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purrfection
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Clinging to Your Massively Muscled Arm for dear life, Barbara has never been happier as the two of you stroll on the beach. Her cunt is gushing with wet arousal, the slickness covering her bare thighs, obvious for what it is even so close to the water, as the rest of her is dry. Her hair thick and perfectly coiffed, her skin warm and pressing against your incredible naked torso.
You're wearing only a brief pair of swim trunks, and they do nothing to hide the massive fucking package you're swinging around. Barbara desperately wants that big fat perfect Grand Gallery Cock harder, harder, harder, until it's so hard that you're fucking her again and she doesn't know the meaning of time or space.
Being Next To You is a Lifetime of Sexual Experiences collected in a Small Package of Time. Barbara's cunt can't handle it all.
You Know She Can't Handle It. It's, to be honest, sort of Pissing You Off. The thought of slapping her until she apologizes for not being better is crossing your mind. A Lot.
It was her suggestion to go to the beach. She'll come to regret it. She wanted to show off for you—her hot body in a teensy bikini and skirt, show everyone what a fucking Man You are, what a fucking Real Deal she has fucking her every night.
You saw her in a bar about a week ago and fucked her brutally in Your luxury sports car. She didn't say “Yes”; she said “no” quite often, in fact, especially as you drove your gigantic fucking member up into her tight virgin cunt that she was saving for some potential husband, swearing she was promised to God alone.
But You're her new God, and You knew it then. You Knew It all the way to taking her home with you, another hot little trophy that You're sure to run through in just a matter of weeks if not less. If she can still think in a month, she'll be a massive success.
Women don't last long with You. You're a fucking Steamroller. A Bulldozer. A Fucking HunkStud Breeding Machine, and if Barbara's lucky she'll pop out a few daughters for you to rape and breed down the line.
You're causing a scene, that brilliant fucking body of yours on full display. Men are staring hard at Barbara, but they don't dare do so for long. A glance from You makes their cocks shrivel back up into their stomachs. There's a line of broken men on the beach behind You—they wandered too close and you snapped arms, thigh bones, spines. Gallons of blood in the sand. That kind of shit is just What You Do.
Women walk by you and stop and drop to the ground. They try Praying, hoping it earns Your Attention. It doesn't.
Only Beauty Concerns You. You Are A True Creature of Pure Aesthetics.
Your body is unreal. Abs chiseled like a fucking Adonis on steroids. Your Muscle Definition is the Motherfucking Definition of Muscle. Michaelangelo's David is weeping in Rome and desperate to take notes, because Your SickHotShit is fucking him up.
There's a concrete area with some weight lifting benches nearby, and then there's a volleyball net, and plenty of hot young people trying to enjoy the day. Girls are drifting away from their boyfriends to come ogle You. Pray to You, when they get close enough. Their boyfriends just nod and accept it; they know the Score. The Lay of the Land. It's clear as day.
Barbara squeezes you tighter, feeling insecure at so much attention.
She fucking should.
She's not Good Enough.
From up the beach, I come across You—seeing you as I pass a life guard stand. I've developed a crowd of my own—hopeless hanger-ons desperate for a single smile from my angelic face. The kind of body I have is crafted from the motherfucking Cosmos, like God's Own Attempt to Make A Woman Even He Couldn't Fuck. Thomas Aquinas would have to write new fucking theorems after seeing me. They'd all be about the Divinity of my lips, the tight Celestial nature of my Tall, Thin, Tight, Smooth fucking Everything.
My outfit costs close to ten thousand, and that's not counting the Fuck-You Platform Sandals Designed Specifically To Advertise How I Fuck Cunts Up or the several, several hundred thousand dollars in jewelry I'm wearing on my neck, my ears, my wrists—the cheaper sort of shit I own, because it's the beach, and things do get lost.
Everyone just gives me things. Clothes. Outfits. Cars. Their lives. I Expect It. I Should.
Beauty Is All That Matters in this world of Ours.
I see You from across the way and smile. It's a dazzling, perfect thing. Like Nature bending around Your Sight To Bloom Just For You.
I want Your Cock Hard, and It Fucking Is—Because My Own SickHotShit Twists You Right The Fuck Up.
Instantly, just from seeing me, smelling me, You Know I'm a virgin. I've been saving myself. For someone Perfect. For Someone You.
I begin the long, slow strut up to you away from the water. Even in the sand, with tall tall platform sandals, it's fucking simple for me. Natural. The kind of majestic shit that even cinema can't even capture. Not with thirty million dollars of CGI. As I close the distance, Barbara's quaking. Shaking. Close to pissing herself. I spare a glance at her—only for a few moments, too enraptured with the Sight Of Your Perfection and Delivering My Hottest Fucking Stare to You to look away for long—to Sneer at her worthless, inferior fucking cunt with Pure, Unreserved Hatred.
I can tell from Looking At Her that she thinks she's your girlfriend, and that shit Pisses Me Off.
I'm going to Fuck Her Up. I'm going to Convince You To Help Me.
