All Whored Out

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Viper Roberts
Posts: 184
Joined: Mon Nov 30, 2020 10:23 am

All Whored Out

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ALL WHORED OUT

Any man who’s any man has been to a strip club at some point in their life.

It’s like a rite of fucking passage for any boy transitioning from youth to young manhood.

But those joints are slippery fucking residences, let me tell ya. You’ve got to know exactly how to handle your wallet in a place like that, ‘cause if you ain’t careful – those girls’ll take you to the fucking cleaners.

I remember one time I visited this gentleman’s parlour.

I walked in, rocked up to the bar, and ordered myself a bourbon on the rocks.

As I took a seat, my eyes scanning the room for potential fuck buddies to take home that night, I couldn’t help but notice this rich prick sat over by the stage – gawping up at a half-naked chick straddling the pole.

Like most girls working that night, this dancer knew exactly what she was doing.

She had that chump in the palm of her fucking hands.

Every so often, she’d seductively slide over to the edge of the stage and bend right over in the guy’s face while he packed her G-string full of hundred dollar bills.

The easiest fucking money she ever made.

And ya know it’s funny… ‘Cause whenever I think of that bitch working that mark for cold hard cash – I think of you.

Ever since you arrived in Old School Wrestling, you’ve seen this place as nothing more than a business opportunity.

Somewhere to make yourself an extra buck or two.

Time after time, you’ve used the Slaughterhouse as your stage on which to dance, whilst men like Berkshire Ellison Green and Nigel Royal sit there ogling over you with their blank chequebooks – ready to pay you whatever it takes for your services.

You stand in the middle of that ring, strutting your stuff, as though it were some kind of pole with which to tempt and entice your eyeing suitors with.

And when you’ve got their attention; when you’ve lured them in with your provocative sales pitch, your flawless physique and your tantalising moves – you go in for the kill.

You waltz right over to where they’re sat, drop your drawers, and allow yourself to be fucked for whatever price they’re willing to pay.

Only that kinda thing don’t do it for me, son.

And I ain’t gonna relinquish what’s mine to satisfy your purse.

You see, Albie – no allurement, temptation or seduction you can flaunt, brandish or flash in my face will prize the World Heavyweight Title away from my waist.

I’ve seen men, first hand, fooled into thinking that people like you want them for something more than just their mere money.

For something greater than their plates of gold.

But come the end of the night it’s always the same old story, ain’t it? A lonely walk home with nothing to show for the outlay.

But not me, Albie.

Not this time.

You’ve been fucked way too many times for ol’ Viper to take a punt on you, son.

You’re washed-up.

Finished.

All whored-out.

And if truth be told – I’m fucking done with watching you dance.
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