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"Tiens, tiens, tiens," she purrs, her French accent dripping with sin. In the dim light, she's a ghostly figure, her eyes reflecting the candle's flicker. She's playing with you, her voice a dark, sensuous symphony. She talks about her body, her touch, as if you're there, as if you can feel her. The room is filled with her scent, her breath, her presence. She's in control, and you're at her mercy, lost in her voice, her world, her Halloween.