Were having some problems uploading the rest of these photos, so here’s one to tide you over and jerk off to until we can sort it out. Obviously her name is Veronique Decock. I am curious as to what her waffle pound’n Belgian mother thought when she felt little Veronique thrashing away in her dirty womb. Did she have some eerie premonition that with a name like “Decock,” her unborn baby was destined for a pricey pair of implants, a move that would rocket her to the ranks of Miss Belgium. Did her cunt mother ponder the consequences of these fake-tits-to-be, like whether they would burst or turn to stone and give her some bizarre disease (besides the STDs a future beauty queen will inevitably rock).

All in all, I would say her doctor deserves some sort of prize and I want his number and a sugardady to finance. She is hot and you all would slam her. So would I if I swung that way.

I have seen a lot of fake tits in my young life–when i was a hooker we always did show and tell with the shy new girl: we’d demand some full frontal, she’d flash them, and sometimes they were beauties, but sometimes they were a pair of 99 cent store stress-balls cut and shoved under her now unaligned nips. That kind of shit is common with my ex-coworkers–backroom doctors with a degree from the University of Belarus, who’ll make ’em bigger for 1 grand and a before and after bang.

I never got implants. My Turkish ex-pimp Zeki kept a lock on the fridge to keep me wafish and small breasted, since my theme was young, “legal” virgin-orphan from like Romania, Germany, or Northern Ireland (my looks are pretty trans-ethnic). My accents always sucked but the customers didn’t give a shit if i sounded Croat or Cockney… for them it was all about what i could do for their cock.

That was my dirty flashback of the day. I need to go take a shower now.

Obediently yours,

Sugar Nell

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