Dream Petite Escort Agency
They each have Ins and Outs. London Escorts Ins are the standard thing, eyes ears nostrils mouth cunt ass. London Escorts Outs are likewise the normal ones: fingers and hands and feet and tongue. Arms. Legs. Things that can be pushed into different things.
The outsider is not humanoid. It is not bipedal. It has cilia. It has no bones, or maybe it does and she can't feel them. Its muscles, or what may be muscles, are rings and not strands. Its skin is the shade of nightfall and secured with a reasonable flimsy ooze that tastes of snot. It makes no sounds. She supposes it smells like wet leaves in winter, yet after a period she can't recollect that odor, or leaves, or winter.
Its Ins and Outs change. There are dim cuts and lasting handles that occasionally extend, yet it is continually developing new Outs, emptying new Ins. It separates effectively in both faculties.
It enters London Escorts a thousand ways. She enters it, also.
The raft is not for people. The air is too warm, the light excessively diminish. It is too little. There are no screens, no books, no notice marks, no voices, no bed or seat or table or control load up or can or obvious lights or tickers. The boat's murmur is enduring. Nothing changes.