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Her dimensions were useful: hispanic ratios, pale skin turgid with a Queens-size serving of adipose. Her feet sneakered and pigeoned. Expression spacey, bewildered. Through her clothes, the faint outline of straps and bands, her flesh constricted by these unmentionables, a quivering roast tightly bound in butcher's twine.
Beyond all this, the iPod. Its dildonic design held soft in her numb-looking, overmanicured fingers suggested possibilities heretofore ignored. The rubberized plastic facing a slick, Kubrickian white. Zincy backplate bending her reflected swells around its soft corners. Would her gentlest breach accomodate 2.4 x 0.57 inches of futuristic polymers, her delicate folds gasketing around the contours of this oblong steely dan? Was its cord long enough for her to listen as she plunged? Was the damn thing even moisture resistant, or would Usher squink cruelly to a stop before she finished?
Date Written: August 26, 2004
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