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That son of a bird bitch, you can see it in her eyes. Looking right back at you. Knowing that you know that she knows that you know that she knows that you know she motorboats those peafowl-cup tiddies every night in pure ecstacy. That she gets to scissor her snu snu bride, holding up one muscular leg like she's pushing up a huge oak log, and getting to slam her with no restraint whatsoever. Her huge milkers bouncing around, hitting each other with meaty thick smacks after every gyration as she creams her pussy into her bird wife. You know this, and she knows this. And that's why she looks at you that way. She won a game you didn't even know you could play. That son of a bird bitch
