Sex du Juor: Porn Games Part III

Sex du Juor: Porn Games Part III Sex du Juor: Porn Games Part III

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Summary

Stian Elberd and his bitch of a wife, Ragnhild Ascwin--fuck each other and make love like the world is sending any moment now.

Summary

Stian Elberd and his bitch of a wife, Ragnhild Ascwin--fuck each other and make love like the world is sending any moment now.

Content

Submitted: February 23, 2015

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Content

Submitted: February 23, 2015

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It is a little mite jot inebriating and intoxicating and fuddling. Yes. To some measure and stretch, I am all this boozy and stewed up and tipsy and loony what’s more. The style and fashion and manner of action that Stian is seizing and gripping and latching on to my chin and mustachio; it strikes me dumb and takes away my breath and dazzles and confounds and overpowers me—everything relating to this, it is all sublime and dazzling and illustrious and gee-whizz and striking. It absolutely and verily is!

 

Having filched and sneaked and dobbed a two-faced, breakneck hurriedly and swiftly precipitate peek down at my…vulva or vagina…he gawps straight up at me and rams and slams and butts himself against me, bracing and cuddling and hugging and holding me so close and on a grand scale taut towards himself as he does so. Yeah! His legs and feet, they are settled and laid out right against and over mine, smoothing and compressing them in a sweet-tempered and dove-like and benign sort of way. Arghhhhh! What could be faithfully and word to word any fancier better and preferable than all this? What literally?

 

I sigh out, in a rush and like greased lightning and nobody’s business, lurching and throwing and thrusting and jerking and tweaking my head straight up in a rearward (backward) style and manner that feels and is as a matter of fact so, so pearly and tickly and easy-peas’ smooth like. Just like the literal and wringing exact emotions that I am undergoing and feeling right now! Yes; Stian is breathing and wheezing straight out into my face, and when I droop and dangle and sag my head down so as to stare and eyeball straight into his eyes, I feel the more happier and satisfied and elated and on cloud nine; verily…

 

With his very own one hand, he abstracts and pulls out his rocklike, stiff, and prickled-up penis from his sexy, come-hither underwear—which I love and dote on and think the world of so very much—and having played and toyed and dolled about with it care-freely and nonchalantly all thanks to the wield and utilization of his disengaged hands, he rubs and scours and strokes it on my pussy that is easy-going and insouciant and laid-back and downbeat in the water beneath there…I whine and sniffle and bleat out happily and excitedly; I am wholly stirred and whetted and whipped up both carnally and sensually even right spot-on pretty damn second!

 

“Did that give you immense pleasure and furthermore delight and enthrall and thrill you up?’ This, Stian queries and enquires me in a comparatively titillating and pink-tickling accent of voice that to some grade and extent sounds as though it is heaven-sent and rapture-inclined. I am enthralled; I am amused and absorbed and bewitched and engrossed and bedazzled solely by this. Is he human or some freaking divine angel? What verily?

 

“I feel that my eyes and face are clear and downright frank enough to make that explicit and cut-and-dried and blatant plain and besides, incontrovertible and unambiguous to you, or are they not that patent enough?” With a fairly mild and benignant expression, I upturn and topple over the matter and thesis back to him—doing it all generously and topsy-turvy jumbled inside-out mixed-up style.

 

He smiles at me brusquely and systematically; then for one terse and synoptic moment, or maybe two or three, he slithers and slinks and skitters his John Wang and plonker right undeviating into my cunt and twat, and I give my word, if I have not sailed and flitted and mounted my way farther high up past the piers and torchbearers and vaults and mainstays of heaven, then I doubtlessly and beyond the shadow of any irresolution and dubiety am in life to come right now and the abode of the heavenly Begetter itself! Possibly… and seemingly so…

 

After Stian draws back and pulls out his Willie from where he has laid it—in my punani hole that is—I retrocede and regress back to realism and corporeality and exhale out heavily and delightfully. It has all been a fleetingly booshit and out of this world moment, I swear. As he cuffs and smacks and whacks and batters my bum right then and abruptly and all hurriedly at once, I wheeze and rasp and cough out another time. Before I even become aware of it, his lips are moving and skimming right over mine, pleasurably and enjoyably lackadaisical and tortoise-like, his teeth raking and sweeping and dragging them amiably and scrupulously and meticulously; thrilling and delighting and giving me pleasure in just ‘bout every tack and tenor and wont and practice and approach odds-on.

