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In his lap was the battered Fender six-string he used to compose music with. He had been working on a new song for more than an hour now, not because he had a deadline to meet but simply because the art of composition was something he enjoyed doing, something that soothed his brain and his soul.He lit a fresh cigarette, took a few drags off it, and then set it down in the ashtray. He swigged a little more of his latest drink and then picked up the guitar pick. He strummed out the rhythm he'd. I did not hesitate to take her up on her so generously granted opportunity.We collapsed together. She pushed me off of her. “I need to breathe,” she sputtered. I lay beside her my chest heaving as I tried to recover my own breath.“That was good,” she said. “That was very good.”“Good? It was epic,” I said. I could feel her giggling, silently giggling.“I stand corrected,” she saidI rolled over and cuddled her in my arms. We slept, napped, for maybe an hour and a half. We didn’t often have the. That may have been where lap-dancing was invented since it was an obvious way to enjoy the now readily available standing-up parts while sitting. Naturally, the guests joined up with the hosts. The desire for more comfort pushed them to the bedrooms where assorted thumping, squealing, moaning, and groaning was heard all through the night.After thoroughly enjoying two vigorous poundings by Wayne (the penetrations on the porch not being counted), Sandra drifted off to sleep cuddling with him,. As she looked around, she realized she was in the royal gardens. It was a place where she and Brandyn used to spend countless hours kissing and talking. She sat down on a stone bench and began to cry. Hours later she returned to her chambers. Yet something was amiss. It took her a second to notice a folded letter resting on Brandyn’s old desk. She strode over, fearing the worst. One glance at the handwriting confirmed this fear. It read:My Dearest Queen Penelope, I start to tire of this game.
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