“we are the champions,” her hands reached round to run over my belly, “of the champion team.” She ran her fingers through my pubic hair,“jus... for today.” My balls were in her hand. I couldn't stop singing the song.“We beat the champions,” she changed to my cock, “no longer the champions.” She began to stroke, “they no longer.” Her hand tightened around me, “are the champion team.” The strokes extended, she had rhythm.“We all drink,” the camera flashes continued, “from the champions’ cup.” She. He had bought a two-bedroom apartment, turning one bedroom into a small home office — it still needed more furnishings, but it had a wireless fax/printer and a small desk at which to work in the evenings, and his work laptop showcased one of his major interests by displaying a screensaver of various Corvettes from the 1970s to the present. His bedroom was nice with a very masculine feel, from the sturdy black wrought-iron bed frame to the dark colors of the dresser and the curtains and the. More

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