 

“Stian,” I rasp and whirr and sibilate his name out, wholly inflated and swelled and ballooned and packed and loaded with just the ideal bliss and contentment. Aren’t you yourself whooping it up and larging it big time with all of this stuff existent here as well?

 

At a snail’s pace and taking his time, inchmeal and in his own breathing space and spare moments, and lazily in a laid-back way and feel sort of comfortable and relaxed fashion, he sticks on at flouncing and sailing and breezing his lips over mine, licking my face fungus or whiskers, pinching and nibbling and clamping sweetly and pleasurably my genteely, finely, and subtly balmy lips, all up till I am cooking and simmering and blowing up a fuse with licentiousness and salaciousness and libido and concupiscence…I have a fancy and unquenchable craving for all of this…I yen and would eat out my heart over anything just to win possession of him to myself and do anything with him that I feel like transacting off. Yes! Indubitably!

 

While Stian budges and switches about his legs, I pull and tow back apart mine so that he can make a moored and staid entrance straight into me with his eyes closed and shut and without experiencing any hardship or painfulness. He is congenial and genial and complaisant and pleasant and kindly in his motion and advancement toward me. Then, as time whisks and flashes by, he prods and lunges and taps John Barry Thomas direct into my poor dear old helpless muff and starts tonking and slamming and beating seven bells out of her briskly fast and at full speed and like quid pro quo lightning. I sob and grouch and whinge out straight away. He bleats and carps and bitches out too obstreperously, but it is only for a little bit tad nom-de-plume like while and even then his voice is as not as all that rowdy and clamorous and sharply piercing and cacophonous as mine is.

 

Having made clear this, I place and lay my hands straight on his buttocks behind and clasp and grip them all to myself and for myself solely. Arghhhhhhh! The feeling, the sensation, the stir and commotion of it—it implodes and demolishes and crushes my senses and apprehension and understanding to non-being. I come clean out of the closet: I have never been this pleasured and thrilled and given bliss in all my good old days, or have I been franchised and honored and privileged with just that? Categorically and frankly speaking, not by any chance so!

 

Stian whacks and clobbers and sledge-hammers level into me—at just the ideal and point-blank perfect and foolproof and blamelessly exemplary speed and velocity. I don’t know what to think of this. In fact, I can’t even rack or brood my brains on just about any fast-track form of subject matter and thesis as regards this. No—I in any way and under any would-be circumstances cannot! Because if I haply and plainly smooth could, there would be no more any of this paradise and heaven and happiness and nirvana of mine! Irrefutably not so!

 

Ashoo-oooooh! There is no any modest or slight or bit of pain or throe or soreness in the tack and approach and style that Stian is romping up and shagging up and banging up into me. If there was, then I would by this particular moment be shedding tears of hurt and grieving and howling my eyes out fortissimo and uproariously and at full volume at the crest and vertex and pinnacle and height of my voice; but then I definitely and veritably am not!

 

Minutes roll on and slip by…Stian seems a bit done-in and drooping clapped out and zonked dead beat and tuckered out. Sweat, heavy and thick and freshly full of beans, drips and streams and dribbles down his bleached-pale, subtle-colored forehead and smooth-shaven, flushed rubicund face. I can plainly an incontestably tell it. He is dog-tired and ready to drop; he is clapped out and drowsy and flagging whacked on his feet. But he ain’t stopping bashing and tonking and battering into me! Why, you may hit or retaliate back at me inside your top secret mind? Perhaps it is all because the extravagant and over-the-top sweetness and sugar that we are rejoicing and finding satisfaction in on our part makes up for all the fatigue and debilitation and enervation that we are suffering and withstanding and submitting ourselves to right now, or does it not seem so to you?

 

I tap and cuff and box and spank his smoothly soft, voluminous, and drop-dead virtuoso backside and butts behind. The feeling is gee-whizz and mega cracking super and brill and boffo and chillin’ beaut! If this was some fuck-off leisure activity and mere avocation pursuit, I imprecate and vow to you—I would by this time and twenty-four-seven and incessantly be working and effecting it out all day long without getting any pretty damn dead zonked and fucking fazed up. I love it! I Njoy it! I am so keen and bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on it!

