his nourishing fuck, the same fellow who fed anus so generously in the previous post? He certainly deserves a richly nuanced gush for that, savouring hopefully of the very slot which so diversely extracted it, in inspiration, intoxication, and extruding clasp of raptest horn, solaced beyond measure to exult in suckling slideflesh of his lush, lubricious hole, his strokespace stoked beyond its yolk to bring him to this pass. Now all of love's endearing concussions of cock are wafted in such arcs of restitution as if own exploded spew returned as the triumphal extract of that first exploratory tasting of his ass, the infinite feedback loop of fuck affirmed again in strands of sumptuous lusciousness. But, no more science - no more theology: here the drench of fuck is flung to seal him in its flux, until the first elated tongue shall lap it to his own to ease his thirst.
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