|
Shelly Reed |
|
On Our Tits Truth is, she was mad with bosom at eleven. Never suckled well with her premature mouth at my thirty-eight double d's, though. Had to but her a bra when she was nine; the boys were distracted, accused the school principal. Screw you... you can't even FATHER children let alone a girl-child who, incidentally, dances, sings and paints better than you fuck! All the Reed Girls were BUILT and she was no exception, despite her small-busted father's side of ghetto Oprahs. If she and I could devise a modus operati to shoot cyanide from the triggers of our four nipples, with a mean areola of twelve, we'd figuratively b l a s t the bastard biological father to his premature death. Trust me. |