Marianne is a goddess in the flesh. The word 'gorgeous' hardly does her justice. Her cheeks are like silk, her skin the color of a sun kissed beach. She has the softest pair of lips I have ever seen. They beg to be kissed. And her t**s--no. Wait. Not 't**s'. Never 't**s'. Her 'breasts', so perfectly ripe and swollen just so. Not overly, but far from nonexistent. I sometimes get lost thinking about them. The way she sways when she walks. Does she even know the depths of arousal she brings to my loins?
But alas, these words will forever fall on deaf ears, never to be uttered aloud nor published. They are private, for my eyes alone. Forever will I hold this secret. To my grave, I fear. For it is forbidden, these thoughts. Many call them impure. Not me. But frowned up they are, and should the
