Her red dress stretched across the remembered small of her dear bare back, bare for me no more, that once so softly bent itself in bed to take my thrusts and then my stunned caress, disclosing to my sated gaze a film of down, of sheen, upon the dulcet skin- her red dress stretched, I say, as carapace upon her tasty flesh, she shows a face
of stone and turns to others at the party. Her ass, its solemn cleft; her breasts, their tips as tender in color as the milk-white bit above the pubic curls; her eyes pits of warmth in the touseled light; all forfeit, and locked in antarctic ice by this bitch.
I thought it time to step it up a notch. I hope no one was offended...