Flesh Steeple

On one end there’s the oblong face of a rare coin, big eyed, and a little mysterious, while at the other…well, it’s the other end that haunts me, it’s the end of Fuat that looks a bit like the marriage between a giraffe and an antelope. I’m speaking of his legs.

They keep me awake…get my fingers itchy. My cock thrums when I think of them and how they look, rising up into a stately A-line of man-tower, no side-swell to speak of, until—tah-da.

Funny how it sneaks it’s way into the mix, how it suddenly pop out—the niftiest cleft in the middle, like a molded bagel, but going down into forever, and begging to be spread, popping hot, and delicious—funny, except my mouth gets dry every time I look at it, run my hands up to it, climbing that leg-ladder to reach that cinnamon-sweet butt-spire, even if it’s just in my mind.

Are they ticklish, those legs?

Does that elegant poise of his extend to ignoring my fingers as they slip, slowly up the underside of his knees? What if were to use a cane?

I picture a neat, red crop with a tip that’s feathery and perfect for testing tickle resistance—a polished end that’s great for testing…cavities. But maybe I’ll use my tongue first, watch the steeple wobble a bit before I fill it with plastic, or leather, with cock certainly… and then, who knows,…until the earth cracks and the steeple crumbles.

Leave a comment

You must be logged in to post a comment.