I can see the face, crinkled and wrinkled beyond care, hidden

File: 1438808324576.jpg (120KB, 338x450px)

120KB, 338x450px

I can see the face, crinkled and wrinkled beyond care, hidden between milky white thighs, drowning in a sea of flavor. Nothing to say, no place to run. Because once the tongue hit the slipperly slopes, slightly gummy, worn from days of running without care. Like a scarf when your afghan's broken, cold swipes the tongue again and again, no passion in it, feasting on the overt nature of the arithmetic massage, heightening sensory overload. Better this way, tongue twisting within a save surrounded by electric eels, stinging and never quite coming to an end, your friend writhing above you, this chance to entrance carbon fiber strings to heartbeats, this, the moment to solidify remorse to umbral fear and take what can be taken until tongue switch slips and dances upon the tits of some other lipsticked bitch who found herself stepping, two clops short of a gallop, into the arms of the affectionate urchin, suckling and slurping to remoulade shower screams and hissing dreams that countlessly wave the shore to smithereens.
>tfw the pussy taste like seaweed

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