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Edit box size: ⇓ More rows Reset to default size ⇒ More columns '''Sympathy''' When I think of her reaching through layers of masculinity to touch the mirror, something in me dies. When I pull on a dress with a feminine cut and see curves rising from my chest falling from my waist and I think of her straight as a cedar tall as a cedar swathed in fabrics that flow and drape like the flag of a conquered country, something in me dies. When she touches every living inch of me with tender, sensual fingers and I strive to copy her gently carefully but the flesh beneath my fingers does not rise does not fall as mine does and I can only surrender to her hungry envelopment of the body she deserves, something in me dies. -- This is a minor edit.
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