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Cocoa bourbon breasts, rusty barbed wire. Tangled in rusted barbed wire at Hotel Europa on Capital. Slick rustling. Jamie walking with two canes and a ripcord. A shanty face caked in pie and Josie is laying open the plastic. “How would you pamper me Harlow?” Ideally, I call the The Goat on my T-mobile and meet three Muslims parked in a twitched sedan. “A branchy switch from the dirt yard, two pearl strings, and a hacksaw.” Jamie ate the wad. I ripped the trans-pine bag from the seams and ran my teeth along the edges. From behind a purple curtain Inga replied, “O schema.” And I clawed at her slip. She undressed and took one, two, three, four vamoose cocks. One in the rear, one in the stitch, one in bon appetite, one wrapped in flesh pink nail job. She was on top. Jamie had the plaid sofa turned over into the shag rug. It looked like Iraq but it was only some GI’s with their necks cubed. Three guys and an electronic rodeo. Pow! And the Technics deck go like French rap.




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