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Thursday, May. 19, 2005 - 3:58 p.m.

"Oh, girl," he says.

"Oh, you girl," he says and all of a sudden she is the embodiment of everything good that is female.

"Wife me, whore me, little girl me," he says and she is aproned in a kitchen and gartered on a big bed and curled in his lap and serving him food and eating from his hand and screaming out his name and and bearing his children.

"Big juicy gal," he says and she bites into pickles and thinks of his cock and she is ripe and full to bursting with wanting him.

"There are lots of ways to know you, girl," he says and she wants him to know her inside and out, upside-down and backwards, tilted a bit this way and tipped a bit that way.

"Yes'm," he says and she is eyebrow-arched and sharp-toothed, armed and dangerous and ready to slice him, dice him, puree him and frappe him for good measure until he is begging and bleeding.

"A damn fine woman," he says and sometimes she agrees that she is, indeed, a good woman, a solid woman, a woman of maturity and thoughtfulness and morals who contributes to the world.

"Little pigheaded pisser gal," he says and she is relieved that he is not frustrated or exasperated or any of those -ated words and that maybe it is okay to be stubborn and filled with strong opinions and stubborn bears mentioning twice.

"My own sweet, sweet girl," he says and she wants to be his, his alone, his only, his for a good, damn long time.

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