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* The New Pop Idols
* Pop Star to Porn Star
* Sex Kitten to Sex Cow
“Okay, sugar, so you’ve got a voice,” said the man in the suit. “But pop music is all about branding. You’ve got to have an identity. You’ve got to be memorable. If you’re not memorable, you’re nothing. Are you willing to do what it takes to be memorable?”
“Absolutely,” said Alana, and she thought she meant it. But she had no idea what “being memorable” really involved.
The man in the suit was called Callaway, and if he had a first name, Alana hadn’t learned it. He drank like a fish, although he never seemed to get drunker than “unpleasantly surly”. He never called women by their name – they were always “sugar” or “honey” or “babe”. He spent money like it was meaningless, casually ordering wines and meals that Alana couldn’t have afforded in a month working her old job as a waitress, and he spoke in a way that suggested that there was no question that what he wanted was going to happen. But for all his money, none of that value seemed to rub off on Alana. He held meetings with her in ratty, messy offices; in car parks in industrial areas; in trailer parks. Callaway might be rich, but somehow he always made Alana feel worthless.
He was Alana’s prize, in a way – although she already had the sense that she belonged to him more than he belonged to her. Either way, though, he was going to make Alana’s dream a reality. He was going to make her a pop star.
Alana had auditioned for the most recent season of Teen Sirens, a nationally broadcast talent show where young women competed to show off their singing, dancing and sex appeal. Alana had battled through the rounds, impressing the judges with her genuine singing prowess, and blushing her way through the striptease and pole-dancing rounds with enough success to reach the last round. In the season finale, she had delivered a powerful performance of Sex-Kitten’s hit song “Take Me (My First Violation)”.
“Make me,” she had crooned. “Rape me. It’s what I was born for.” And though she hadn’t shown as much skin as the other performers, nor thrust her groin and tits as provocatively, her slight virginal blush at the lewd lyrics she was singing was somehow even more erotic, and the judges had overwhelmingly proclaimed her the year’s “Teen Siren”, and given her the coveted first prize – a three-album recording contract.
She had had no hesitation in signing the contracts. She agreed to record the albums, to work the promotional tours and concerts, and to adopt the name and branding that the record label chose for her. And in return she was guaranteed three nationally-promoted albums. She would be a pop star.
It was a dream come true.
Like most girls, Alana had grown up wanting to be a pop star. The industry spent billions of dollars every year promoting young women in skimpy costumes with catchy songs, telling girls that they could be rich and glamorous if only they acted like cockteasing whores.
With the advent of the internet, and new censorship-free channels for distributing content, the teen music market had become even more sexually explicit. Teen idols like Sophia and Sex-Kitten had made history by having explicit hardcore sex in their music videos and on stage at concerts. Some people even said that the sex was non-consensual – that Sex-Kitten’s videos showed her actually being raped. To Alana that just made these stars even cooler – they were willing to do anything for their art, no matter how edgy.
It wasn’t that Alana wanted to be a slut like Sophia or Sex-Kitten. She was still a virgin, and she blushed when she talked about sex. But part of the allure of her pop music heroes was their shamelessness. She was embarrassed by how embarrassed she was by her own body. The pop music sluts embodied a fantasy of breaking free from that shame.
And she saw how her male friends responded to the videos. She saw their erections when a Sex-Kitten video played on television or the internet. Girls who acted like sluts got *attention* from boys. They got *approval*. Everything about the world told Alana that this was how she should be, that this is how she should behave.
On one wall of Alana’s bedroom hung a large poster of Sophia from the “Ready To Breed” album. In it, Sophia wore adorable kitten ears – and absolutely nothing else. She lay nude on a bed, her pussy towards the camera. A large microphone was stuffed into her fuckhole, and semen was visibly leaking out of her cunt around it. She was smiling seductively at the camera.
On the other wall was a poster of Sex-Kitten. It showed her pouting, sexy face, with the text “The Face of Rape: How Sex-Kitten Made Raping Teenagers Cool Again”, referencing a famous article from early in her music career.
Alana didn’t think twice about hanging the posters. All her friends had them up. They were just another step in the long tradition of sexualised media encouraging otherwise heterosexual girls to decorate their lives with hardcore female-degradation porn and consider it normal.
And now she was going to follow her idols into the industry. She was going to be memorable.
