’ ‘What, your customers can’t afford a CD?’ Sandra joked. ‘Oh, they can afford a CD. They’re paying an average of $50 an hour for these re...toration jobs.’ ‘Almost like therapy for your car. Say, who’s Django Rheinhardt?’ The name almost slipped past her. ‘Belgian gypsy. Fantastic jazz violin player in the 30s and 40s. Django died far too young. I love his music. He puts me in the mood,’ said Marshall, reverently. ‘The mood for what?’ asked Sandra. ‘For whatever mood I want to be in. It’s. . Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked, on the verge of tears.I hesitated. My eyes moved down along her body, and she started loosening her towel. Her skin was very pale, and soft, with a sort of milky tone and a few freckles here and there. She was very slender, but didn't look too thin; she just looked like a young girl. One that was probably way too young for me. Her feet were bare, but still showed signs of nail polish; her toes were slightly curled."Of course I think you're pretty, Kaitlyn. Her hips started to move rhythmically, and she gave the faintestof moans. She pushed back the bedclothes and looked at her reflection asshe slides fingers into herself. God, she looked as if any moment nowshe might spread for a black cock or a giant dildo like some bitch in aporn video. No wonder Peter thought her a slut. Stephen could justimagine... The finger thrust deep as Stephen visualized a big black cockpushing into his mouth. No, that was wrong. It should be his big blackcock pushing. "This.. Akira... I... I..."The book then wrote "spit it out" with his blood erasing the old words."Fuck her up! In anyway just make her stop!" Akira. Anyway Stop" it wrote with his blood as it bleed into the parchment.The book slammed shut, as the lights cut. Danny sat for a moment staring. Silence in the dark room. The moon barely glinting through.He heard a low feral growl from behind him. And then a loud footstep, then another. Suddenly the footsteps stopped and the lights flicked back.
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