Peggy Sanford And The Sailor

Joyous liberty hound’s succulent salacious tart Mrs. Peggy Sanford, you wonderfully wicked, wanton woman no slave to your flesh, but master.

Peggy’s fetish to fuck, skipper my member, her met needs barked in a cat o nine tails fashion, frenzied coupling, and my drawn and quartered dick docked amidst her slapping, electrified, eroticized thighs.

You slut, classy in manner, mode and movement arranged just so, an old sailing man finds fortune, favor purchased in your axis of anchorage.

This hard cocked slattern fiend, a gob’s job tacking about the sea, ashore dumps his sea bag down, finds a rocking and rolling vat of cock hungry cunt betwixt Peggy Sanford’s slender, shapely spars.

Her hold, a veritable king’s ransom below her rounded decks, her sensuous, sexy form and function fine as flemished flaunted line, her favors pure gold, her portals brims over with my prick’s port of call.

Peggy Sanford, alive, alight in his wake steaming full speed ahead, aligned north to south to this sailor’s mast standing tall, trembling with such want of her breed, to drop anchor in the way station of her warm, happy bed.

This sturdy seafarer wrenching in a fury of fucking from Peggy, his needs appeased. Momentary oblivion the part and parcel of pleasure fully meted out.

Charms her body does convey, the pulsing warmth of this lover’s lower shaved clean mouth expiate Melville’s, Forrester’s, O’Brian’s memories, commend them to the sea’s slimed bottom, fathoms down, the darkest depths of ocean cold.

His schooner built for full speed ahead knots, smoothly navigates, cocked forth plying her excited trade winds, underway, his cock thundering, a hot cannon firing away at gunner’s will below Peggy Sanford’s cincture of equator.

Peggy’s cantonment in southern climes, warm, tropical, bounteous, its lush fruit craves sweet meat pushed in, seated at home, finding comfort in his shore leave amidst her splendid, sheltered isle.

A sea chant, sexual, a singing, sweet sounding harmony in this sailor and slut’s bed, my blasts satisfy, basting her boat of booty in silvered cum, in eager horny heat Peggy humps the hell out of me.

Doubled up lines our joined lust, we marvel, the satiation of desire, my placement prized, her pleasure quelled and well met.

Peggy Sanford, my prick’s prize in this perfect sexual storm, the blessing her body bears down on me, drowns me in delight, Davy Jones’ son.

No man of war bars the way, no restless crew mutinous, and no dead in water calm, no lack to breeze belays our way in our frenzied coupling.

Her fine, jaunty jousting flesh finds succor, needs met. This blue jacketed swab jockey astride her planks so gratified, the pressure and pleasure, her loins, liberty of never forgotten memory, Peggy Sanford’s port.

Peggy Sanford, the fucking queen of shipping over men, King Neptune’s exotic bride given me by her.

I, the tar helms his sloop, sails, her moist cleft, her shadowed crevices, her surrendered to boarders contour his dominion; he makes good headway, his destination: good, great fucking by this slut loving sailing man.