I can’t get my hands off his pimple. It is delightfully absurd to take joy of such pain from his stressful skin, however here I am laying bare on his round vanilla, leaning toward pushing my arms in a forceful manner. I clutched his head, so his muscle could restrain. Then I began to twitch, pinch, and flinch with satisfaction of a torn pore. Oozing.

If there’s only a job description that could match my passion. I would love to volunteer! What is so hard in this life? That I never able to give my lust an endorsement.

“You’re a falter creature, a debris of a biscuit!” preached my Bobby Joe, insisting my habit terrorized my professional life. Here’s how:

One: even with his shout out complaints, I still treat his acne well. Indicating, I will do dirty work without pay. Two: I could see a face in that miniscule pus. Madness period. Three: this hurts, the pimple grew back. Indicating, I am no benzoyl peroxide.