My ass is big, fat, and straight-up foul—the kind that jiggles with every nasty step and reeks of pure sin. It’s thick like it’s been fed dirty thoughts and sweat all day long, cheeks clapping and sticking together with that hot, funky stank. I don’t hide it—I show it off, let it bounce, let it roll, let that rich, musky funk rise up and wrap around the room like a filthy fog. When I bend over, it’s a whole experience—sticky, humid, and stank-heavy. This ass ain’t just seen action—it carries it, soaked into every crease, every bounce, every nasty little jiggle. You don’t just look at it—you survive it.

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