Topic: tits or gtfo
Ishikawa !Et8Dragonk started this discussion 15 years ago #13,738
The body cannot be blank.Anonymous C joined in and replied with this 15 years ago, 19 minutes later[^] [v] #245,474
I'm at work you faggot
Anonymous D joined in and replied with this 15 years ago, 13 seconds later, 19 minutes after the original post[^] [v] #245,475
you make bad topics
sluggy joined in and replied with this 15 years ago, 5 minutes later, 25 minutes after the original post[^] [v] #245,480
still waiting for tits.
Ishikawa !Et8Dragonk (OP) replied with this 15 years ago, 11 minutes later, 36 minutes after the original post[^] [v] #245,483
Anonymous D replied with this 15 years ago, 20 minutes later, 57 minutes after the original post[^] [v] #245,489
Ishikawa !Et8Dragonk (OP) replied with this 15 years ago, 21 minutes later, 1 hour after the original post[^] [v] #245,493
Leo Vegas !gNoGoD5HzQ joined in and replied with this 15 years ago, 37 minutes later, 1 hour after the original post[^] [v] #245,505
@OP
I remember like it was yesterday: his crushed velvet drapes, the slate hearth, a black and white Ansel Adams lithograph, the sleek, tall black plastic CD tower filled with weighty $30 CDs, standing like a skyscraper next to the TV stand, on which sat his Phillips compact disc player, on top of a stereo balancer, on top of a VHS player, on top of a radio tuner. Over a romantic dinner of veal filo parcels and haricots vert with bechamel, I was seduced by a bottle of 1987 vintage zinfandel, one year cellared, which I sipped through a small-mouthed goblet as I listened to his lusty tales of life on the trading floor. I blushed as he leaned over to tuck a frayed strand of permed hair out of my eyes, so I didn’t get chocolate fondue in it. “Girl, you’re making me crazy,†he said to me, gazing directly into my soul through his horn-rimmed reading glasses.
We slow-danced to “Electric Blue,†he with one steady hand in the small of my back, where the satin bow was pinned to my dress, and the other gripping the nape of my neck, buoyed softly by my shoulder pads. As Iva Davies howled along with his lonely electric guitar and keyboard synthesizer, we pressed together, his box pleat slacks against my sequined, tiered skirt. It was microwave hot in the nooks between our legs. The air had the snap of suspenders. He reached up and undid my alligator clip; my Bottecellian hair tumbled down around my shoulders, full of bounce from Pert 2-in-1 shampoo/conditioner.
When Genesis hit the high, clear notes of “I will be theeeeeeeere†in “Hold on my heart†I realized I was in trouble. He picked me up, as if I weighed no more than a single rose, told me I took his breath away, and threw me on his waterbed. Wooed by Mick Hucknall crooning “Holding Back the Years†he tied my hands to the headboard with silk scarves, and ruthlessly littered pillowy kisses on the soft skin of my wrists, inner elbows and clavicle. Writhing, I bit my dark plum lipstick and rubbed my pantyhosed feet together in ecstasy. Glistening with sweat, he fed me sections of a chocolate orange. The music segued to Richard Clayderman running his hands up and down a piano relentlessly, setting off cascades of tremoring arpeggios and scales. Glancing sideways as I arched my back, I noticed the neat space-saving design of his wardrobe—shirts hung on coathangers with multiple tiers, special racks just for business ties—and cried out, “No! No! It’s too much, I’ll die from the pleasure!â€
I remember like it was yesterday: his crushed velvet drapes, the slate hearth, a black and white Ansel Adams lithograph, the sleek, tall black plastic CD tower filled with weighty $30 CDs, standing like a skyscraper next to the TV stand, on which sat his Phillips compact disc player, on top of a stereo balancer, on top of a VHS player, on top of a radio tuner. Over a romantic dinner of veal filo parcels and haricots vert with bechamel, I was seduced by a bottle of 1987 vintage zinfandel, one year cellared, which I sipped through a small-mouthed goblet as I listened to his lusty tales of life on the trading floor. I blushed as he leaned over to tuck a frayed strand of permed hair out of my eyes, so I didn’t get chocolate fondue in it. “Girl, you’re making me crazy,†he said to me, gazing directly into my soul through his horn-rimmed reading glasses.
We slow-danced to “Electric Blue,†he with one steady hand in the small of my back, where the satin bow was pinned to my dress, and the other gripping the nape of my neck, buoyed softly by my shoulder pads. As Iva Davies howled along with his lonely electric guitar and keyboard synthesizer, we pressed together, his box pleat slacks against my sequined, tiered skirt. It was microwave hot in the nooks between our legs. The air had the snap of suspenders. He reached up and undid my alligator clip; my Bottecellian hair tumbled down around my shoulders, full of bounce from Pert 2-in-1 shampoo/conditioner.
When Genesis hit the high, clear notes of “I will be theeeeeeeere†in “Hold on my heart†I realized I was in trouble. He picked me up, as if I weighed no more than a single rose, told me I took his breath away, and threw me on his waterbed. Wooed by Mick Hucknall crooning “Holding Back the Years†he tied my hands to the headboard with silk scarves, and ruthlessly littered pillowy kisses on the soft skin of my wrists, inner elbows and clavicle. Writhing, I bit my dark plum lipstick and rubbed my pantyhosed feet together in ecstasy. Glistening with sweat, he fed me sections of a chocolate orange. The music segued to Richard Clayderman running his hands up and down a piano relentlessly, setting off cascades of tremoring arpeggios and scales. Glancing sideways as I arched my back, I noticed the neat space-saving design of his wardrobe—shirts hung on coathangers with multiple tiers, special racks just for business ties—and cried out, “No! No! It’s too much, I’ll die from the pleasure!â€