At night when I look at Boris' goatee lying on the pillow I get hysterical. O Tania, where now is that warn ♥♥♥♥ of yours, those fat, heavy garters, those soft, bulging thighs? There is a bone in my prick six inches long. I will ream out every wrinkle of your ♥♥♥♥, Tania, big with seed. I will send you home to your Sylvester with an ache in your belly and your womb turned inside out. Your Sylvester! Yes, he knows how to build a fire, but I know how to inflame a ♥♥♥♥. I shoot hot bolts into you, Tania, I make your ovaries incandescent. Your Sylvester is a little jealous now? He feels something, does he? He feels the remnants of my big prick. I have set the shores a little wider, I have ironed out the wrinkles. After me you can take on stallions, bulls, rams, drakes, St. Bernards.
You can stuff toads, bats, lizards up your rectum. You can ♥♥♥♥ arpeggios if you like, or string a zither across your navel. I am ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ you, Tania, so that you'll stay ♥♥♥♥♥♥. And if you are afraid of being ♥♥♥♥♥♥ publicly I will ♥♥♥♥ you privately. I will tear off a few hairs from your ♥♥♥♥ and paste them on Boris' chin. I will bite into your clitoris and spit out two franc pieces . . .