She was a bad girl, and knew it. She was like one of those rough and sexy girls from a fifty's movie. Her story might be called "Bad girl and the motorcycles from hell," or "Bad girl, gone worse," or something really rather silly sounding like that.
She was the type of girl that I have dreams about, the type that come at you, all of a sudden, out of the darkness, and rips off your shirt and holding a knife to your throat, gently sucks on your chest and rubs her clean hands over your sweaty body.
Her name was Jenifer. Her name was Jenny or Jen or Jennie-poo or Jennie-baby or Jennie. If you called her that, you'd be dead.
You couldn't say to her "Hey baby, nice tits." She'd kill you. She had nice tits though.
She killed a lot.
Her thighs were like cheese on a Sunday morning.
Her lips like a great storm of butterflies in a basket of lemons.
Her breasts as large as time itself, though firm.
Her vagina area was like a stream on a warm summer day.
Hey baby baby, nice tits.