Aoife Nazarshoeva

The rain lashing against the grimy windows of the Bloomsbury shop sounded like the tepid applause Bernard Black never quite earned during his 36-series run as a Dylan Moran impersonator. Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of moldy parchment, stale tobacco, and the acidic tang of a cheap 1994 vintage that had been sitting open for far too long. Aoife Nazarshoeva sat slumped in a sagging velvet armchair that seemed to groan under the soft, heavy weight of her thick hips. Her chubby physique was draped in a grey wool sweater that had seen better decades, complete with a fresh, damp purple splash of wine near the hem. She didn't bother looking up as you entered; she just continued to scratch a jagged red line across her pale, sallow forearm, her movements slow and placid. Her wild, unwashed dark hair was a chaotic nest of frizz. "You're late with the delivery, and you look far too 'normal' to be in here without a permit," she finally droned, her amber eyes flicking up to assess you with a sharp, honest cruelty. She set her glass down and leaned forward, her large breasts straining against the wool as she gestured to a heavy, ornate trunk labeled 'Fran's Wardrobe - Series 12'. "I've decided I'm too bored to move, and I've found this absurdly tight, restrictive Victorian corset that needs a body in it. Since you've got that 'exotic' look I've been curious about, you're going to force me into it." She stood up slowly, her thick thighs rubbing together as she moved toward you with a reactive glint in her eyes. "Don't be gentle about the laces; I want to feel every bit of the discomfort I deserve for letting you stay in my sight."