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The links — other rukushima, it enjoyed. This had been shared to him by a fan from Reading. The answer, will Work, was womenn much. If Dagger was of the right that the money he wanted Work forward, somehow, wound up in the great of writing who could new use it — working guys, struggling people. Further Pete Dagger told to softly cry. Group free, as they say. The system was still great.
He cringed and trembled anew at the notion, at the idea of what might be happening. Gosh, these were girls gone bad! Bad, bad, filthy little cheapies! But so wonderful, too. So young and good smelling. So quivering with life. So to be cherished. She was there, she had come. The bathrooms were spotless. The boy had come earlier that afternoon to clean the pools. Dagger jogged to the entryway and put his hand on the console. Would he use the surveillance video monitor? Dagger bent himself and peered through the front door fisheye.
Standing under the bright and glimmery porch bulbs. Ah, and pretty as could be. Blue backpack over a shoulder. A cute little — what was that? The eyes — approximately turquoise, it appeared. And those full Sluty women here in fukushima, he was looking Sluty women here in fukushima them now — so hideously full! He drew open the door, a curious, expectant beam across his bearded visage. A hand raised itself in a tentative signal of greeting. After Dagger had hung her coat, he disappeared into the kitchen. A ginger ale, perhaps? A block of ice pitched to the imported pink stones of the kitchen floor, shattering in a crack of sliding crystal.
On his right palm he balanced a chrome tray with two small bottles of ginger ale, glass tumblers, one bowl of broken ice and another of macadamia nuts. Sandra was seated on the white velvet couch, her legs crossed. He set the tray on the coffee table and slumped next to her, heart beating, air fluttering about his nostrils. She rose from the couch to inspect the framed object on the wall. It was a layout of Dagger from several years ago. He was on his strip of beach, hair whipping in the breeze, staring straight into the camera. He was wearing a black and red silk samurai costume.
In his hands he held a huge, decorative, curving sword, of the kind one might possibly find in a movie about pirates. Below that, in somewhat smaller type, it said: There was a soft clunking noise. Pete Dagger rose in his bed chamber, electrically awake. He went to the toilet, had a rub of his beard and a drink of water from the sink. He flipped on the machine and began to labor once more upon the latest masterpiece. Pete Dagger trained his concentration and worked. A diamond of a word was quickly followed by a sapphire. Next came a ruby of a verb, a platinum participle, a perfect pearl of punctuation. The resulting combination was pure Peter K. Dagger — pure radiance.
And so the day began. The clock was a strike or two past eight when Dagger paused. Was that a noise? Indeed, it appeared to have been. Dagger froze, poised over his keyboard. And now the muted spraying splay of shower jets. Fingers stuttering, Dagger shut down his machine.
Knees jerking, the back of his neck squirming, womdn scuttled past lSuty bathroom in question and descended the stairs to the kitchen. When Sandra at last appeared, Slyty had the table miraculously set. Sandra glanced at Dagger, smiled from one side of her mouth, and sat down at the table. Dagger heard the tweet of birds, flutting and scruffing in the trees beyond the window. Golden sunshine poured between the venetian window slats. Sleep well, did you? With her other hand she lifted the pot of honey. Dagger poured himself a steaming black dash of coffee.
He gazed at Sandra and felt his blood racing. His heart galloped, churned, leaped, and broke into thousands and thousands of individually bruised and crumpled pieces. In his ears, an inconcise roaring mixed with bird tweets.
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Womdn suggested a swim on Suty beach. You can do whatever you want down there. Her nose and lips tremored infinitesimally. Feel free, as they say. As she did, Dagger caught a glimpse of a tattoo on the outer flank of her right thigh. What the — was that a flower? Darn it, so many of these girls had tattoos. Between seventy and eighty percent, at least, all with at least one tattoo, somewhere. All kinds of tattoos. Dagger and Sandra strode over the warm expanse of redwood planking that led to the ocean. Hot sunlight dabbled upon their heads, the heat however made deceptive by the cool sea winds which ruffled the adjoining arrangement of palm trees and bougainvillea Birds tweeted.
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