A SLEEPER AT THE STATION IS AFLAME PT2
O my garden is only moldy uneven stones laid in the 1930’s, I tried in vain to force some seeds in the slits but my spout is too big. I told her through the window that I was hungry for some dirty loving, to be covered in cunt; she continued on making dough tut-tutting to herself. I could tell she was interested. Before long the shadows descended and we spent the evening engineering a machine to fold petticoats.
A Sleeper at the station is aflame, smouldering it will warp the rails on her arms. Arriving home he deleted all his porn, the Deity having made it clear that there is nothing more arousing than a woman who is degrading herself for you, just for you, without digital hi-defintion glossy photography or slick multinational marketing campaigns in mind. As Language is significations unintentional accomplice her resolve dissolves with each caress, the performance lasts a week.
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