Topography

His man-profile showcases his human-hillocks. One of a sharp-tipped pair is as tightly cornered as his nose, as decisive as his paint-thick brows and square-topped-do, a check of sharp-tipped, proud-pec-flesh spearing up like a young hill, next to his hollowed out rib-cage, to create a side-view of twin peaks, the kissable crests of a starlet’s mouth.

A second and third hill are as fat-sloped and round as a pair of ice-cream-topped-cones, alluring as well-trod paths to tired feet, as butter-whipped frosting for hungry lips and daring fingers.

Suckable tit and long pale mounds of ass-flesh mounted on red cloth, the inside of my mouth is filling with slather-spit already, feeling the bony pierce of shoulders and clavicles, the softness of his ass, the twining-to-one-river seam of his buttock-cleft, the tight-begging-to-be-pried depths and the pluggable crater at the base, empty and screaming for my cock and tongue. I can’t wait.

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