Tuesday, September 30, 2008
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3 comments:
How could anyone's soul not be stirred by the searching standfuck portrayed in bottom's exclamatory outburst of acquisition? Oh, has the beloved displacement ever been more innocently chronicled, than in our craviour's outburst of concentrated cognition? We scarcely think it possible.
The necessary, the great, the primordial roar upon the assimilation of fuck's vouchsaving dome is a chapter we often hurry past, so sumptuous are its sequels. The great inflation, the extruding reification, the hammering marvel of pith -- so cushioned as to disperse its annealing blows, so lithic as to leverage our grafted dick in its wake, so lavish as to assuage the remotest agony, and so proficient as to expunge our gel of genius as genetic ropes of jubilation -- truly do seem to summon us to their fruition with a ravenously impetuous urgency.
But why? Why not tarry here, as the gods chastised the chronicler to be sure we do, upon the wondrous breakthrough here achieved? Why not draw out, indefinitely, the perspiring panic, the searing shards of penisradiance blinding our soul to all but joy in our triumphal abduction of dick, except to shorten, with each sweeping pass of grossly hornlike bone, the tenure of its captivity?
Males only need respond . . . .
Having long given up on any prospect of assuaging bottom's endless sluttery for dick, for longer than it takes condensation to distill the drams with which one perpetually endows his sinuses, I empathise with top's improvisation (in the leathersuck) of feeding bottom one's dick without prior warning. Having just returned from a walk with my amiable dog, I must confess that I see no difference between the desirability of getting out in front, so to speak, of the beast's chronic zeal to mark his territory, as opposed to yielding yet again to a clamouring appeal for exertion: the trick is to pre-empt whimpering with decisive, anticipatory action.
So, too, in the leatherfuck of constrained face, we find the moanthing being hammered up-palate with the elaborate illusion of bondage assuring some character of leadership in the decision. We all very well know, the "mask" is only a spectacularisation of bottom's residual command upon our dick, but we enjoy the impression that facefuck is our idea. I wonder why.
I'm not sure if I have photographic confidence in Raging Stallion's juxtaposition of the heaving horn of moanfuck and its wholesome habitat, but I have high faith in it, which is another matter altogether. Here the fellated fuckhole seethes in lavish lusciousness to slip the slideform slotfully upon its appointed rounds, the parapet adorned with supple similes in sumptuous anticipation. Sign us up!
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