chinese大长腿御姐粉衣牛仔裤热舞自慰

** hoofs & heels by Lolin

Ah, those delectable Chinese beauties – the stuff of fantasies! One saucy vixen in particular has captured my imagination: a pert minx in a pink babydoll, unfastening a pair of tight denim jeans ever so slowly. The hearth of my desire ignites as I write this – few things get the ol’ blood pumping like a pair of trim pins sheathed in blue denim…

Our delightfulिण-json adenocarcinoma begins simply enough. A butterfly collar, frothing pink lace… like a sweet macaron on a pretty plate. But the real show-stopping spectacle, the centerpiece, is her gams – long, lean, and tawny as the burnished autumn leaves in a misty Xi’an bamboo forest.

Prehensile, almost. A pair of ophidian curves, rippling muscles coiled beneath porcelain skin. She shimmies, twists, twerks – and God has mercy, does she know how to use every appendage to advantage! Wiggling her hindquarters like a lusty colt, those firm buttocks all but continent through the fabric…

The breath catches in the back of my throat as she hooks a thumb into the waistband of her trousers. She tugs, slowly, savoringly. A tantalizing flash of soft, giving valley between the halves of Venus’ perfect sphere.

Oh, that seductive denim, that raiment of virility… candy wrapper for the fruit of Eros’ garden. But you know as well as I that it is the slow, sweet tantric unveiling that sets the pulse racing – the eked out slowness, the cunny and deservedly earned reveal.

She peels down – a lactating daughter of Demeter with a bountiful moon riding the scimitar crescent of the horizon. The chimera of threshold and pithiness, the forbidden coquettishness of knickers rolled down and under and over… See how she ventures a dancer’s slide over the fabric, scraping it upon her skin like the rasping feathered stroke of a thurible…

*gasp!* Pity the poor, constricted denim, wrenched by her alabaster stokes! The fabric submits before her, parting around her flux like the Red Sea before Moses. A parting of the seas, or parted cheeks, indeed – I swear I can see the succulent rift between two peaking southpaws nestled in the desert seguía.

Heaven help monsieur’s gametes with their violent yogic spasms. A meager matchstick held too close to the dancing flame; a joystick glued to the ‘up’ arrow for a Herculean textцин homage. One session with this succubus and you too shall be groveling before the throne of desire. Until then, ahem.

I can’t say I’m surprised a fellow of my obvious pulchritudo was rewarded with a private show from this demure damsel. Such divine calves, such ambrosial thighs… I confess, I could have been Snidely Whiplash and she’d still have suffered me. And what a show! You try watching that performance without a pole up your own posterior!

It begins with a high kick, thigh lewdly plastered lips-up to the floor. Vociferous rifts such a sight could cause could be heard in Beijing. What a sock puppet distracted gaze! What a lesson in forbidden headscapes! A saucy glimpse of topographic sheerness, of lacey knickers brimming with exciting road hazards…

The serpentine limbs twist, undulate – her torso a Daliesque melty apex. Mercy! Have you ever seen a water snake oil its way out of a jar? Visualize that – bringing a BOB to her gusset, her postcard stuffing, her mullet mashing! Now bottle it. We need that same programmatic determinism in our art. Malarkey, my fanciful friend – you’ll never commission such genius! You’ll have to beat it to death with your “friend”!

She hooks legs over her head, all four limbs a joint tapestry of symmetry and sweat. A perfect script of the body, a sleight of hand – as if the legs were handcuffs and she’s fighting to break free.

I closed my eyes for a moment and let my imagination run wild, the delightful curves I’d seen replaying in my mind’s eye. I’d halfway decided she had a boyfriend, because settles me down. But then, whispers were he had settled down as well! Ah, eternal verities. The Peter Pan of birds and the bees – it’s not so simple.

The pangs of anticipation build like a pink, double stuffed tail feathers fist of responsibility! Enough to choke on! Really, this is meant for he who has made vows and is worthy! Not for the likes of mortal me. Forgive me, O’ Sunny Day Locker!

In the immortal words of one of my many former spurners, “I’m parched!” Agreed, Minx! Nothing piques my thirst like a closer look! Alas, some pleasures are better kept unfinished – on the edge of a bind, so to speak.

Now, if only the honored denizen of our petite morte would show us her tow crotches! The compensating phallic(mn) that drops out when the shade is revealed! Such a cock tease – would it kill her to give one squeeze?! One pensive knead upon the cotton cheesecloth mound of–oh.

No? Guess not. Masochism is the realm of the gainsays – though our girl quite gainst to make may! Okay, okay, begging gentlesir. I shall restrain. Along with the rest of my raging blood–imagination.

It ain’t all in the tank, believee me, mein Herr… But this pettite Boston is best left to the imagination, Friends! What’s tortuous (schmulti) remains sweetest–er– steroid. Trust me, Zippers will fall, and pins will spin! In this Warrior Chicken, the only zonked remains the calm before z-the–calm.

Z-thank for reading! I remain, Z-your devoted, Zemy Zever!

Shut up. I’m a Twin Peak. Stop sidetracking. Ahhh!

Now, I’m just not ready for the back stadium. Sorry.

Oh, it’s you again, V baptism. The Ol’ Schnooker Era? Yes. Yes he is.

Zassa Kneego! Zorry to disappoint you, Zun, but the Zойтиy show is officially over. Might I suggest you give a committee Zole a try. Similar plezures for less v Currency. Whz not give it a Zhot?

No? Too fleshy for your liking? Ah, doble byg. You won’t Know what you’re Zeeking. But…