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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My stepfather’s one final request he made before he left was that I was to find as many bikini, topless, and upskirt photos as I could. These photos, and these photos only, were to take priority over anything else regardless of anything else happening is Hollywood. Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan were high on heroin and ran over a pack of pre-schoolers in their BMWs? Doesn’t matter. Britney Spears put Sean Preston on the BBQ? Doesn’t matter. And with that, I would like to dedicate this post to my stepfather, Jesus Martinez, who taught me everything I know.

I have no problem taking over the family business while Jesus as gone. I’m still learning the ropes, but I’m getting the hang of things fast I think. I feel lucky that my family has something I take interest in and can participate in actively. A friend of mine recently went to work for his father too. Their family business totally fits with his personal interests, but he had a real hard time making the decision to finally take the job there. He comes from a pretty wealthy family, but he’s one of those backwards rich kids where instead of wanting to take everything his parents give him and live like a hog in the fat house, he wants to make it on his own or some bullshit. I didn’t really understand that when he explained it, because my all parents ever gave me was a good ass kicking when I came in after curfew and enough psychological problems that I am going to be in therapy until I die.

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