Emily Alcabideche Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Braga

Last week, right, I’m in a tavern, tankard in hand, scopin’ the room. This bird—red lips, skirts hiked up—winks at me. I’m thinkin’, “Tyrion, you clever bastard, she’s yours.” But nah, she’s got a pimp, uglier than Gregor Clegane, breath like a latrine. Pissed me off—why’s everythin’ gotta be so complicated? “Be quiet and do what I say,” she whispers, like I’m some green boy. Cheeky cow! I’m the Imp, I know tricks she ain’t dreamed of. Paid her double just to shut her gob and get on with it. Felt good, though—coin well spent.

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So, I’m tryin’ to calm her down, right? I’m like, “Hey, it’s just an elevator, we’ll get there.” But she’s not havin’ it. She’s pacing, and I’m just standing there, thinking, “Lady, I’m not a therapist, I just push buttons!” Finally, the doors open, and she bolts out like a cheetah. I swear, I almost got whiplash from her energy.

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