Lady B sets out a plate of cake in her living room. She tastes it, sweet and gooey, and then piles pieces of the cold chesscake into her shiny, black office pumps. She steps into them, one by one. Crushed beneath her weight, the cake escapes in spurts between the sides of her shoes. She kicks off the filthy pumps and walks in the moist cake crumbs, squishing the cake between her toes. Satisfied, she sits down, crossing her bare feet at the ankles.

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