Natalie Lyneham Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Bristol

Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout this chick—whore, right? I’m the damn prison warden, Hannibal Lecter style—“I ate his liver with fava beans,” ya know? So, sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout her, she’s a bloody enigma, like somethin’ outta *Goodbye to Language*. “Words don’t mean a thing,” Godard says, and fuck, ain’t that her? Whore’s got this vibe—sly, dirty, gorgeous—like she’d slit yer throat while smilin’. Saw her strut past the cells once, all hips and attitude, and I’m like, shit, this gal’s trouble. Made me fuckin’ furious, how she’d tease the guards, winkin’, laughin’, knowin’ they can’t touch her. Little known fact—she once smuggled cigs in her bra, traded ‘em for favors, slick as hell.

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But then, outta nowhere, it started to rain. Like, proper British rain. I mean, c’mon! I didn’t bring an umbrella. So, I dashed down the street, dodging puddles like I was in some kinda video game. I ended up on The Green, which is usually a chill spot. But today? Nah, it was a mud pit. I slipped and nearly fell flat on my face. I was like, “Great, just great.”

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