I can’t sleep because my bed’s on fire. The angels got together. Nipples. Gusset. Her skirt creeping up her backside, revealing the brash curve of flesh as she leaned over the table, reaching across to grab the photo out of the laughing boy’s hand. Soft shapely swells of fatty flesh, the ever-expanding bottom, formed to flirt behind, space jelly, teasing winking, jiggle and jounce, a flash of beauty appeared and as quickly was gone, curls and folds and wanton being.

Lord Malinov, Song of Songs