Indigo sky swept clear of fleecy clouds, gaunt trees in-finitely extended, their black boughs gesticulating like a sleepwalker. I will bite into your clitoris and spit out two franc pieces. I will tear off a few hairs from your cunt and paste them on Boris’ chin. And if you are afraid of being fucked publicly I will fuck you privately. I am fucking you, Tania, so that you’ll stay fucked. You can shit arpeggios if you like, or string a zither across your navel. You can stuff toads, bats, lizards up your rectum. After me you can take on stallions, bulls, rams, drakes, St. I have set the shores a little wider, I have ironed out the wrinkles. Your Sylvester is a little jealous now? He feels something, does he? He feels the remnants of my big prick. I shoot hot bolts into you, Tania, I make your ovaries incandescent. Your Sylvester! Yes, he knows how to build a fire, but I know how to inflame a cunt. I will send you home to your Sylvester with an ache in your belly and your womb turned inside out. I will ream out every wrinkle in your cunt, Tania, big with seed. O Tania, where now is that warm cunt of yours, those fat, heavy garters, those soft, bulging thighs? There is a bone in my prick six inches long. At night when I look at Boris’ goatee lying on the pillow I get hysterical.
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