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At 7 o'clock on Saturday night, in the dormitory of Gryffindor Tower, Harry Potter, a seventh-grade golden boy, stared at the neatly folded black silk shirts on the bed and waited for a while.
Great, isn't it? I never thought that a dress could bring me so much satisfaction. Soft without a trace of bondage, creamy like fine milk, thin and almost without feeling, wearing it seems to be a few pounds lighter, and every cell in the body is cheering.
Harry sighed softly. He has been reluctant to take it off since he put it on last night. It's more comfortable than the best mulberry cotton pajamas in the cupboard-although it's a little big-and it can be used as pajamas. Inside, Harry had a good sleep and dreamed that he was rolling on the thick cream layer of the cake.
Wonderful! That's great!
As a result, when he woke up in the morning, he found that his shirt was covered with wrinkles, especially the hem was completely folded and uneven, leaving a deep ugly mark. He took off his shirt in a hurry and changed into his own clothes. The rough cloth rubbed his skin and his mood became gloomy at once.
Just one dress can still affect my mood? It's incredible. Not "my" clothes, but that ... well, that greasy old idiot of my ex! What do you think is not worth it, ...
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