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And, you know, I DID like his bumming... a Hell of a lot. But I was taken anally early in his bumming career, and the jury was still out. No ****.
Our lovemaking became quite fraught, and at one point I tried to give him head and put my hand between his legs too hard.
"No", he complained, "putting hand below waist, or using head... I not... it make night difficult for me."
It was just one I wouldn't put money on as being a cast iron bumming, you know what I mean? I like the guy so much I even have his cum face as my avatar, but I just feel uncertain as to how well he could bum at top level. After twenty minutes of me taking his ****, he seem confused... normally Marcos damages people to the kidneys, but I could feel my lunch being moved around by his generous, glistening bell end, and there were signs he was gassing out.
After a while, well, you know me... I take an **** pounding and my lunch gives way. As Marcos himself put it: "On the tip of my bell end... is ahhhhhh... piece of ****, pardon my English."
Well, it was such a solid and consistent bumming that Marcos had dug to my body one time too many and I was completely sated, crying in ecstasy and unable to stand for several minutes. But I did wonder how someone with a finer arsehole would last.
I did, in all honesty, have a feeling that "ho beater" Mayweather would have a faster, more accurate and more intelligent **** to thrash around. Yet such things were hypothetical, as, as soon as Maidana walked into my favourite gay bar, Floyd picked another one to drink in. "There's plenty of people to bum in there," he explained, "and I'm sure I'll get them to blow my dick in there, and I don't need Marcos to play a tune on it."
I wasn't convinced, and part of me was filled with sorrow. But, as always, life goes on, though death is inevitable. My seeping arsehole attested to that.
Our lovemaking became quite fraught, and at one point I tried to give him head and put my hand between his legs too hard.
"No", he complained, "putting hand below waist, or using head... I not... it make night difficult for me."
It was just one I wouldn't put money on as being a cast iron bumming, you know what I mean? I like the guy so much I even have his cum face as my avatar, but I just feel uncertain as to how well he could bum at top level. After twenty minutes of me taking his ****, he seem confused... normally Marcos damages people to the kidneys, but I could feel my lunch being moved around by his generous, glistening bell end, and there were signs he was gassing out.
After a while, well, you know me... I take an **** pounding and my lunch gives way. As Marcos himself put it: "On the tip of my bell end... is ahhhhhh... piece of ****, pardon my English."
Well, it was such a solid and consistent bumming that Marcos had dug to my body one time too many and I was completely sated, crying in ecstasy and unable to stand for several minutes. But I did wonder how someone with a finer arsehole would last.
I did, in all honesty, have a feeling that "ho beater" Mayweather would have a faster, more accurate and more intelligent **** to thrash around. Yet such things were hypothetical, as, as soon as Maidana walked into my favourite gay bar, Floyd picked another one to drink in. "There's plenty of people to bum in there," he explained, "and I'm sure I'll get them to blow my dick in there, and I don't need Marcos to play a tune on it."
I wasn't convinced, and part of me was filled with sorrow. But, as always, life goes on, though death is inevitable. My seeping arsehole attested to that.
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