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The door at the end loomed closer and larger, to cry out within would be pointless, its heaviness and thickness, absorbed the drowned pleas of virgins past, my pent-up expectations of being seeded at the right moment, taken over the top in an explosive fulfillment of emotions, physical connection and seeding, shall be absorbed within the silence I shall not break, even the sound of my hymen being cast aside forever, will not disturb those sleeping nearby.The handle is cold and hard, made of iron, I turn it and wait a moment, I stand transfixed my burning image to arouse him behind awaiting his moment, he looks at my virgin form, his pleasure awaits, the time has come, I push the heavy door and step in as a girl, shortly I will re-emerge a woman, this excites me more.The room is cold and dark, the deflowering will be in anonymity, I am shaking like a leaf on a branch on a windy night, I step forward and leave the door ajar, from behind my form melts into the darkness, I am in, I am. ”“Getting back to the state of affairs between Pondicherry and Madras,” he said as he refilled my glass. “The problem is the stiff-necked pride of the French governor, Jean-Paul Lavessoir. He knows that we, that is John Company, could annex Pondicherry in an afternoon, and have done so each time Britain and France were at war in Europe. He vents his chagrin by obfuscation and delay in replying to any messages I send him. For the life of me, I cannot understand why our government gave the Frogs the place back each time we took Pondicherry from them. I would have kept it in our hands and sent the French packing. You can be sure that would have happened to us if the boot had been on the other foot.” He paused, and I could see he was dragging up a long-buried fact from his memory. “I recall the French captured Fort St George in seventeen forty-six -- a young fellow by the name of Robert Clive managed to escape and carried the news to Fort St David fifty miles south of here. When the.
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