Meanwhile, at Marc-you's bedroom, you feel Chelsea-you's eye Cindy's sculpted form hungrily. There's a certain satisfaction coming from Chelsea's mind as her former rival obediently follow her beckoning finger towards the bed.
It's ironic that she's not really the one calling the shot, but just one of the many delectable meatsuit to house your goo self.
Even as you think her thoughts for her, a random thought appears simultaneously across your collective bodies. Taking Alyssa and the rest of the Eastman's cheerleader squad would be very satisfying.
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