And then You're Going To Fuck Me Until I Don't Know What Words Mean, and I'm Your Endlessly Arrogant Perfect Beach Pet Forever, Aching To Help You Rape and Enslave Any Woman With A Truly Choice Cunt.
* * * * *
If You See This Posted, You Should Message Me.
You're wearing only a brief pair of swim trunks, and they do nothing to hide the massive fucking package you're swinging around. Barbara desperately wants that big fat perfect Grand Gallery Cock harder, harder, harder, until it's so hard that you're fucking her again and she doesn't know the meaning of time or space.
Being Next To You is a Lifetime of Sexual Experiences collected in a Small Package of Time. Barbara's cunt can't handle it all.
You Know She Can't Handle It. It's, to be honest, sort of Pissing You Off. The thought of slapping her until she apologizes for not being better is crossing your mind. A Lot.
It was her suggestion to go to the beach. She'll come to regret it. She wanted to show off for you—her hot body in a teensy bikini and skirt, show everyone what a fucking Man You are, what a fucking Real Deal she has fucking her every night.
You saw her in a bar about a week ago and fucked her brutally in Your luxury sports car. She didn't say “Yes”; she said “no” quite often, in fact, especially as you drove your gigantic fucking member up into her tight virgin cunt that she was saving for some potential husband, swearing she was promised to God alone.
But You're her new God, and You knew it then. You Knew It all the way to taking her home with you, another hot little trophy that You're sure to run through in just a matter of weeks if not less. If she can still think in a month, she'll be a massive success.
Women don't last long with You. You're a fucking Steamroller. A Bulldozer. A Fucking HunkStud Breeding Machine, and if Barbara's lucky she'll pop out a few daughters for you to rape and breed down the line.
You're causing a scene, that brilliant fucking body of yours on full display. Men are staring hard at Barbara, but they don't dare do so for long. A glance from You makes their cocks shrivel back up into their stomachs. There's a line of broken men on the beach behind You—they wandered too close and you snapped arms, thigh bones, spines. Gallons of blood in the sand. That kind of shit is just What You Do.
Women walk by you and stop and drop to the ground. They try Praying, hoping it earns Your Attention. It doesn't.
Only Beauty Concerns You. You Are A True Creature of Pure Aesthetics.
Your body is unreal. Abs chiseled like a fucking Adonis on steroids. Your Muscle Definition is the Motherfucking Definition of Muscle. Michaelangelo's David is weeping in Rome and desperate to take notes, because Your SickHotShit is fucking him up.
There's a concrete area with some weight lifting benches nearby, and then there's a volleyball net, and plenty of hot young people trying to enjoy the day. Girls are drifting away from their boyfriends to come ogle You. Pray to You, when they get close enough. Their boyfriends just nod and accept it; they know the Score. The Lay of the Land. It's clear as day.
Barbara squeezes you tighter, feeling insecure at so much attention.
She fucking should.
She's not Good Enough.
From up the beach, I come across You—seeing you as I pass a life guard stand. I've developed a crowd of my own—hopeless hanger-ons desperate for a single smile from my angelic face. The kind of body I have is crafted from the motherfucking Cosmos, like God's Own Attempt to Make A Woman Even He Couldn't Fuck. Thomas Aquinas would have to write new fucking theorems after seeing me. They'd all be about the Divinity of my lips, the tight Celestial nature of my Tall, Thin, Tight, Smooth fucking Everything.
My outfit costs close to ten thousand, and that's not counting the Fuck-You Platform Sandals Designed Specifically To Advertise How I Fuck Cunts Up or the several, several hundred thousand dollars in jewelry I'm wearing on my neck, my ears, my wrists—the cheaper sort of shit I own, because it's the beach, and things do get lost.
Everyone just gives me things. Clothes. Outfits. Cars. Their lives. I Expect It. I Should.
Beauty Is All That Matters in this world of Ours.
I see You from across the way and smile. It's a dazzling, perfect thing. Like Nature bending around Your Sight To Bloom Just For You.
I want Your Cock Hard, and It Fucking Is—Because My Own SickHotShit Twists You Right The Fuck Up.
Instantly, just from seeing me, smelling me, You Know I'm a virgin. I've been saving myself. For someone Perfect. For Someone You.
I begin the long, slow strut up to you away from the water. Even in the sand, with tall tall platform sandals, it's fucking simple for me. Natural. The kind of majestic shit that even cinema can't even capture. Not with thirty million dollars of CGI. As I close the distance, Barbara's quaking. Shaking. Close to pissing herself. I spare a glance at her—only for a few moments, too enraptured with the Sight Of Your Perfection and Delivering My Hottest Fucking Stare to You to look away for long—to Sneer at her worthless, inferior fucking cunt with Pure, Unreserved Hatred.
I can tell from Looking At Her that she thinks she's your girlfriend, and that shit Pisses Me Off.
I'm going to Fuck Her Up. I'm going to Convince You To Help Me.
And then You're Going To Fuck Me Until I Don't Know What Words Mean, and I'm Your Endlessly Arrogant Perfect Beach Pet Forever, Aching To Help You Rape and Enslave Any Woman With A Truly Choice Cunt.
* * * * *
If You See This Posted, You Should Message Me.