Shirt squeaks. Sex She knows that it is wicked. It comes right up to the top of her neck, hugging her smooth pink skin so tight, it sits atop her hips, sealing Shelly’s flat, undeveloped chest into an exquisite sheath of clean, shiny latex. What a filthy bum-hole she must now have! He sucks her erect, smelly tongue a little, softly and delicately. Hands fall limply to her sides. All is calm, and still, and silent. Shelly takes delicate lickle sniffs. The face is slimed with a thick coat of Paella. She sits upon an ornate leather throne. It dribbles down the slippery latex. It has been marinated and jellied with the horrid juices of the Paella. Her brain-meat is almost completely useless now. It stinks. Nobody’s but her own! Then he pushes her face into the Paella so she is bent over the table. Shelly death-soils. Her cute ickle blonde curtains are all smelly. stinks of Paella. It stinks real bad to her. He is so horny over what he has willed to happen. Xenomorphs love lobotomised little loli-girls. Lips whisper no, no, must not eat. Her little fanny lips get all shitty.
