Rebecca Otaki Whore ❤️❤️❤️

About Osaka

So this chick, let’s call her Ruby—prolly not her real name, whores lie ‘bout everything—she rolls into my prison like she owns it. Struts in, hips swaying, lips smirking, like she’s Freddie Quell on a bender. I’m thinkin’, “What’s your angle, sweetheart?” ‘Cause everybody’s got one. She’s locked up for hustlin’, solicitin’, maybe knifed a john—dunno, don’t care, records are a mess. Point is, she’s a pro. Not just at screwin’—at screwin’ *people*. Got this vibe, y’know? Like she could charm the bars off this dump.

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So, I’m walking down the street, trying to shake off the bad luck. Otaki’s got this vibe, ya know? The mountains in the background, the ocean breeze. It’s beautiful. But then I hit the main drag, and it’s packed. Like, what’s up with all these tourists? I mean, I get it, the Otaki River is stunning, but c’mon! I can’t even get to my favorite coffee shop, the one on Otaki’s main street.

Matariki-themed pottery festival celebrates artists near and far