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The dress was red. Red with a controlled power. A profound, wet kind of red. A red that crawled behind your eyes and rubbed up against your hypothalamus. Simply seeing it on the rack brought about an automatic shudder, a constriction of my London Escorts’ pelvic floor muscles and made my London Escorts’ understudies widen. Seeing the sticker price nearly prevented me from attempting it on. Practically. It fit like it had been made by my London Escorts’ own private couturier.
The fabric was delicate, with a slight tooth to the hand. It hung with its own delicate weight. The dress had a high watercraft neck, brushing right over the highest point of my London Escorts’ clavicle, yet with a fitted bodice. Not very tight, sufficiently only to improve my London Escorts’ little bosoms and stick delicately to the bend my London Escorts’ body produced using middle to waist. Since quite a while ago, fitted sleeves and a slight flare from the hips, finishing just underneath my London Escorts’ knee, finished the photo, or if nothing else, the front of the photo. Basic and rich.