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6 comments:
The interest in these pages in males of African descent truly does shine as a rainbow, restored -- not as a pennant or a symbol, but as we see in real life. There really always is, and ought to be, a marveling at natural arcs of prismatic luminosity, as there is in the bulb-enboldened penis span which opens this stimulating set.
Here, however, a poignant alarm, a disturbance of empathy -- a swoon? -- coincides with consoling assurance in its looming arc of lusciousness, to ease the dessication in its warmth, with lingual, laving limnings in the tinctures of a treasuring oral elation. But now, whether owing to ribands of distinctive radiance or to each tier of tint’s distinguishment of feeling and of function, the tongue can not resist conducting itself as a watercolourist’s finest brush, precisely, to illuminate each hue’s implication in the span. Nor is this lapidarian reflex mere coincidence. It is drawn from awe, itself, which is as childlike in origin and character, as watercolour is as its medium.
There will be time enough, and reason enough, for an anguished engorgement of spontaneous completeness. There will be time when a uniformity of glistening brilliance supersedes striations in our zealous zones of suck. There will be a time for the whole, famously, to exceed the sum of its parts, and there will be a time to bask in diffuse, reflective gratitude.
But heaven didn’t lift this arc to guide a gaze of indolence, or gain a destination without wonder in its glow. Equatorial urethra now explains the bifurcated globe, Tropic caverns left of Capricorn and right of Cancer pressing refulgent bulb to gape in brilliant density, ensconced within our soul before our flesh, the world of dick made whole again.
Golly. If the Alaskan oracle is right, and “The Iraq War is a task from God,” just imagine the author of this ordeal -- you have to stand there, and yield your hips to a Hyrcan tiger of a host, to make sure he stays secure. Mind you, with this comes the agony of our Lord’s own temptation to live, at its direst and most acute elevation, your arms outstretched to deprive you of resistance. But then, worse, they fill your hands with the most treacherous load you've hefted for your pains, and wrap your radiant innocence in his ferociously consuming grasp, whereupon he crunches rapacious abs to seal your fate while jangling castanets of vilest vapours at your waist, and calibrates compression of your bondage with the gaudiest of levers, to tempt your gaze to sightlessness with vicious-pointed flaring pecs and arms of epauletted menace to your peace. Hideous, loathesome joy inflames his exploitation of your generous heart, amidst howls and ululations of elation in your torment, all but dancing in extractions of your overextended might.
Who tasked you to this immolating catastrophe, this travesty of your well intended occupation? Who tethered you to this entrapping quagmire with its waves of scourging suction of your strength? Who drew you to this trial of flesh and blood and sacrifice, that you must stand there begging not to lose your wrathless resolution to endure, and not to yield?
With the presentation of the 3rd portrait, I finally feel compelled to ask a question which has sometimes occurred to me before, in visiting these galleries. Have you heard any reports, that a guy can get a terrible boner if he looks at these pictures?
Allow me to explain: I mean, a revoltingly obdurate hardening in his dick, accompanied by hideous inflation throughout, even in the plusher part, way out there where it ends. An anguished perpendicularity accompanies this distortion, and a sense of imminent contusion afflicts the vessels which, ordinarily, are scarcely discernible. There's more, but if you've endured one of these things, you know what I mean.
So here I was, amidst these portraits of this very same part, when Wham, this fuckysucky guyjock slapped his slot in my face and dared me not to moan in feasting him out. Well, I was under no capacity then to utter such a guarantee, being hauled to that Lucullan vortex by forces out of my control, and fused to it by a vacuum already, then, halfway in possession of my tongue, his whacky-pithy guything petting my forehead in its bobbing bloat.
Even to recall this fragment of our interview distends my dick again, never mind its rape of my palate memory.
Is this disorientation customary, here?
Oops of 3:25 -- meant the 6th frame.
Mmmm, but The Fitting, so contrarian in its seeming geometric incongruities, that you shall have to explain the stroke of genius in this paradox, that it should so soothe the savage symptoms of our sex with such bilateral bliss, that it should not strike the eye more instantly as obvious, intended, in fact the synapse of pure reason, itself, the more its sheltered secrets are exhumed.
Make known to us these things, Maestro.
The comparative rarity of penis of unusually ample mass quickly vanishes in the universal experience of penis’ infallible compassion, not that we fail to celebrate penis of lavish scale. Far from it: vast penis facilitates, above all, the dramatisation of those gestures of confession and thanksgiving with which we mold our features to all penis, and through which it confers its mercy. Wonder in the magnanimity of penis always surpasses physical magnificence, but the latter can depict the former in morally gratifying spectacle. Here, all males share in the supping cherished by our delegate, just as all are moved spontaneously to extend penis to both males in gladness of elevation and intensity.
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