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You are going to pose topless. I want a condement jar in your left hand upside down. I want to your right hand thumb in your mouth. Then with something in the house lip lipstick, mustard whatever I want to to Kink Fo written on it. Take the pic and then send it to my profile address. sexy and curvy sexxxxAround that time I was very confused on what I should do next I happened to the evil wench. I happened to be on a different side of town and needed to run to the store for some fruit rollups (ironic I know) for my neice's lunch the next day. I strolled into the grocery store like nothing. I was just about to make a comment inside my head how ghetto the store was when I saw her. I had heard rumors that she had moved on and was seeing someone. But this time she was solo. I pretended I did not her but it was too late. She spotted me. DAMN! I knew I should have gone to another checkout. I said hello and he had a forced short conversation. I could not help but notice THE FUCKING FRUIT SHE WAS BUYING! You fucking cunt, like I am not supposed to know what those bananas, apples, oranges were for? I was pissed. I decided no more sex with fruit. That was the final straw. Fuck that bitch and her kinky sexual outlets. That lasted all but a few days but then I began to get horney. NO! I couldn't do it. I toss all the fruit out my window. I WAS DONE! I had never paid for sex and wasn;t exactly sure how to go about doing that without getting caught so that was out of the question. I need stimulation! I needed something! Then as a spontanious desperate act I slammed my penis into the peanut butter. The soft sticky goo made me melt inside. What was this utopia of sexual pleasure that I had discovered? I did not know what was more pleasing. The sex with the peanut butter jar or having the dog lick it off afterwards. So to my ex . fuck you. I am over you and over sex with fruit. I have moved on myself. To a new avenue of pleasure. And it doesn't involve anything you ever taught me. granny sex in rwanda
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sex with old women Bolivia North Carolina I imagine I’ll that pickled Chinaman’s head on my death bed. It was that real. Large and round inky pupils that sparkled. They looked right through me as I put my nose to the jar. His cheeks were sunken, like someone had taken a round before rigor mortis set in and pushed it in, with the aim of emphasizing the size of his worn and chipped and very yellow teeth. The gums were deeply ridged, dark and purple and haunting to my eyes in the poorly lit room. He had a lot of hair, and it stood up straight, like a punk kid all dressed in black. The head was in an oily substance that at turns was clear and cloudy, and now and again I thought I saw seeds floating around his gruesome, smiling face. I had no idea what made the seeds move about. I imagined his neurons were letting off gases. I couldn’t his neck, and I was puzzled why. I asked the guerrilla (I think he was a guerrilla) with the rifle standing behind me if I could tilt the jar to where they’d made the cut with the machete, or sword, or whatever was used. He answered me by moving the barrel of the rifle into my ribs and forcing me away from the Chinaman’s pickled head.
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