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Solomon, the wise king, takes the stage, his voice booming across the silent hall. "I am Yeshua, the son of Amoz," he declares, his eyes scanning the crowd, lingering on the curves of his female subjects. "I have been sent to speak of sin and redemption, of indulgence and abstinence." His hands, strong and capable, trace patterns in the air, illustrating his words. "But first, let me tell you of a dream I had, of a woman, her body a symphony of curves, her eyes burning with desire." The room is silent, the air heavy with anticipation, as Solomon weaves his tale, each word a seductive caress, each sentence a step further into the forbidden.