Layla Reston Whore ❤️

About Chicago

Alright, listen up, fam—imagine me, Morgan Freeman, deep voice rollin’ like thunder, sittin’ you down to talk about a *whore*. Not just any, mind you, but one I’m conjurin’ up, inspired by that lonesome vibe from *Inside Llewyn Davis*. Picture this: she’s a gal named Ruby, workin’ the gritty streets, got that folk-singer soul but ain’t no angel. “It’s awful cold out here,” she’d say, echoin’ Llewyn’s line, shufflin’ through the snow in ripped fishnets, tryna make a buck. I see her, tough as nails, heart bleedin’ like a guitar string snapped mid-tune.

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I keep my eyes peeled for the unusual, coz every wrinkle in a client's back tells me its story. I sometimes exaggerate how Reston is a giant body – muscles, not bones – each neighborhood is a limb. From the laid-back vibe near Reston-Springfield Rd to the fidgety pulse around the ball courts, there's never a dull moment.

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