 

The sweat in Stian’s higgledy-piggledy tangled up and chaotically messy hair gathers ad pools and stockpiles up right on his head. I can see and eye it soak and drench and souse and steep a large mass and bulk and better part of his massy but slash-notched flourishing and in good shape and form hair. His hair is a mite or speck scarlet and so dingy and murky and dreary and bedimmed at the same time. It is like he is a chap or geezer dude who has got very light blind hair otherwise and by way of alternative hued and tinctured and tinged a substantial and heavy and deep black—and slightly roseate—that really natural and run-of-the-mill way with some naturalism and inborn artless but real type of hair varnish and polish. I am gagging and joking here please! And what if this is the sheer and thoroughgoing deep-dyed truth, huh?

 

The water is all balmy and fine and fuzzy and snugly comfortable hot. In its zing and tang and penchant-ly comfort, Stian thrusts and elbows me to the sauna’s edge, dredging and loading and scooping and shoveling inexhaustible, bulky semen straight into my cunt unceasingly and perpetually. That is what I literally and scrupulously fancy and desire about him. He won’t ever call it a day or quits—appeased and gratified and like the cat that swallowed the canary he himself be—up till he has pacified and pleased and tickled me pink such that I can no longer be any more smug and easy in my mind and fulfilled than I already am. Men get filled up and slaked and sated when it comes to business and issues like sex and coitus hasty and brisk enough than women do. Of course! Tickling and contenting and cheering a woman sexually is not child’s play and some piece of piss a métier or office as it may seem. It is somewhat uphill work and toilsome and like getting blood out of stone. Yes. As Stian clouts and clobbers and whacks deep and more deeper into my pussy, I look up at him here and then, all nonchalant and imprudent and negligent and happy-go-lucky, and I grin at him lickety-split and briskly and hastily. This is so bitchin’ awesome and fantastic and tit for tat gee whizz. Promptly and without delay, Stian grotesquely and latently smirks and twinkles back at me. There is no misgiving and perplexity and dubiety that we are both relishing and loving and liking this. No lack of conviction or dilemma or suspense as refers to it.

 

“Should I keep on coming more and more faster into you? Or would you rather have me be anchored and level-headed and on an even keel?” This, Stian asks as he twinkles and grins at me from one ear to another. Regardless of the sweat trickling and oozing down his fanciable and comely dishy face, he is as incredibly and overpoweringly attractive and well-proportioned as ever before. I am fortunate and blessed to have gotten hitched to a man this greatly gorgeous and well-lavished in both appearance and stance and even posture, or am I not? I don’t stake or bet so!

 

While Stian nudges and jabs and pricks and goads his jumbo, Brobdingnagian penis into my wide open, helpless cunt all the deeper and deeper and more deeper, he kisses and snogs and canoodles and necks me straightly on my lips, fluttering and taking wing and piloting me to the towering and soaring most extraterrestrial and seraphic and paradisiacal statures or heights. Yeah. This is good…good indeed…so very good…this is mind-boggling and jaw-dropping and breathtaking mind you…this is smash cracking and topping and phat excellent!

 

With the service and utilization of his hands, Stian slaps and cuffs and spanks and lays one on my slap-bang buttocks behind; he even goes as far as lapping and brushing and tasting my lips with his own while massaging and kneading and smoothing and stroking my booby breasts below…I breathe in and then at length out, grieving and moaning and wailing about from the heaven and gladness and blissfulness that is blanketing and engulfing and enwrapping and swaddling me on every hide-out and hidey-hole. I cannot explicate or interpret it into words overtly and distinctly. No, I incontestably and comprehensibly cannot. Can you yourself?

 

Arghhhhhhh! Stian! He is the mega super awesome jim-dandy master overlord fucker of our time! The sex that he stocks up and purveys me with—it is as electrifying and eye-popping and lurid and spectacular as his buck naked and starkers self. Why in any way? I don’t truly and precisely do not know…I don’t by any means realizable. Do you yourself?

 

We are over and done with and ended and finished at long last…ultimately…at the last moment. Stian is still putting on his bedroom provocative, slinky, and come-hither style of underwear. His thighs and ass or derrière, are just as much good-looking and gorgeous and alluring and drop-dead as his entire self is. I bash and tonk and lay one on it for the final time before I smirk and twinkle with gaily lief when he gapes and gazes at me to clasp and hold my silky-like cheek charily and punctiliously so as to osculate and peck me auspiciously and gaily too. Damn us for everything we have accomplished and broke our backs on in this shitty damn Jacuzzi! Damn us for it a measureless more times!


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