#87576 - Tiffany has one of those looks on her face, with the stance to match that says “fuck you – no way – never happening”, standing there in that silver satin slip, bare-foot in shiny, white stockings, and that silky hair glowing. There was just too fucking much stuff to use on this dress yet. She catches a glimpse of herself in the long, floor-length kitchen mirror beside the refrigerator – just an entirely chocolate coated bride, dripping, filthy, slimy, utterly disgusting in that veil (still showing one mutant white floweret bouncing gaily at the end of a tiny stalk), and she tugs her legs apart with the slimy skirt trying the suck them together, making her way to the cupboards again for the large milk carton size of the most black looking, thick molasses.

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