boyvenus4u
Really Experienced
- Joined
- Jun 10, 2006
- Posts
- 134
Dominique's attention was momentarily arrested by the sight of the extended calf in the street. What struck her was its startling nakedness; the muscle taut, the veins pumping, the sheer elegant line of the thing. There it nestled in her vision like a male fruit among the more prosaic everyday objects such as shoes, pants, pavement stones, and women's ankles, which she was not into at all at all. It looked so vigorous, and at the same time so vulnerable, like a metaphor for any living thing.
She lingered by the news stand. As she pretended to scan the Dow Jones in reality she was continuing her visual ascent up the line of leg. A light pink field of shimmering lycra came into view. it softly enveloped the straining thighs which worked feverishly beneath the fabric accentuating the mysterious yet o so compelling bulge that hung between the twin columnes of blood and flesh like a bunch of grapes or fruit muscle. Here lay the mark of the man clearly sculpted for all to see. Dominique thought of Italy during the renaissance. Images of florentine dandies filled her mind parading around in tights accentuating buttocks and crotch, their cod pieces bulging. Say what you might, at least back then you must have always had a good idea about what was on a man's mind, she thought laughed. Look at them now. She scanned the trottoire. Men bent over like sticks scurried to and fro in grey suits like sackcloth on the street before her. Concealing as opposed to revealing, she thought. And all the mamoth hours of psychotheraphy which followed trashing it all out, what lay hidden.
Dominique quickly returned her gaze to the man. Blamanche, she thought now smiling, dressed in the pink tights with the white tank top, he looked like a slice of blamanche.
(to be continued if enough interest is shown)
She lingered by the news stand. As she pretended to scan the Dow Jones in reality she was continuing her visual ascent up the line of leg. A light pink field of shimmering lycra came into view. it softly enveloped the straining thighs which worked feverishly beneath the fabric accentuating the mysterious yet o so compelling bulge that hung between the twin columnes of blood and flesh like a bunch of grapes or fruit muscle. Here lay the mark of the man clearly sculpted for all to see. Dominique thought of Italy during the renaissance. Images of florentine dandies filled her mind parading around in tights accentuating buttocks and crotch, their cod pieces bulging. Say what you might, at least back then you must have always had a good idea about what was on a man's mind, she thought laughed. Look at them now. She scanned the trottoire. Men bent over like sticks scurried to and fro in grey suits like sackcloth on the street before her. Concealing as opposed to revealing, she thought. And all the mamoth hours of psychotheraphy which followed trashing it all out, what lay hidden.
Dominique quickly returned her gaze to the man. Blamanche, she thought now smiling, dressed in the pink tights with the white tank top, he looked like a slice of blamanche.
(to be continued if enough interest is shown)
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