To look you straight in the eye is to dream, and that dream would spell the weakness of man. Beneath your golden halo lies a burning ember cut of lipstick density, a sexual singularity, inside of which the stiff legged mutterings of fat-gut, flame belching becomes a cloudy grain of sand to flick with a painted nail. Who knows the unearthly motion of those smooth tendons hinging at the base of her inner thighs?
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