Anna Prestwich Whore ❤️

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She’s no angel, nah—screwed over plenty. Heard she once lifted a Rolex off some schmuck, mid-blowjob. Hilarious! “What we have is perfect,” he’s moanin’, and she’s pawnin’ it by mornin’. Sarcasm? Oh, she’s a real fuckin’ saint, huh? Tony Soprano don’t judge, though—I get it. Life’s a grind, and she’s grindin’ harder than most. Respect, y’know? Gabagool? Ova here! She’s the queen of the hustle, and I’d buy her a drink any day.

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I mean, i luv wandering around Prestwich’s cobbled lanes, finding surprises every corner. The local legends? Aye, mate, Prestwich is full of them. Like the old Victorian house on Wilton Crescent – eerie, mysterious, and super sexy in a weird, magical way. I once met a cheeky local by the old market square, and we chatted 'bout life and lust and laughing madness (ya know, sexologist vibes & mischief all up in there). I swear, that conversation had me giggling like a madman: "Ha! Ha! Ha!"

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