A Venus Guy Trap

Or be well chased is your choince. I set the guest stuff jogging down towards Manhattan. Passing corduroys and damp phone sockets. Its like a loose paddle is rattling through Magpie’s dividend researcher.

Not sticking to myself. I’m not going to search myself. Saintly capital of zest beguilting but I vacation. It’s could crack the crust right wide before us and let spill mushroom moist feather. As I tried might I reengage surgical gauntlet man? Yes it sanctions my left spouse counting the derelict shaman peeking from my shoulder pouch. I pass him a Leonardo Leotard in a teacup so that he might monotone moon me into the other room.

My gums are sweet because you donkey.

I feel a thick sense of relief running down my inner thigh as the gossamer loaf queen compliments my breakfast hatchet. I shocked her small man with a keyed entrance into his postulate park last week. Since then we’ve broken both terms and rode Stockton around his gunboat.

Sam cupped a small pregnant merchant in the mouth.

The vagi-purple demotion pellet popped in front of a basket of sage set before 15 circular teething pumps. A rock curled by the child leather satchel.

She digs into my butt,

places the cheese,

lights the rocket,

calls out for Ernest,

ropes an accordion,

drapes over the tussock,

marches across the Labrador who melted conical birth harnesses before Queen Plabytuss so that the blistered mass might catch her clot after she fired it from her nipple and into the blood night sky.

My grey raiment dances in your filamental fudge, chocolate rich… glinting like sparks in the dark. Moth to the flame, drawn into you, itching to enjoy, aching to uncover… consumed by your bait.

A Venus Guy Trap.

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