Crisply gentle utopians form cogent theories of dignity. Honored to perform in the ceremony of romance, they hold the golden antidote in their belt flasks. After an interference of sophistication and elegance, these homely folks evacuate their vibration bladders and soon grow drowsy.
Dozens of comfortable teletherapy experts feel the fingers of their filthy clients pressing into their pillowy cheeks, bringing them to the verge of physical arousal. Hidden tablets of lust suppressors in their gums, tongued from their moist enclosures, prove quite effective when chewed.
Nattily attired wrestling managers shred soy wafers while they use telekinesis to sort glassy cubes into multiple receptacles. Their thoughts are chaste and do not drift to lurid visions of bog standard fucking and frenzied oral.