THE QUEEN HAS RETURNED

>non straight hair
>gobs of makeup
>showing cleavage this liberally
>sassy sideways stare

She's back but as another common whore.

The way I see it, by leaving comments open, she is essentially signalling that she wants to be fucked. HARD. Why else would she return?

The magic is no longer there. Just another useless woman.

I want to fuck you hard deep in the boypussi user and dress you up in a maid outfit

HNGGGGGGG

She is my muse. My flame.

I'll turn you all into my boy whoresluts until you give me those heart pupils.

I love it when you talk like the dirty slut that you are :^)

...

Watch boku no pico with me slut

One day, it happens. You've finally gone too far. You heard rumors but played them off as the ramblings of some schizophrenic conspiracy theorist. You almost had to in order to keep living. But it was real. The Trumpfschtaffel kicked down your door. You had mocked the God Emperor one too many times on an anonymous imageboard.

They held a kangaroo court for you, no jurors, no witnesses. The judge passed his sentence upon you. "Send him to the Gass chamber!" he shouted at the two non-working class white males now gainfully employed as bailiffs. The troglodytes let out slack jawed chuckles as they dragged you away. How did it it come to this? How could this be real?

They brought you into a dark room, light from the hallway revealed blue stains across the concrete walls. A solitary chair sat in the center of the room complete with restraints. This was it. The last threshold you'd cross, the final seat you'd take. They locked you into the chair and left the room in silence. You noticed another chair in the room sitting directly opposite your own. It looked to be a well cushioned recliner, completely out of place in this otherwise barren setting.

Suddenly the chamber door opened. A single man entered the room, a corona of light surrounding his rotund form. In a slow yet fluid series of motions he shut the door behind him and took a seat. He lit a flashlight under his chin, illuminating his face as one would do when telling a ghost story at night. It was William H. Gass.

He didn't acknowledge your presence directly, he never shone the light on your face. It was unimportant for what he was tasked with doing. He began to recite The Tunnel from memory. As you faded from consciousness around the middle of We Have Not Lived The Right Life only the barest acknowledgement of his deed crossed his face. You were nothing to him. He had done this six million times before.

...