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?Don?t ever stop being dandy, showing me you're handsome? ? Adam Ant Rainforest orchid wrapped ?round geranium, orange rind and lavender steam, pillowing all my senses as I lay soaking, gently stroking my cock basted in sensual essences. My indolent genital pondering in the water like an Oblomov splayed upon the mattress, no response as I puttied it gently from one side of my hips to the other with one thing in mind, paddling idly through the ripples of my foggy lust with five flippant fingers. She?s at work tonight, working her greasy naked body up against men in off the streets. She?s strumming them by number, making them cum, finishing five minutes under? blob. I have an appointment booked for me at a bordello called, Bedaubing. After my engrossing dunk, I prepare myself lavishly in the shower, swirling with a deep cleansing shower puff a rich scented wash foaming frothy shell shapes alongside each crescent of my snug buttocks, finishing off with a hardy scuff up the crack. I then scoop the puff either side of my drenched testicles and with my left hand I flatter my dandy cock, dealing out flushes of clumped white bubbles to the tumbling water below as they evacuate through the plug holes, as if on the run from some recently committed grime. Peering southwards towards my cock through the seams of air stitched across a hood Ankara escort bayan of humbling water, I wonder about its personality. If I were to apply one to it, I would say that it were a fallen aristocrat. During those moments when it engages in reveries of past finery, its jacket pulled in tight, its head cocked in blushed dignity, the stories it could tell! Such as the silently composed Indian virgin who, upon being asked if she would like to do ?doggy,? replied, ?What?s that?? ?Y?know, from behind?? and he was all for giving this twenty-one year old beginner a lesson or two. Or the dopey eyed Oboist who, when confronted with the supernatural phallusman strung ?round the rampart hips before it had donned its defense, sobbed, ?I don?t want to make babies.? During times when it must return to the field once more, it flexes to the beckoning feminine kiss, flitting in and out of her nest, pothering the pink interior until the white flags of sweet surrender come flapping out. I thought at one stage, after hearing that men often name their penises, of allowing mine to have a feminine gender. Mine could be a Sally; then I could hum, ?Ride, Sally, Ride,? during sex. Or Maryanne, and thus it would be known as, ?So Long, Maryanne.? This naming process always seemed ridiculous to me. One girl I Escort Balgat knew had named her ex-boyfriend?s penis, Arthur, which could sum up images of either Excalibur or a somewhat shabby brown dressing gown. My cock is what I would call an accordion cock. Not that it can play such jigs as An Jenem Tag or Zorba?s Tanz but it has the remarkable ability to remain quite introverted until aroused, when it extends to about nine inches and when slouching after being erect hangs thick like a rolled Persian Carpet. * ?I wanted to trot into her place of her work with elegance and so I slipped on a clean pair of black trousers, and my stiff collared white shirt clasped to my torso by a soft brown velvet jacket. Slotted into my side pocket was Jean-Paul Sartre?s The Age of Reason, which I thought should accompany me because I didn?t know how long I would have to sit in the waiting lounge. I?m a decent sort of guy and was doing this for a worthwhile adventure and not necessarily to ogle at the other staff, but if I did happen to get turned on by glimpsing them I knew my partner would understand, if not encourage a total sensory experience. I got there at eleven-thirty, half an hour before I knew she would be finishing up. A hive of enticing thoughts trailing from my wafting velvet jacket tails as I Batıkent escort swarmed across the dark empty street up to the entrance and beezed the doorbell. I wanted to feel horny. I wanted to sweat; feel the insatiable sting plucked from my swelling lust, yet I could not quite remove myself from the ?boyfriend coming to pick up girlfriend after work? rôle. ?Hello, I?ve got an appointment with Naomi,? said I. ?Sure, come on through; she won?t be long,? a neatly woman replied. Along a malnourished hallway I scampered aback the cleanly cut shuffler of men?s organs as she dickered smuttering propositions from her nightly dealings of escorting s-extortionists to the in-the-buff-et. * I was prompted to throne in a sagging recliner tucked opposite a z-i-G, ZAg-g-e-d stairway. A browned soggy boned man with glasses was propped up against the service counter, a newspaper tucked under his arm his gaze was fixed at a television screen. A girl walked in; tall, tanned, wearing a black g-string. * She greeted the guy and motioned him to accompany her. I peered over my book; I didn?t even see his cock flinch. She clomped up the stairs in her boots, her long legs towing the length of my gaze. Then they were gone and I returned to the suspended diamond of the eternal moment in Jean-Paul?s narrative. Naomi collected me and led me up the stairs. She was wearing a baby blue laced g-string, a flimsy, sheer baby-blue teddy (braless) and high heels. As we climbed the stairs, I watched her individual buttock cheeks stagger in tow to every high-heeled mounting of the steps, the partially submerged g-string gently flossing between them.