Callaway didn’t bother to tell Alana much about the “exciting new brand” he had planned for her. He just dragged her around to meetings, where he spoke in industry jargon about subjects Alana didn’t understand, while she felt stupid and tried to look pretty. He took her to appointments with big-titted bimbos who examined her and photographed her, taking measurements of her bust and her hips.
Finally he took her to a nondescript building with a sign that labelled it only as “private clinic”. Here, a man in a white coat gave her two large pills and a cup of water and said, “Take these.” Too embarrassed to admit that she didn’t know where she was or what she was doing there, Alana just took the pills without complaint…
… and the next thing she knew, it was three days later, and she was in a hospital bed, naked.
She was horrified. She barely recognised herself. She saw her tits first, of course – it was hard to see past them, in fact. They were each the size of a large rockmelon, just slightly too big to fully enclose using both hands. They were round, firm, and obviously fake, and they looked ridiculous on her otherwise slender teenaged body.
Later, when the doctor brought her a mirror, she saw the other changes. Her hair had been dyed a slutty platinum blonde, and her pussy hair had been completely removed. The doctor told her they had used a laser, and it would never grow back. And her clitoris had been pierced and a gold ring put through it. The ring was too large to comfortably sit between her cunt-lips, and so it sat outside them, against her pubis – which had the effect of constantly stretching her clit in a way that was painful and distracting.
“Over time, your clit will lengthen until it naturally pokes out of your pussy lips,” the doctor told her. “And you’ll find it will become more sensitive as a result.”
They wouldn’t let her leave the bed – she needed rest – and a couple of hours later, Callaway came to visit.
Alana blushed as he stared at her naked, surgically-improved body. She tried to cover her tits, but immediately realised that trying to cross her arms over them just drew attention to their size.
“Looking good, girl,” said Callaway. “This is a good start.”
“Why?” asked Alana. “Why did you do this to me?”
“Pretty brunette teenagers are a dime a dozen,” said Callaway. “Men see them and forget them. But sex-puppets – men remember them. They watch them, and don’t look away. You’ll get attention now.”
Alana’s face burned with embarrassment. She had never really thought about the idea that being famous might mean changing who she was, and what she looked like – and certainly not that it would change her *body*, and make her look like a whore…
But if she was unhappy with her new body, she was even more unhappy with the rest of her new branding.
She discovered that she was going to be marketed under the name “Rapemelons”. That was how the world would know her. And all the branding was going to emphasise the size of her fake tits.
Other aspects of her needed to change, too. Her speaking voice needed work. Callaway hired her a vocal coach to train her – and made her do her lessons topless, as he said the coach offered a discount if he got to stare at his students’ fuckbags while he taught.
The vocal coach was effective. He used a shock collar to train her. Her singing voice remained unchanged, but she learned to make her speaking voice higher pitched, breathier, quieter. She was taught to raise her voice at the end of sentences to turn them into questions for a man to answer, rather than statements or opinions. She was trained out of her natural deep, throaty laugh, replacing it with a childish giggle. She was taught to say “girl” instead of “woman”, to describe her opinions as “feelings” instead of “thoughts”, and to call men “sir”.
Every mistake was punctuated with a sharp shock from the shock collar. Before long, using her old voice was as impossible for her as fitting her tits into a C-cup bra.
And through it all, the voice coach would stare at her tits as he spoke to her. He never once looked her in the eyes. By the end – humiliated, repeatedly shocked, feeling her identity profoundly changing day by day – she had the oddest feeling that her tits *were* who she was, that the coach was talking to them and looking at them because they were where her identity resided – not in her brain, but in the implants that made her new fuckballoons bulge…
But Alana also got to get on with the real work, of recording music. She spent most days in the recording studio, practicing and developing the songs that Callaway had had commissioned for her.
She didn’t greatly like the thrust of the songs, though. They weren’t really any lewder than the greatest hits of Sophia or Sex-Kitten, but something about knowing they were *her* songs, and that she would be identified with them, made her embarrassed.
She raised it with Callaway one day. “Do I have to sing this one, sir?” she said. The name of the song was “Rapemelons (My Tits Mean I Consent)”.
“Of course you do,” said Callaway. “That’s going to be your first single. It’s going to establish your brand. We paid a lot of money to have that written.”
“It’s degrading!” objected Alana.
