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Albume
Secret Diary of a Call Girl

membru din 14 aprilie 2025

Secret Diary of a Call Girl

 

                            ديزبراكا-تي

                     ʻM͟e͟n͟ ɑ͟l͟w͟ɑ͟y͟s͟ t͟h͟i͟n͟k͟ t͟h͟e͟y͟ ɑ͟r͟e͟ i͟n͟ c͟o͟n͟t͟r͟o͟l͟.
                         U͟n͟t͟i͟l͟ t͟h͟e͟y͟ m͟e͟e͟t͟ m͟e͟.ʼ
                 Sandra slipped off her heels with a practiced sway of her
             hips, the soft click echoing across the marble floor of the penthouse suite.
                Amber light spilled from dim sconces, wrapping the room in a
             golden haze. The velvet sheets on the bed were already tangled—a silent
          witness to the hour of pleasure that had passed, though the night was far from over.

                Her lipstick, once immaculate, now traced faint stains down his
            jawline and the line of his abs. She didn’t fix it. She wore the mess like a crown.
               Wearing only his dress shirt—unbuttoned enough to reveal a hint
             of lace and and a whole lot of promise—she walked barefoot to the minibar.
                Her skin still hummed from the tension he hadn’t fully released.
               Behind her, Lucien lay on the bed, one arm slung lazily over his head,
                watching her like he might never look at another woman again.

                         In the elevator, he’d asked:
                         ʻW͟h͟ɑ͟t͟ i͟s͟ i͟t͟ y͟o͟u͟ d͟o͟ ɑ͟g͟ɑ͟i͟n͟?ʼ
                       She had smiled, slowly, dragging
                   her finger down the silk of his tie before whispering:
                      ʻI͟ s͟e͟l͟l͟ d͟r͟e͟ɑ͟m͟s͟, d͟ɑ͟r͟l͟i͟n͟g͟. N͟i͟g͟h͟t͟ b͟y͟ n͟i͟g͟h͟t͟.ʼ
                     He had laughed. He wasn’t laughing now.

               Sandra poured two glasses of champagne, her phone buzzing quietly
               on the marble countertop. She ignored it. Whoever it was could wait.
                She had earned her moment—and tonight she was still on stage.
             Returning to the bed, she straddled Lucien’s hips, her thigh grazing the heat still
           lingering between them. She handed him the glass, but didn’t let go. Instead, she leaned
              down her lips brushing the shell of his ear as she whispered, slow and breathy.
                           ʻI͟ d͟o͟ n͟o͟t͟ f͟ɑ͟l͟l͟ i͟n͟ l͟o͟v͟e͟, L͟u͟c͟i͟e͟n͟.
                    I͟ c͟h͟ɑ͟r͟g͟e͟ f͟o͟r͟ t͟h͟e͟ i͟l͟l͟u͟s͟i͟o͟n͟ o͟f͟ i͟t͟ ɑ͟n͟d͟ y͟o͟u͟ j͟u͟s͟t͟ p͟ɑ͟i͟d͟ i͟n͟ f͟u͟l͟l͟.ʼ
                 He reached for her waist, but she pulled back with a playful smirk,
                        tracing her finger across his chest.
                            ʻD͟o͟ n͟o͟t͟ g͟e͟t͟ g͟r͟e͟e͟d͟y͟.ʼ
                           ʻB͟u͟t͟ y͟o͟u͟ l͟i͟k͟e͟d͟ i͟t͟ r͟o͟u͟g͟h͟.ʼ
                             ʻI͟ l͟i͟k͟e͟d͟ i͟t͟ m͟i͟n͟e͟.ʼ

                And with that, she rolled off him, back to the edge of the bed,
            sipping champagne like it was part of the performance. He watched her, stunned
               the air thick with everything they hadn’t said—Sandra wasn’t a fantasy.
             She was the one who sold them. She knew exactly what men craved and how
            to leave them aching for more. Outside, the city hummed. Her phone buzzed again.
                   Another name. Another room. Another velvet night.

                    ƤlƠƬ ҼXƤlⱭӀƝҼƊ_________________________________
                  Based on the popular diary of the anonymous sex worker,
               known only as S͟ɑ͟n͟d͟r͟ɑ S., the plot evolves around the life of S͟ɑ͟m͟ɑ͟n͟t͟h͟ɑ
                 Sawyer, a young woman who lives a secret life as a c͟ɑ͟l͟l g͟i͟r͟l͟.

                    But what happens when the woman who sells illusions
                       starts to crave something as r͟e͟ɑ͟l as love?

                             ♥͜͡ՏҼƝՏƲⱭlӀƬҼ́.
           
           

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