Wednesday, September 24, 2008
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September
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6 comments:
WE have a whole LOT to answer for, in these riches -- the chunky dollop in the 1st frame, the stunning bag above the sumptuous cleft in the 2nd, the stunning bottomfrond in the 3rd (to say nothing of the endearing dome, intervening), and so forth. How expedient, then, for there to be such a prolific dick closet for us to park our companion like a spouse at Vegas -- "here, Honey, go play the slots" -- while we venture into the deeper corridors of cock, the kind involving the male body as more than a hypothesis.
Walldicks are to sex as slot machines are to an honest deck of cards: they pay out occasionally, but the house always wins.
Be that as it may, every encounter with penis other-than-walldick seems to adopt its own protocol, as the rest of this rich collage attests. Striking the right balance between confessional craving and delirium in assimilation becomes more than a question of manners, and is enabled by context of presentation. The male clasping his bath towel below the first few dozen cubic inches of his penis is clearly presenting his body as more than a warrant of dick, but as its expression in the ideal state. He wouldn’t do this if here were not aware of our conviction that he is right, and so we are relieved of having to acquaint him with our fondness for dick. With him, protocol suggests allowing him to clutch his terry cloth as long as he likes, as we rehearse cock assimilation in facefeast and torso feast as the laving and gnawing of fuckthings of full faith and credit of penisvalue, combining enough nuance and voracity in our facework to suggest assly fluency, without diminishing his penis’ natural preference for that habitat. It may well be, that this penis simply embarks directly into ass from its terry terrain, but better that, than that it should have to endure partial immersion in divestiture of its impacted load.
So far, so good, your Lordship, but what of the sumptously evolved anusfoil in the portrait of sweatsocks? You seem to suggest that we allow the luscious trap simply to seethe in its resilient surround as we suckle the plushened dome of penis from its supple shroud, and slake ourselves on fuckballs strewn in idle lavishness upon the pubic parapet, as the likeliest means of inducing this fuckslot simply to leap upon our livid tongue with that avarice which its form suggests, for all such ministrations. Well and good, but what of the brilliant plum now bobbing metronomically above, to say nothing of our own projected wedge of perfect anguish for convection in the silk of surest soothing? How do we extract innocent tongue from the extruding vise of its engulfment, before the gushings of this gruesome dick dissolve the lingual seizure that induced them?
u HAVE TO BE macho
Great work, guys!
:-) @ Joao!
Whoa, not so fast! I’m still back with the guy with the blue travel bag and matching sedan. I managed to get this jolting wedge into me and now I’m petrified to contemplate its removal. “Serves me right,” you say, but how little you know.
Yes, I snaffled this bludgeonpith for its obliterating mass and pummeling density, meeting the 2 salient criteria of transitional pain and raucous wreckage in one fell swoop of sweeping penisflesh in adamant self-indulgence, so don’t get me wrong. It is not a complaint, to confess that its obdurately scraping brim, which afforded such a reaming as to chisel the hieroglyph throughout my ass, “Cock was here” -- and most graciously at that -- should now threaten the circumcision of my fuckmuscle on departure.
I’ve opened negotiations to host it on permanent loan, instead, or at least (heaven forfend) until I crave it less. And things are looking up! Spasms of remembered clawings on this shaft have restored its rapacious density, and the great inflation, itself, has palpably spurred these capacious lobes of plushmeat to a marmoreal seething reminiscent of our meeting. But I must take care to inflict the grinding it will require, if I am ever to relinquish it. Gimme an hour and I'll get back to you.
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