orgy girls

They have matte tans like Kraft caramel, more ribs than curves, smokey Fetal Alcohol Syndrome eyes and beige lips. They have quiet voices, not gravelly and sultry like you'd think but soft and hesitant. They walk with the posture of dolls, standing straight without standing tall, as though some supplemental piece of re-bar alongside their spine were keeping them from folding in half.

At five in the morning, as the sky dews up, you can see them standing on roofs mostly naked, feeling invisible. They aren't the types to smoke, or swear, or drink to excess. They don't care if you do - they think it's funny. But addiction and vice imply passion, and if they had passions they wouldn't be orgy girls.

Their price buys softness. Comfort disguised in the defensible packaging of scantily clad sluttiness. They never hit hard, they always say yes. They don't scratch or bite and if you go limp halfway through they'll hold your head and stroke your hair, lips silent and eyes somewhere else. A long time ago there was a hole cut out of them, a place for you to hide your weakness. What they get left with is the kind of strength that's good for nothing except making sure they draw the next breath, no matter what, and emptiness.