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Confessions from the Malt Chef you unwrapped it, delicately, not once evincing any evidence of strain or effort on your part, the wrapper’s remnant fluttering to another life likely less useful, as your warm, well manicured fingers slid slowly along the primary dimension, sizing it, gauging it, running through the innate analysis, coming to a conclusion, apparently, as the tip was allowed to part the sea, allowing an entrance, a formal introduction to the thick white whipped creamy gatekeeper penetrating ever deeper until, finally, the deepest possible probing had been accomplished and with a sigh, exhaled softly so as not to disturb the concentration of others nearby, the negative pressure applied by palate and tongue, nose and lung, brought the viscous liquid rushing into your mouth where you allowed it to settle and mingle, cautiously, with teeth and tonsils, that first draw only serving to inspire a second and quickly a third. two eyes rolled to the back of my head with lids half closed as I reached for the change I’d collected prior to your arrival, preparing to tithe. |
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