In the small but
thriving English county of Downshire, people go about the tasks of their
everyday existence in ways that range from the mundane to the extraordinary, as
their forebears had done for centuries before, in Purplemere willowy vixen,
Yasmin was willing and welcoming as she writhed and gyrated on the pole at the Hot
Lips Club.
Erotically cavorting
like a slutty gracile courtesan suppliantly performing for the clientele of
dirty old men and drunken letches.
Debasing herself in seedy surroundings for the meagre rewards, selling herself
cheaply to wealthy businessmen and the sad and the lonely, and in her
nakedness, she begs for more paper currency which they tuck in her panties.
She calls herself an exotic dancer but in reality, she’s no better than the
geisha who satisfies a Mikado’s wants and needs.
As he watched her he craved
that she would dance a dance for him, the one of ancient rhythm, primordial,
with hips grinding and gyrating to a sensual beat, wriggling and writhing,
dancing like a beast, feeling the animal rhythm and singing for him that song,
the song of ancient and universal language, guttural, savage, utterances of a
beast, and when Yasmin had danced that dance for him in perfect rhythm and he
craved her sing to him her orgasmic song.
But he knew it would
never happen she would just keep selling herself to the lecherous customers and
never give herself to him.
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