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Sébastien Tellier Sexual Sportswear
The female form is a thing of such exquisite beauty and I will never tire of discussing it. This has been a source of constant fascination and, the fairer sex, the object of my perpetual infatuation since my first twinge down in the barracks back in the eighties and responsible for each subsequent feeling of arousal since. I’m a visual creature and nothing stokes my fires more than a bouquet of flesh so it’s only natural I’m going to want to pay that forward. It stands to reason. This is a piece originally scribed way back in 2013 and I am always mindful of using tasteful photography when adorning my prose with optical stimuli. Having said that, this essay is called In Lust We Trust so brace yourselves as I have to come good on my promise. It’s only right…right?
I have always referred to myself as a sexual predator of sorts. Heat patterns appear on my radar as I scan high streets and during the summer I love nothing more than the constant inspection of painted toes, voluptuous bosoms (lesser ones too, I’m not at all fussy) and the rare jackpot of camel toe or, as I like to refer to it, upside down seagull. Am I some kind of deviant? A sweaty basket case who salivates over inhaling the encrusted remnants on soiled panties? No, I’m just brutally honest and the same as any other red-blooded male with a set of peepers. There is nothing demented about Keeper, no twitching face muscles or faint scent of urine. However, I feel that I must make a confession as the act I am about to divulge suggests I’m quite the little sicko and, you know me, sharing will only ever mean caring.
So here goes. When I was fifteen or so, my friend invited me over for a sleepover. There were no pillow case fights or toasted marshmallows; just a bunch of guys kicking back and sinking a few beers. Thing is, by the sixth can it became clear to me that I was in no fit state to skedaddle. Thus my buddy suggested it would be kosher to sleep in his older sister’s boudoir, just for one night. I slept well that evening with a pair of his sister’s panties over my face like some sort of depraved Iron Man. Thankfully I was never found out and this nugget of truth never surfaced until now. What was I to do? Her dresser was crammed with lingerie and I was a teenage boy with needs and a skinful of cheap industrial lager. If ever there was a recipe for disaster then that may well be it. The moral of this tale is that, should you invite me over for a slumber party, then I suggest offering me the couch.
Anyhoots, back to the topic at hand. It is difficult to single out a particular feature which gets me vertical. I have a fondness for feet, but they can be deeply ungratifying should cracked heels, the no-nailed nubbin sidecar or elongated second toe crash the party. I once knew a girl with a yellow big-toe and truly a monstrosity it was. It looked like she was smuggling Maggie Simpson in her sock. Should feet be well maintained and those toes be chubby enough to tickle my pickle, then I’ll gladly suck on all ten (and yes that does include the crumpled dwarf). If that counts as a fetish then label me a deviant and file me under…well…deviant I guess. But my fixation goes far further than feet you know.
Next under the microscope is the ass. You gotta love a nice hunk of rump (unless you’re a vegetarian, in which case, you’re shit out of toffee). The ass is a most delightful piece of machinery. Try not to ponder any throbbing hemorrhoids and instead focus your attention on those marvellous peachy buttocks. If exhibited correctly it can turn even a Trappist monk’s head and that small diamond effect created underneath a woman’s carriage can dazzle like the most sparkling of treasures. One cunning denim selection and the butt provides sufficient dual dynamite to blow the most stubborn of cobwebs far away. Once more, size is not an issue. If it farts then it qualifies. Not that flatulence is my number one source of arousal; it just gives me a chuckle. Show me a man alive who doesn’t crack a smile as somebody parps to his left and I’ll stitch up my sphincter and guzzle a breath mint.
So to the breasts. While primarily for feeding infants, these puppies are far more enticing on their secondary function. As already stayed; I have no preference for dimensions, just as long as they’ve been harvested organically. Like fleshy pendulums, they possess the ability to mesmerize and can act as formidable bargaining tools when protruding through flimsy material, preferably in a car wash. If somebody possesses a good heart then their breasts automatically become a thing of beauty to me. I would never consider myself a boob man as I’m clearly master of all trades but they do kind of rock. If I woke up one day with a brace of mammalia, then I’d likely never make it downstairs as there would be just too much fun to be had with my new fun bags. It’s just not the same having testicles. Whoever created them anyway? At least tits have nipples.
Whether breasts, ass or hooves are your personal preference, there’s no denying all three have distinct qualities. For Keeper, it’s the whole package but if I had to choose it would actually be the eyes that truly get my warm juices all a flow. Windows to the soul; the peepers are the most devastating weapons of mass erection as far as I’m concerned. The larger the better; this is the real money shot for Keeper. I am not particularly body confident but, if quizzed on my winning feature, then I am more content with my eyes than anything else. Currently mine are accompanied by thick black underlying refuse sacks but they’re still blue and piercing should something have me enthused. If I were asked to swap peepers with anybody then I would gladly trade mine in for Chloë Sevigny’s. Maybe that’s just my inner Bateman dashing to the surface.
It should, by this point, be utterly transparent that the Crimson Quill drips with deep red nectar at the sight of natural beauty. If at all prudish, you would likely be incensed by the way the naked female form is shoe-horned into my articles.This is never exploitative, purely homage to something which gets Keeper’s motor revving without the inevitable stall. There is no censorship on Rivers of Grue; no limitation to what is included within these Savage Vaults. It is more personal choice to me; cum-shots and horrific maroon members don’t appeal to my sensibilities and neither do gratuitous open leg shots if not photographed with the requisite panache.
I wish only to be teased, and that should come across through my selected pictorials. I trust they give the desired concentrated burst of pleasure; be you alpha or beta the fact remains that the female form is a joy to behold. I have tirelessly sourced some alluring images to adorn this article as anything else simply wouldn’t be me. There will be no Jism guzzling or crooked cocks that look as if they’ve been beaten with a hunk of 4×4 and no face-huggers either; just a handful of lustful treasures to seduce the eyes and pleasure those souls.
Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
#BrutalWordWrangler #CrimsonHoneyDripper #CruelWordSculptor
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013 (Director’s Cut 2015)
The Pleasure Trove
The following artwork should duly be measured
on how many times it can tickle your feathers
there will be some flesh there’s potential for snatch
but nothing disgraceful you’ll find in this stash
The trove that I speak of is yours for perusal
if girls don’t appeal then you may be bamboozled
should you be at work when you scroll down the screen
then I’ll gladly accept a free punch to my spleen