Sexy Cengiz
The well-crafted, work-bench- width of Cengiz’s back is something to admire. Personally, I’d like to sand a few hundred parts of myself against it—my palms—just for two. Add my lips, for two more. And let’s not forget my belly, or my mound and cock.
I’d like him to frig himself against the thick nap of a velvet rug, while I dig my toes into that back and catwalk down the length of it.
Going further down the photo, I swoon, and more than that. I run, like Scarlet-O-Hara for ice tea in August, not to drink, but to pour on my head before I swoon some more and think—in Technicolor. Oh yes, oh yes, yes, yes, there, is it; the best helping of soft-serve man-cream, in flesh- cone, ever. Even on a diet, I’d dig in.
Those man-balls of lava are as ready to erupt as I am.
Me, I’m thinking, lips smacking, cock tingling, but thinking too, that Hostess never made a creamier filling than the one my eager mouth awaits, right here, beneath Cengiz’s, water-droplet-round twins, his bursting-ready cock.
If it could just be so.
Check out Cengiz’s pictures at Istanboys.com.
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