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In the privacy of her room, she lets her tongue run wild, a tool of pleasure untouched by another's lips. She drools, the spit dripping down her chin, collecting on her heaving breasts. Her tongue, a writhing muscle, tastes the air, hungry for something to fill its void. It dances, it probes, it denies, a symphony of self-pleasure that leaves her panting, her body yearning for more than just her own spit.