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I Like Being Fucked Everywhere II

THE forest path was quiet and the only sound one could hear was the crunch of leaves under my boots and the distant call of a bird. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine. My short ripped denim shorts left little to the imagination, and my thin tank top clung to my nipples, which were already hard from the chill. I saw him then, a lone figure sketching by a fallen log. He had dark, messy hair and intense green eyes, focused on his ...