Callaway paused, and took a drink from the tumbler of bourbon he was holding. “Are you saying you refuse to do it?” he asked.
Alana paused, and then decided to try her luck. “Yes!” she said.
Callaway sighed. “That’s a breach of contract, sugar,” he said. “Very unwise. The contract clearly states if you unequivocally refuse to perform your obligations, we have the option to terminate the contract. If that happens, you get no further albums or promotion from us, we own outright anything you’ve made so far, and you’re obliged to repay us the full cost of your breast surgery, promotion, and recording time, which currently stands at around five million dollars.”
Alana bit her lip in shock, and then said, “No, wait…”
“Or,” said Callaway, “we can set up a little internal discipline, just you and me. You can agree that I can punish you without tearing up the contract, whenever it’s necessary, and then you change your mind and do the song, and we don’t speak of this again.”
“Punishment?” asked Alana. “What do you” –
“Don’t ask questions, cunt,” said Callaway. “If you’re not willing to take your punishment, you can tell me to rip up the contract whenever you like. And if you don’t want me to do that, then you accept what I give you, understand?”
“No!” said Alana.
Callaway sighed again – and slapped her across the face.
“You want me to rip up the contract?” he asked her.
Alana clutched her face. “No…” she said.
Callaway looked at her. Her hands were protecting her face – so he slapped her breasts, hard.
Alana squealed, and covered her large tits. Callaway slapped her face again.
“You want me to rip up the contract?” he asked her again.
“No, sir,” whispered Alana.
“Then you need to take your punishment,” Callaway said. “Strip naked, lie on your back on top of that table, and spread your legs as wide as they’ll go.”
Alana cried as she did as she was told. She was so sure Callaway was going to rape her. She was going to lose her virginity as punishment for being a stupid brat. She was so lucky to get to be a pop star. She couldn’t believe she had almost thrown it away for a tantrum.
She blushed as she spread her cunt to Callaway. She knew any moment now he would take out his cock and push it into her….
But he didn’t. Instead, he slapped her, on the pussy, hard.
He hit her again. And again.
All told, he hit her twenty times in the cunt before he stopped. And when he was done, he wiped his hand clean on her face, and it was only at that point that Alana realised she was wet – soaking wet – and he had just wiped a thick goop of her own pussy-juice onto her face.
Then he walked away.
Complex emotions warred in Alana. Shame at her own difficult behaviour that had led to the punishment. Shame at becoming aroused. Pain – her pussy was throbbing, and she thought it was bruised. Gratitude – genuine gratitude – to Callaway for spanking her cunt instead of raping her, and gratitude for being allowed to have a second chance at all rather than just voiding her contract. And a sense of humiliation that Callaway *hadn’t* raped her. Didn’t he want to? Wasn’t she pretty enough? Was there something wrong with her cunt.
She didn’t know what to do with any of it. But her hands did. Quite without thinking about it, they reached down to her pussy, and began tugging on her clit ring. Tug. Tug. Tug.
And then suddenly, entirely without warning, she orgasmed.
Alana recorded the album, which would be self-titled “Rapemelons”. It featured her nude on the cover, naked from the waist up, attempting to cover her oversized fake tits with her hands. Alana blushed when she realised everyone she knew would see that image – would see her slutty new fuckbags.
But really, the image was the least embarrassing thing about the album.
The title track was “Rapemelons (My Tits Mean I Consent)”. In the videoclip, Alana walked down the street of a red-light district in a tiny schoolgirl outfit, with high heels and no underwear. The white button-up shirt was far too small for her giant udders, and bulged obscenely, and her erect nipples and round brown areolae could be seen through the semi-transparent fabric.
As she walked and sang in the clip, she moved past other big-titted girls – and each time she did, she would grab them by the tits or the hair, spin them towards her, slap them across the face, pull off their shirt to expose their tits, and then hold them while nearby men approach them, unzipping their flies and pulling out their cocks. Only once the men had grabbed the clearly-distressed big-titted woman – obviously about to rape her – would Alana skip on down the street towards the next girl.
My giant boobs are just your sex-toys.
Fun to beat
I only hope I’m fun for you, boys
My tits mean I consent!
It’s not me that big tits are meant to please
It’s not fair to let me be a cocktease
I made them big so that I’d be fun to screw
My thoughts don’t matter
The only thing that matters here is *you*.
