Often, my dear Hawt, I admit I commit myself to sleep on a given evening under the weight of sad confession that I've done little or nothing for penis on this day. Can you even think of it, Hawt - you, who do so much to shoulder our debt, even to confide its urgency? Can you think of a day, when your own sleep should have sustained the slightest torment of negligence? Of course you can't, beloved angel of our social contract, of our teleological compass, of our very voice - muffled, so mellifluously as it must be, upon the mold of mannish marvelhood.
But I stray. There is penispaste to pour for this lad's coffee mug, and scrotal baggage burdened with that confection of its castanets. Who shall sip of this libation, without moaning on this dome of dulcet pulchritude, without some slathering of incense at its slit? But idle's not the greater known deflection of that arc of fucksome shaft, distending as its bulb is, as its estuary's waft'. What power of slop is this, we mop, to treasure for that instant our lush hero in his flop?
It's not for one to say, dear Hawt, but it does seem that the bit for that dogfuck is not engineered to bear the full and total chomp of assimilation's shock. I'm thinking - for you, need I say - a titanium rod of perhaps 3/4" diameter, wrapped in rawhide, just in case the dog in you gets the better of your crushing mandible.
3 comments:
Often, my dear Hawt, I admit I commit myself to sleep on a given evening under the weight of sad confession that I've done little or nothing for penis on this day. Can you even think of it, Hawt - you, who do so much to shoulder our debt, even to confide its urgency? Can you think of a day, when your own sleep should have sustained the slightest torment of negligence? Of course you can't, beloved angel of our social contract, of our teleological compass, of our very voice - muffled, so mellifluously as it must be, upon the mold of mannish marvelhood.
But I stray. There is penispaste to pour for this lad's coffee mug, and scrotal baggage burdened with that confection of its castanets. Who shall sip of this libation, without moaning on this dome of dulcet pulchritude, without some slathering of incense at its slit? But idle's not the greater known deflection of that arc of fucksome shaft, distending as its bulb is, as its estuary's waft'. What power of slop is this, we mop, to treasure for that instant our lush hero in his flop?
One of the great portraits, Hawt.
It's not for one to say, dear Hawt, but it does seem that the bit for that dogfuck is not engineered to bear the full and total chomp of assimilation's shock. I'm thinking - for you, need I say - a titanium rod of perhaps 3/4" diameter, wrapped in rawhide, just in case the dog in you gets the better of your crushing mandible.
I'll take the second one from the top. I'm in love again!
Post a Comment