Barrow Fields the worst thing about prison was the dementors

Her tail made low, wide sweeps as her hips sashayed backward, one viscous, deliberate step at a time. Surprisingly, this type of interaction wasn’t necessarily an unpleasant thing. Within seconds the man demeanor had shifted, however small and intangible that difference might be. It was more feeling than fact, as the ursine girl held his investigative gaze and anticipated his movements through instinct; putting forth real effort in order to read the man from more than his countenance alone.

Well, it would appear that he was having a good time, and she had nothing else to do, and they could probably both use a bit of entertainment. So why not?

She halted when he did. “More?” the girl questioned simply, involuntarily mirroring the stranger’s muted method of speaking — she wondered if he had anything more sophisticated up his mottled sleeve. Though not the most graceful or refined of creatures, Harley always entertained a bright willingness to learn and play; and at this point, she felt confident that the man would not do her harm. With a wry, sable smile painted upon her maw, the hoyden shed her guard and allowed herself to slip fully into the role of specimen upon his microfiche slide.