When Snacks Aren't What We Want

Album NO.511

Description

The snack on the table is just an excuse. The main course is that gleaming golden satin ass, a perfectly laid deadly trap. Your invisible hand does not wait. You press straight down, gripping tightly, five fingers sinking into the soft flesh through the fabric, stretching the silk to its limit. The VPL line appears, an irrefutable verdict. The hunger for scent explodes. You bury your face in the silk, inhaling the scent of a deadly trap: pure silk and warm flesh inviting corruption. Reason is dead. The trap has sprung. You unleash your roaring cock, not for friction, but to devour the feast. You press it directly against the golden silk surface and erupt. Your hot seed isn't a stain; it's the only answer to your hunger, a declaration that the real snack is this satin ass.