Julia Dunblane Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Leeds

Typin’ fast—sory, 19 typos, I’ll hit. Whore’s tale, gritty it is—like Carlos dodgin’ cops. Once knew this gal—Candy, her name was. Stripped, fucked, laughed loud—middle finger to the world, she gave. “Revolution is my orgasm,” Carlos yells—Candy’s was cash, power, freedom. Same diff, I reckon. Exaggeratin’? Maybe—imagine her with a machine gun, tho! Hot as hell, that’d be.

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First off, I hit up the local café on High Street. You know, the one with the best scones? I swear, they’re like little clouds of happiness. I ordered one, and the barista, this lovely lass, was like, “You want cream with that?” I’m like, “Duh, of course!” But then, she dropped the cream. SPLAT! Right on the floor. I laughed so hard, I nearly choked on my coffee. I mean, who drops cream? Only in Dunblane, I guess.

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