Clara threw a blanket, then sat on the edge of the bed and began to unbutton his pajama jacket. Unbuttoned, roughly turned him first on one side then on the other and pulled the sleeves. For some time considered a great, full-back, dark red burn, even looked around its contours nail without scratching, but not affection. Again turned over on his back, he undid two buttons of his pajama pants, seeing them macula, and deftly pulled off, exposing skinny legs. Pants, flying through the air, fell on the black coat with a velvet collar. Clara's eyes slid back bare, the old and the sick body of a man. Quite helpless. Now too he did not rape her if they wanted to. Legs won some skinny; knees on their background appear bloated and huge. Wrinkled skin barely keeps the bones of the skeleton. Clara leaned over and put her head on his stomach, listened to the rumblings coming out of there. Squinted at the red tuft of his hair scattered on the smelly and shrunken member, she leaned over and kissed his nature. Ayyachchio not look at her; look in his eyes was hard to decipher, they seem to have absorbed all the past, present and future.
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