Sex du Juor: Ropes and Chains and Porn

PLEASE PARDON MY FORMATTING. I PUBLISHED THIS THROUGH A PHONE!!! Triple Crap. Tonight, I have my hands solely bound and interlaced and knotted to the burly, virile-like, and sinewy rope and cord and hawser that is hitched and pinioned to the ceiling high up there overheard me. An adherent, gummy, icky, and claggy shred and wodge of cellophane tape is placed and settled and propped over my mouth, tethering and lashing and making fast my lips in a manner that I cannot switch and carry and stir about my frame and flesh-and-bones as I feel and desire like. Yeah. It is all so unfavorable and troubling and unpleasant indeed, but what I find lekker and delectable about it is that in no time Stian Elbert will be spanking and fucking and rapping me up as he feels and has a hunch about. Yeah. That is what is exactly and for sure going to happen. Sooner or later. Don’t assent so or even feel thus yourself? I fifty per cent or incompletely naked. Meaning? I am actually and in fact starkers or undressed but then I am not that all entirely and every inch buck naked and without a stitch on like I was in the bare-scud on that fixed and particular date that I was born into this heartbroken and gloomy wretched world of ours. I am having on a swarthy black brasserie and an attractive shred and bit of stygian-murky frillies or simply women’s undies or lingerie which for the chieftain and baas part is uncovering and laying bare the extremity of my thighs and the lower part or pedestal of my buttocks and behind in that very charming and enjoyable-to-look-at way. Yeah. Stian will be fucking me up in this, I presume and imagine so—don’t you? He is nestled and straightened up before my eyes and face beneath there in an implausibly soaring and steep and elevated chair that looks more of a throne and monarchial stool for an overlord and a His Majesty. Is he? Boo-hoo! He has a regal and sovereign expression about him that makes me wonder to myself in just-the-ideal-thing and faultless silence on whether there lives and has in existence any kink and sexual eccentricity and pervetedness about him. Is there really? Appearances and bearings can be leading astray and misguiding, do not overlook or fail to bring that to mind please! “Stian,” I itch and thirst to murmur and rumble under my incessant breath—but then this adhesive and gluey sellotape thing won’t green-light me to do so. Du-hhhhh! When is he precisely going to get up on his feet and step over to start and finish this balls-up-ing stew and imbroglio of ours? I cannot keep up and withstand tolerance and calmness any longer. He rises and finds his feet as I weigh up all this in my mind, making me so, so over-the-moon and thrilled and sunny that if it was not for constituents and stuff detaining and keeping within bounds or limits my flesh up, I would without any sort of difficulty and pain-in-the-butt and uphill cavort and bob up and down just as I ache and set my heart out on doing. Hurrah! Once Stian makes it to me, he sneaks and ghosts his hand into my underclothes and undies themselves, filled up and swelled and bloated with libido and lechery and lasciviousness and lustfulness for me, so that, once he has his hand tracking down and ferreting on my pussy and cunt, he immediately starts to pet and caress and rub it, a stroke at a time and one in a go simultaneously and synchronously. Yeah. This is it. He better keeps on and presses on with this. He better and to a greater degree must persevere on with this, don’t you believe so? I esteem and opinion so myself. Yeah. It is all nice and lekker. Once he is done with this, dressed in nothing but his topping and outstanding-like lechery-triggering-and-sparking-off underwear, he inches closer to me for a solid and rocklike and involved fuck. Yeah. This is all heaven indeed. I like how he explores and works over his jumbo and titanic-alike penis and dick into me until I am all giddy and light-headed and weak at the knees that I almost feel like passing and blacking out. Will I?