Jazzmin Flush (97)

   
   "Jazzmin Flush (97)"
   
   Jerry Dingle was more voyeuristic than violently vile; indeed, he was canned pussy--Miss Jazzmin Flush continuing to be like Teflon to torture.  Anyway, Jazzmin and Thomas in the hotel room--Jazzmin snoring a pack of "z's" that had zigged and zagged her symmetrical bosom, that cupcake cleavage, flopping outta her binding bra, Thomas eagerly noticing the fleshy and fun pink of a shiny nipple and all that juicy stuff; moreover, Jazzmin, like unto Sleeping Beauty gone semi-topless, and he wondered if it would be couth-filled and merit any class to just playfully fling her bare nipple with his bowfinger; alas, whimpering wussylike, phobic concerning political correctness in action, it incarcerating both action and speech; thus, Thomas wilted away from Jazzmin's sleeping seduction, staying the spirited arctic wolf, laying at her feet that dangled off the bed--good dog.
   So, the wolfboy licked his mouse debris chops, burping telepathy to Jazzmin's darling dreamstate, like:  "I'm sorry, but I'd like to play with your boobies--them milky mammary glands glistening goldenways."