He stands there, shirtless, smoking his "herbal" cigarette. His eyes darting back and forth, trying to sneak a peek at my kitchen window. I stare through the sheer curtain in sheer terror, feeling my walls crumbling down brick by brick, shards of my resistance falling away like a fart in a strong wind. I drop to the floor, my naked body shaking. Can he see me? Can he smell my moist scent? Can he hear my body calling with the graphic urgency of an R. Kelly song? Does he know I'm a birthday suit enthusiast? I peek over the kitchen table top and catch his searing gaze through the net. A tortured gasp escapes me as my eyes caress his shirtless musculature, every sinew knotted like a coiled snake, taught and glisten...

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