“It—it—must come,” she faltered. . Twenty-one, twenty-two. He devoured her with his eyes too, his shyness not able to disguise his furtive glances at the curvy outline of her breast against the imitation silk, his memory still exquisitely tortured by her movements in the miniskirt. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing.
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This video was uploaded to thenextfuture.net on 19-09-2024 20:29:45
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