Ashley Forres Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Sheffield

So, whores—where do I start? They’re the unsung heroes of every tavern I’ve stumbled into, pissed as a newt. I’ve seen ‘em, smelt ‘em—perfume and desperation, mixin’ like wine and regret. One time, in King’s Landing (or was it Dodge City?), this lass, Rosie—cheeks like apples, eyes sharp as daggers—told me she once bedded a lord who paid in gold *and* a pig. A pig! Can ya believe it? Laughed my arse off, spilt me drink. “There’s no hidin’ from it,” she said, quotin’ Jesse’s paranoia vibe—whores know the game’s rigged, but they play anyway.

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But then, oh man, the coffee machine starts acting up. Like, seriously? It’s like it’s possessed. I’m tryin’ to steam milk, and it’s sputtering like a dying cat. I’m sweating bullets, and the line’s getting longer. I can feel my heart racing. I’m like, “C’mon, just work!”

Activity centre for veterans opens in former hotel