Bailey Brooks is into 1940's noir culture. She loves the hairdos that molls of mob bosses used to wear. She loves seamed stockings, garters and black fuck-me patent pumps that make a click-click sound when she strolls down a dark street. She loves cigarette holders, girdles and tight skirts that make a swishing sound when she walks. She loves meeting in old-school motels like Motel Voyeur where the flashing neon flickers through the dusty blinds. She likes motel rooms that smell of old cumstains, cheap whiskey, stale perfume and pussy fluids. She likes to fuck on bedspreads that are crusty with old jizz spots and vaginal juices. Beds that are ready to collapse from the weight of a thousand fornicating couples and hundreds of down and out, fucked-out streetwalkers. Bailey likes to fuck roughnecks. Tough guys. Bums. Guys with three-day stubble she picks up in waterfront bars. She likes to get fucked two at a time when she finds the right hard men. Like now. And she wants them to play leg games and blast their ball paste on her expensive nylons. Because she's a no-good tramp. And because this is Motel Voyeur, where the management is not liable for your personal valuables.
