And, I had the question before me, not as fantasy but reality: every afternoon in British literature. From that first day, the very sight of him struck me dumb, rushed the blood from my face, filled the otherwise softness of my flaccid cock to a heavy weight between my thighs. A senior, twenty one or twenty two. A fully square head, with carved cheeks and elegant nose, crowned with dense blond curls stood flawlessly upon a solid neck as thick and white as a marble column. Thin coral lips parted to reveal the smile of perfect white teeth. His nostrils glowed with a delicate pink and were echoed by the trim taughtness of his delicate small ears. Ohm the sight alone - how I would have had those soft shells between my lips, my tongue along the length of that neck, my nose against those delicate nostrils, my lips against his - tasting them, parting them, past those pure white teeth to the strike my tongue against his, the two writhing together.
And when he entered the room, his fully rich legs strode to take their place. The fullness of his ass and thighs slipped slowly into his seat. He slouched a bit - the knees spread apart leading to that place between where a fully round bulge curved gently in his jeans and where even the cloth faded to an almost white to signal their inviting call.
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