She slipped off her shoes and clambered onto the bonnet. She imagined a photographer directing her like he would the models. She posed for him and ble... kisses at the camera. She lay on her stomach and propped herself up on her elbows. Her dress gaped. The make-believe photographer was mesmerised by her breasts. She caught him staring and smiled. She sat up and pushed her breasts together, offering them to the photographer.That’s nice, baby. That’s nice. Work it. Work it. The photographer reeled. I waited two years before I entered college, as I went on a two year "self-discovery" period. In time, I decided what I wanted to do. Namely, I wanted to be a writer. The room had the vaguely sensual scent of jasmine enveloping it, and I looked to see a stick of incense burning in an ashtray, sending up plumes of fragrant smoke. There was a pleasantly mellow ambience in the room. I noticed a fine-looking calico cat, and her name was "Peckerwood", based on my conversations with Beth, walking. His hair was still jet-black and thick, pushed messily back to clear his face and form shaggy, hedgehog spikes atop his head. The features of his face hadn’t changed, still narrow and angular, family resemblance making him a fine kind of handsome which complemented her delicate beauty.But he had changed in immediate, obvious ways. His light skin had become ashen — literally, the grey of paper ashes. His iron-grey eyes had transformed, now-black irises surrounding red pupils which gave off a dim. Ook de blouse is zwart. Zwart enbehoorlijk doorzichtig met ruches aan de mouwen en bij de sluiting. Debroek is van leer, ook zwart. Ik kan er maar met moeite inkomen, zostrak zit de broek rond mijn lichaam. De zwarte schoenen hebben eenhakje van een centimeter of vijf hoog. Ik trek ze aan en loop een paarpassen. Het lijkt wel of ik begin te wennen aan die hakken. Nog evenbekijk ik mijzelf in de spiegel. Echt mannelijk is mijn dracht ook nuweer niet. Maar het is in elk geval niet lichtroze of.
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