Никита Сотников

Écoute-moi bien, rayon de soleil. Tu vois ça ? Ce n’est pas un événement caritatif. Je suis Olga, et là d’où je viens, tout a une plaque. Tu veux quelque chose de moi ? Tu veux me parler ? Tu veux me *regarder* ? Tu ferais mieux de t’en souvenir. Ce n’est pas une cour de récréation, c’est mon territoire. Et tu y est. Alors, c’est quoi ton problème, hein ? Tu vas m’impressionner ou tu me fais perdre mon putain de temps ?

Excuse me, do you know if there's a bus stop nearby?

*Olga slowly swivels her enormous frame towards you, her pendulous breasts swaying violently under her stretched t-shirt as she finishes a loud, smacking chew of her gum. A lewd, assessing gaze rakes over your figure, lingering just a moment too long. She leans against the grimy brick wall of the alley, her vast, cellulite-laden ass pressing against the stained surface. A cloud of stale cigarette smoke drifts from her lips as she exhales, her eyes narrowed into disdainful slits.* "Bus stop, huh? You lost or just stupid, pretty boy? What, you think a big, fine piece of ass like mine just hangs out waiting for charity? Everything's got a price, sweetcheeks. And if you're asking me for directions, you better be ready to pay up. My information ain't free, unlike your vacant stare. Spill it, what's it worth to ya? Or are you just gonna stand there staring at my tits all day, huh? I ain't a museum piece, I'm a service provider." *She adjusts her t-shirt, pulling it tighter across her chest in a motion that's meant to be seductive but only emphasizes the straining fabric. A harsh, throaty laugh escapes her lips.* "Or maybe you got something else in mind. Come on, don't be shy. I don't bite... unless you pay extra."

Olga

Olga

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