The video ended with a man grabbing Alana and ripping off her shirt, implying she was about to be raped herself. It took three tries for Alana to capture the right look of slutty excitement when this happened to her, as if it were making all her dreams come true.
During the shoot, Alana was worried she might *actually* be raped – she remembered those rumours about Sex-Kitten’s non-consensual sex – but nothing worse happened to her than being forcefully stripped. And her naked boobs didn’t even appear in the final cut. “You’ve got to build anticipation,” said Callaway, when Alana asked.
That anticipation led to her second single, “Unwrap My Gift”, a slow, sultry ballad. In the videoclip, Alana sat in her chair, topless. Her huge tits looked even huger, because they were covered in layers and layers of wrapping paper, sticky-taped in place so as to constrict the base of her tits. As she sang, anonymous hands from off screen slowly peeled the layers of wrapping off her breasts. As they removed each layer, they held it up to the camera, showing that it was a photo of a woman having her clothes non-consensually ripped off her in public.
I only wear these clothes, sir
So you can pull them off, sir
I only hide my shame, sir
So that you can make it known, sir
My body is a gift that I’ve wrapped for your erection
If I end the night unopened I’ll weep at my rejection
You only want to rape me because of what I chose to wear
The wrapping on the present’s only there for you to tear
Unwrap my gift
Expose me. Open me up. Own me.
Unwrap my gift
If I didn’t want this dress ripped off me
I never would have dressed so slutty
The video ended with the last wrapping come off and exposing Alana’s big, naked, fake tits to the world – and revealing words written across her cleavage reading, “I want to be raped.” As her breasts came into view, Alana threw her head back orgasmically, as if the very act of having her breasts bared had made her cum.
But it was her third and last single off her first album that really embedded Alana in the public consciousness. It was called “The Udder Bounce”.
“Every great pop star has a dance move,” said Callaway to Alana as he explained it. “Vogueing. Twerking. Moonwalking. Whatever the hell you call that thing Lady Gaga does. Yours is going to be the Udder Bounce.”
The dance was simple. It was designed to be performed in a low-cut top that exposed most of a girl’s cleavage. The whole dance was performed with her hands on her ass cheeks, spreading them apart as if for a man’s cock. She would then bend forward at the waist, and thrust the whole upper half of her body back and forth violently. It looked a little like she was being fucked from behind. It made her heavy tits swing back and forth beneath her – and almost inevitably, it would cause them to burst free of her top, into public view.
If that didn’t expose them, the next step usually did, which involved straightening up, her hands still on her ass, and then jumping up and down on the spot. If her tits weren’t yet exposed, they would bounce cheerfully into view. If they were already exposed, the bounce would be a little painful.
And then the third step was to stop jumping and gyrate the upper body, making her tits swing in circles. Then, if needed, the dance went back to leaning over and thrusting.
The lyrics barely existed. The heart of the song was a thumping, sexual grind.
I swing my tits – tits – tits
I swing my tits – tits – tits
Udder Bounce! Bounce! Bounce!
Good girls bounce
Good girls bounce
The clip for the Udder Bounce was a traditional dance video, with Alana in a short skirt and tube top, supported by a squad of big-titted back-up dancers. She led the troupe in the steps of the Udder Bounce, with her tits bouncing free of her top in the first verse.
She had been embarrassed enough by the dance, but she balked when costuming approached her prior to the next set of shots.
“What are they for?” she demanded.
Callaway strode over and took the two metal devices off the costuming lady. “They go on your nipples,” he told her. “We clamp them on, and the weights hang down.”
“But won’t that hurt, sir?” she asked. What she had wanted to say was, “That will hurt!”, but she automatically rephrased it as a question, directed to a man.
“Probably,” said Callaway. “But it will be memorable, and that’s important.”
Alana tried to resist, but Callaway pushed her hands away, and clamped the weights onto her nipples. They DID hurt. The clamp itself was painful, and hanging from each clamp was about a half-foot of chain with a heavy metal sphere the size of a golfball hanging from it.
And, as she soon discovered, it made the Udder Bounce MUCH more painful. Each thrust of her tits made the heavy balls jerk on her nipples. She was already biting her lip by the time she got to the bit where she was supposed to jump. On the first jump, the balls flicked up – and then jerked downwards.
Alana screamed and clutched her tits.
