Mature sensuality and pure innocence: a man's eternal dream. Her near-perfect eyes, lips and breasts stare at your lust as she pulls your tie off and the fire burns in the corner of her eye. Hot chocolate is for waste. She crawls unguardedly on the rug, Eve not opening her jaw. Turning around, spreading his legs, his waist is loose, like a colorful oil painting outside the curtain. "I was slaved by her." From the first time she licked your blood, it was the moon of two lunatics. Paris Rose loves eyeballs, and presumably legs too. When she left, she said she loved you like a madman, and the woman in the decorative painting in the lower right corner of the screen had a smile in her eyes. She watched her come back and watched you all brewing atrocities and murders together. Love should end at its peak. The more brilliant the more so. Right now, I'm extremely thankful that I'm not really a lunatic. At that moment you really see a bright future. The goddess kneels at your feet begging for her love. So you can only look at it. That smugness is mind-blowing. So much so to forget that you're obsessed with her cutting your belt with a sharp knife. If you need anything. This time pulling down is control from your waist down. She is radiant, and her profile is like the great sapphire in film history. Black boots were teasing in the air wrapped in stockings, and her hair was wet in the water. In the distance of the park, a silhouette-like couple. Luckily I didn't meet a lunatic. She was lying on the bed and talking on the phone, her legs were crossed, just like before.
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