It was a lecherously hot, sunshine-yellow day in mysterious Key Largo, Florida. Even the air was sweating. A salty, invigorating ocean breeze came ashore with the tide. There was the femme fatale, Lorna, far away from her native Wales. There was a glass of thick, heavy cream, fresh off the truck. Ordinary milk would have just coated her body in a mundane pattern. But the cream. Yes, the cream. The cream ran over hills and valleys in rivulets and streams, as if guided by the artistic hand of Pablo Boobcasso. And she was starkers. It couldn’t get any better. A masterpiece was burned into the gelatin that afternoon.
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