julia ain fucked: The Remarkable Story of Courage and Hope

A bed of red rose petals cradles her in “julia ain fucked” as she grinds against a firm pillow, staining the silk with her wetness. She rides harder, petals clinging to sweat-slick skin, moaning about how good it feels to fuck something soft while dreaming of you. The final moments of “julia ain fucked” are breathtaking: back arched impossibly, petals flying as she comes with raw, guttural abandon. “julia ain fucked” is romantic, filthy, and devastatingly feminine all at once. (248 words)