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spinning on us now, over a revolution
a second. It didn't matter to me at the time, but my only
clear field of vision was Cyril's crotch, the room rising over
the side of his thigh at a dizzying pace.
I had trouble catching that beautiful, uncut cock of his;
your body just hates free fall. Your ear's semicircular
canals rebel against the lack of gravity; interpreting it as
though you'd fallen off a cliff. Your intellect knows what's
going on, but there's a primitive area of your mind that's
still a raging beast; it knows you're falling and is screaming
in the back of your skull.
I managed to catch his cock as it wafted past me on one
of its revolutions (nine inches long, it was spinning around
and around like a living thing, the head circling like the top
part of a child's spinning top just before it stops spinning),
and sucked hard to get it to stop spinning on me and bring it
into my mouth.
Cyril had more foreskin than I'd ever seen; even erect,
his cockhead was still buried inside it; but he kept his cock
scrupulously clean. Some uncut men have a foul-smelling scum
inside their foreskin
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