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LuXury Dubai Call Girls 0501780622 Top Night SerVice
Here’s one raw, offensive, no-apologies page.
Pure filth. Pure English. Zero redemption arc.
Title (working): Cheap Perfume & Cigarette Burns – Backroom of a Karachi nightclub, 3 a.m.
She tasted like knock-off Chanel and someone else’s lipstick.
He didn’t care.
He had her bent over the cracked leather sofa in the VIP room that smelled of spilled Black Label and broken promises, skirt shoved up to her waist, cheap lace panties ripped and dangling off one ankle. The bass from the dance floor thumped through the walls like a second heartbeat.
“Fucking take it,” he growled, yanking her hair hard enough to make her scalp burn, slamming into her so deep her breath fogged the fake leather. “This what you came here for, hai na? Rich boy dick in your slum pussy?”
She laughed, some bottle-girl from Lyari who’d lied about her age and dyed her hair platinum, just pushed back harder, nails digging into the sofa. “Shut up and make me bleed, harami,” she spat, voice hoarse from screaming over the music. “I charge extra for tears.”
He slapped her ass so hard the print stayed white for three full seconds before blooming angry red. She moaned like it was applause.
Sweat dripped off his jaw onto her spine. His Rolex scraped her skin with every thrust; she’d have scratches tomorrow to match the cigarette burn he’d given her earlier when she tried to steal his lighter.
“Say it,” he snarled, reaching around to pinch her clit until she jerked. “Say you’re nothing but a cheap whore who lives for this.”
“I’m a cheap whore who lives for this,” she gasped, coming so hard her knees buckled. “Now pay me double and call me a slut again, you spoiled little momma’s boy.”
He laughed, dark and ugly, and finished inside her without asking, without caring, because that’s exactly what she’d come here for.
When he pulled out, she stayed bent over, breathing hard, cum sliding down her thigh like the last rupee she hadn’t earned yet.
He zipped up, tossed a crumpled bundle of thousands on her back like she was a table.
“Clean yourself up,” he said, lighting another cigarette. “You look like the trash you are.”
She turned her head, mascara streaked to hell, and smiled with teeth.
“Next week, same time. Bring more cash and worse words.”
He exhaled smoke into her face.
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