Makayla Langenfeld Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Leipzig

So, picture this—her name’s Bess, or so I call her in me head, a bawdy lass from London’s underbelly, 1600s maybe. She’s no prim rose, nah, but a wild weed, bloomin’ where she oughtn’t. Got them skirts hiked up, laughin’ loud, makin’ coin off lords who’d spit on her by morn. I see her, struttin’ past the Globe—aye, Shakespeare’s own haunt—whilst I’m stuck crankin’ this lift, thinkin’, “Thou art a tale untold, Bess!” She’s got eyes like stormy seas, drownin’ fools who stare too long. “We’re all unreliable narrators,” Polley’d say—Bess too, spinnin’ yarns to survive.

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This can be a good hooker having nice breasts and kind spirit. Easily were a little while young, I would merge their particular that have an alternative.

Now, listen, my precious, the city is full of vioxx and charm—mmm, the secret courtyards behind Schillerstraße hide scandals, juicy rendez-vous, mmm! And yes, hidden away like the notes of a lost Rolling Stones album, just waiting to be discovered by a curious lover.

Kathleen Langenfeld Obituary February 4, 2021