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Awakened, bobsled hard,Still moist from mutual anointment,He stirs in their sheets with practiced stealth,Eases from blended, homespun warmthToward newly sugared slopes.He hovers on the landing’s corniceIn raging defiance of Newton,Aching for the rush of descentTo his private playground.He risks a backward glance.The recumbent form shifts, falls inert.He guards his own breath,False start averted.Hushed woolen footfalls tread the runner.Neon promises brighten one palmAnd carve his pathThrough the pre-dawn pitch.Reckless fantasies slalomBetween cortex and Sincan Escort coccyx.Flashes of unveiled, split femininity(Like glistening snow crystals, no two exactly the same)Might as well be a playful flurryOf tonguesSwirling atop his sheathed serac.Drawers leap his quickened mogul;Distended elastic frames his new freedom.The thrill of an aperture to public prurienceNumbs him to the cold couch cushion.He craves the contrabandOf spectators’ stares,Thrives on the adrenalineOf crowded admiration.Then Etlik Escort a rigid number,Like a degree of difficulty,Spikes the screenAnd it’s from her,The one who reads his proclivitiesAs instinctively as darkened touchAnd shamelessly inflates himAgainst his will.His purpose swerves under lettered caresses.Resolve tumbles off-course, sprawls helplesslyAstride her kneeling, predatory nakedness.His audience narrows to one wicked kiss.They can’t see you now,She taunts with a wanton whisperBefore silencing Çankaya Escort herself with his girth.He launches into the chute of her lips,Savors the shuddering, tautly wrapped thrustsThat tug in perfect rhythm with his grip.Her feathered friction abates.He waitsIn a zero gravity throb.A breathless runeRises with her smile,You taste so fucking goodBefore he surrendersTo the steepened grade.No brakes on this bullet,No derailment desired,Each struggle brings heated collisionWith cinch and suck and twistOf hot-buttered labyrinth.Maximum g-force churns his seed.Jet propelled by glimpsesOf loosed lace anklets,He imprints her lewdnessBehind squeezed eyelidsAnd ruts the slide of her mouthTo a blind, convulsive crash.His fatigued hand soaksIn the color of softened frost.Bested, he blinks at the tabletop moon.All that winks back is her triumph,Like a checkered flag:I am your webcam.
Ben Esra telefonda seni boşaltmamı ister misin?
Telefon Numaram: 00237 8000 92 32