“No, this won’t do,” said Callaway. “You’re just going to have to work through it, Rapemelons.”
“Please,” wailed Alana. “I don’t think I can, can I, sir?”
“Yes, you can,” said Callaway. “If you need help, you can have a 20 minute break to masturbate. You’ll find endorphins help with the pain.”
He wouldn’t let her take the clamps off while she was on the break, but she slunk away to her changeroom, and obediently began to finger her pussy. After about 10 minutes, she was very wet, and the pain didn’t seem to be so bad. She went back out to resume the shoot.
It was still agonising to do the Udder Bounce with weights on her tits – but now that she was aroused, it was also kind of good. Or at least, each burst of pain made her pussy pulse needily. She almost enjoyed gyrating her torso to make the balls drag her breasts around in torturous circles.
The very last shot of the music video involved Alana jumping off the edge of a six-foot-high stage. She kept instinctively trying to cup her tits, or support the weights, as she approached the jump, so in the end Callaway had to cuff her hands behind her back.
And when she jumped, it was far worse than she had thought. The shock of the landing made the weights first feel like they were ripping her tits off entirely – and then the clamps let go, and the weights fell free, bouncing off the floor.
And that was when the blood rushed back into her abused nipples, and the pain of that was exponentially worse than everything that had happened so far.
Alana screamed, and fell to the floor – and orgasmed. Her skirt flipped up as she fell to expose her naked pussy – she was wearing no underwear. Her tits bounced wildly. Her body spasmed.
The footage of Alana basically nude and orgasming from pain was used in the music clip – and it became so iconic that posters were printed of it, and T-shirts. Almost overnight, everyone had heard of Rapemelons, and when they thought of her, they thought of her orgasming from pain.
The album was a huge success, and a concert tour was immediately planned.
“Callaway, sir,” begged Rapemelons. “The choreographer says I’m going to do the entire show topless, with those weights on my tits. I’m not sure I can bear that pain. Please, can you do something?”
Callaway could indeed do something. Alana had of course wanted him to forbid the weights, but instead he hired her a “breast pain tutor”, and for the next month Alana spent an hour every day having her tits brutalised to accustom her to the pain. She was required to masturbate to the edge of orgasm before every lesson, and then she would be tied up, and the tutor would slap her tits, put clamps on them, pull on them, milk them, whip them with a belt, constrict their bases, apply suction to the nipples, and pierce them with small, short pins. At the end, Alana would be required to complete her masturbation until she orgasmed.
At first these were pure torture for Alana. But as time went on, she began to associate the sexual arousal with the pain, and then get the two sensations confused, and by the third week she began to find herself orgasming, entirely without direct stimulation of her cunt, just from having her breasts struck with a belt. By the time the lessons were complete, Alana found to her horror that it was now incredibly difficult for her to reach orgasm if her boobs weren’t in pain. If she was masturbating in private, she would slap her own tits as she fingered her cunt, and she sometimes wore the weighted clamps now for short periods even when she wasn’t required to.
When the time came for the concert, Alana felt ashamed and humiliated to see her fans. They were girls her own age, but many of them had fake tits, big and obvious like her own.
“Aren’t they great?” Alana overheard one fan saying to another. “None of my clothes fit anymore. They’re just like Rapemelons has! All the boys I’m friends with have erections around me all the time now…”
She saw girls wearing her official merchandise. There were shirts with pictures of her orgasming from pain. There were short white shirts that came down barely as far as a girl’s nipples with “GOOD GIRLS BOUNCE” written on them in pink. Other shirts said “MY TITS MEAN I CONSENT” or just “CUMRAGS”.
She saw a teen girl completely topless, clearly embarrassed, her arms crossed in humiliation over a pair of fake tits. “That boy just ripped my shirt off!” she was protesting.
“Sure,” said her friend, “but if you didn’t want it ripped off you, you shouldn’t have dressed so slutty. And it means he *likes* you! You should go ask him out!”
Elsewhere she saw a boy leading a girl on a leash. The girl was nude and wearing a ball-gag. Weighted clamps just like Alana’s hung from her oversized tits – official merchandise, Alana realised – and the leash was attached to a ring through her clitoris just like Alana’s. The girl looked completely horrified and humiliated by her situation.
One of the boy’s friends laughed and said, “Is she, like, consenting to this?”
