The tyrant nearly choked on his own smoke. He tilted his head toward the princess, a fiery brow quirked in an irked surprise. “You can’t?”

[angry dilf tyrant noises]

His thick crimson brow furrowed, hairs raising in small bundles like individual peaks of a flame. “Put it away,” he snapped, “do you strut in front of Peach’s court with that pitiful /mushroom. dangling between your legs?” He was going to * inhale * Mario’s sausage.