Plump ladies personally I prefer. Their pulchritude is parallelless, pillowed breasts parabolas, bodies polyamorous in palms that play in paradise. Yes, polyamory, for buxom flesh buoyantly rolls by endlessly, buttery and billowy.

My belle, nimbus-like, bereft of edge, her wattle is a whisper’s sledge which rippling, stippled in moles, sells her voice to my slippered soul. And shod in she, we shiver and shake, my earthquake shameless beneath her cloudbreak. What wailing rises writhing within her wondrous withers when we hop to heaven? Moans more melodious, sighs so sweet, such merry succulence I’ve not tasted, if trading tongue for an earful, save navigating the natural eddies né trickles sprung about the flesh of my rotund lover. That oleaginous expanse is soil to be seeded.

What pale mountain is this, asleep in a pool of its own mass, like a boiled egg beneath the sun, blonde hair crowning its peak, circumscribed by a wintry jiggling, upon my mattress, a raw delight for this century’s Ruben to cook? Her moistened palette moistens my palette. Would it not be the height of artistry to poach her, her geology a well seasoned omelette, her spirit a smörgåsbord? How can I not feast upon her, as the mountain rolls, her rolls rolling, revealing her savory haunches, hips hidden, and her holy heather glistening in her southern moors? To lap at that effulgent spring as Ponce de León, drowned in her fecundity, is an ecstasy. And a blubbery lover quivers like no other when consumed in her accumbency.