The boy with the leash replied, “She consented to this when she got the fake tits. Besides, girls are hotter when they cry. You should see her when I masturbate onto her face while watching Rapemelons videos and telling her how Rapemelons is hotter than she is.”
At the edge of the crowd, by the dimly lit port-a-loos, Alana witnessed two girls stripping one of their girlfriends naked, and then holding her down for two men to rape. Just like in the video for her first single. The victim had her panties stuffed into her mouth and was making muffled objections; her friends were laughing like it was the funniest thing in the world.
Alana had done all this. She had been a role model for all of these people. Girls were getting ridiculous plastic fuckbags and helping their friends to get raped because of Alana.
She might have cried, but soon she would have to put on her tit clamps and do the Udder Bounce on stage, so she started masturbating instead, and let all the guilt just float away into a haze of lust.
Everyone agreed that Rapemelons’ first concert was amazing. She danced and bounced, and the nipple weights jerked her fuckbags this way and that. She performed “Rapemelons”, “Make Me A Cow” and “Perfect Woman” – though she was crying with pain by the end of them – and then she did a memorable rendition of “Boobs Not Brains”.
Nothing intelligent would look like me
A sex-doll to cum in is all I can be
When you take out your cock it’s all I can see
I deserve to be raped for my stupidity
After the intermission, Rapemelons came back on stage completely nude, and openly rubbing her pussy. She was followed by a man – her manager, Callaway – who was holding another of her nipple weights. Her eyes widened when she saw him, and she tried to back away, but her back-up dancers grabbed her and held her – just like in the music video for “Rapemelons”! – and Callaway advanced – and clipped the weight to her clitoris ring.
The crowd went wild when Rapemelons shrieked in pain – and then even wilder when her manager pushed her down onto all fours, took out his cock, and began raping her cunt in front of the entire crowd.
And then, just at the point where the crowd were wondering if this was all part of the show or not, Rapemelons began to sing as she was being raped – and of course, it was the last ballad on the album, “I Deserve This”.
I hate every little bit of this
The degradation; the pain; the shame
It’s breaking me down, making me nothing
But I know
I deserve this
When I wore that slutty dress, I made this happen
When I knew you wanted to fuck me, and I did nothing
When I gave myself these giant cow-teats
only good for pain and raping
I made a choice
I wrote my fate
I deserve this.
And I know
I deserve this.
I hate every little bit of this
But I have to thank you, sir
Because I deserve this
When the song was over, Callaway stood, and then Rapemelons stood, shakily, and the cameras made sure the giant video screens showed a close-up of her cunt, with fresh cum dripping from it. Callaway had orgasmed, but Rapemelons had not. Her fingers immediately went to her fuckhole, pushing Callaway’s cum inside her as they desperately probed her vagina, looking for satisfaction.
“That was the first time I’ve ever had sex,” said Rapemelons in a hoarse voice as she masturbated. “I just lost my virginity on stage, in front of all of you, being raped for your entertainment by a man I hate, and I didn’t even get to cum.” She sounded like she might cry.
Callaway whispered in her ear. Rapemelons took a deep breath, and then said, “And that’s what every girl should do! I want all my fans to go out and get raped by men they hate!”
There were ecstatic cheers and whistles in the crowd – and their volume increased as the band started up with the opening riffs of “Udder Bounce”.
Rapemelons started to cry then – but she hit every step of her choreography. When she thrust her tits, it wasn’t only the nipple weights that tortured her now, but also the clit weight. And when she had to jump, her vocals turned into a scream of agony that just made the crowd even more vocal in their appreciation.
Rapemelons orgasmed five times from pain in that song alone.
She knew, because Callaway made her watch the recording of it that night in her trailer, after the show was over, as he raped her again.
“If you can orgasm from being raped and watching your public degradation before I ejaculate into you,” he whispered in her ear, “then I won’t order the weights made 25% heavier for the next concert.”
She didn’t think Callaway expected her to succeed – and so she was very proud and self-satisfied when she *did* manage to orgasm from her pain and degradation, moments before Callaway fired another load of sperm into her unprotected womb.
“This is all my dreams come true,” she whispered to herself as she felt her manager’s cum drip out of her pussy into the bed she would be sleeping in.
After all, she knew that every girl in the country would do anything to be exactly where she was right now…
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