Friday, November 7, 2008
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November
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2 comments:
Much as the mirror lent an additional strand to the tricep gathering my tongue in the last frame, articulate division in the dome of my descent supplied a supplement, it seemed, of swollen solace to my ass. I need hardly say, how gladdeningly my goring graced my guts on this occasion, but I grieved to grind its girth with such intemperance as to stuff myself with spew before I'd feasted on the 2nd pec. I mourned, inaudibly below my grateful grunts, the bag's undivided vault of fuck's sweet flux, that in my bucks I snaffled all of it at once. I busied myself, then, in thwappings of my unexpired horn as lappings lent his slot incentive to be worn about my wedge, in dancings on my hips to dredge my spew across the ledge of fuck. What jolt was it that stirred his cock to molt again, I did not ponder as I scrambled to abscond with its inflation, to teethe upon that 2nd pec with stirringest elation. And here I sucked the treasure of the measure of his fuck, the haunting pad sharp-pointed to my taste.
Fanciers of love's perineal isthmus or, indeed, of the whole luscious cleft of ass will require a moment to get over Mr Harper's bespoke-tailored suit, a kind of second circumcision in its shearing of scrumptious context. But there we are, with definition enhanced again by fetish, and do not mourn to make the best of it.
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