The cleave of your thigh is perfumed by something I am allergic to.
A large hit to my solar plexus for going down on you!

Custard-blonde tendrils dangle before me like a field of yaks, grazing tentatively upon your ****** back. Lately they have been tumbling out spectacularly in clumps of fibre, forming barley or shellac-colored runes in the shower.

While cleaning the drain, mistakenly I touched a pale Daddy-long-legs, crushed into a polka-dot, and let out a deafening scream for you to stomp on its itsy-bitsy corpse till your footsoles wore brick red fishnets. Then, left with only seven legs to lift its rear, it’d gone down like a ******.

After gazing into one’s lashless mung bean eyes, I think I am going mad as the house flies who pivot into glass to pass their time, self-contained and distended as ostrich eggs.