How bad could it be if I covered myself in heated cheese and let her lick it off, every inch, this idea of being the mean she consumes twice a day, every day, for as long as the two of us live, growing on me, though I know it can never be, except in my vivid imagination, especially when she gets to those last few drops of cheese that drips off me and onto her lips, as she licks it, me the perpetual mac and cheese that feeds her every desire, to satisfy her hunger as well as my own, and would she let me cover her with whipped cream for me to covet as desert. I’d be sure to get each bit of it even from those folds where it gathers thickest, near where the real cheese is.
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