She was mon cherry, mon savoir-lady-fair. Mysterieux! Hiding behind her nom de plumage, her hair in some sort of je ne sais coif, she sat, sans chemise, around la table nibbling au courants and spooning soupçon. It was coup de food. It was love at first bite. It was chez my house. Enchanté! She parlay-voodoo'd, "Avez-vous faim? Voulez-vous une croque-madame?" Zut allures! I wanted femme, coquette, and madame! A ménage à quarte! But, no, a mauvais quart d'heure, a pièce of résistance threatening to ruin my cul d'état: a mousse! A petite mousse scurrying sur la table from fromage to well-âged fromage. She eek'd, shrieked. I quashed, quelled the horreur, prêt-à-deported it to heaven animaux, and awaited my bonbon. Encore? I give you la petit more: I kiss, we tryst, and the rest is too risque.
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