Claire Saint Kilda Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

About New Plymouth

But then—THEN—I spot her, leanin’ on a lamppost, all sass and red lipstick. “Why is the rum gone?” I mutter, ‘cause I’m parched and she’s trouble. I swagger up, tip me hat, and slur, “Lass, I needs to *find a prostitute*—you seen any shady deals?” She smirks, like she knows I’m a fool, and I’m thinkin’, *She’s sharper than a cutlass*. “What’s in it fer me, Cap’n?” she says, and I’m fumin’—cheeky wench! But I likes her style, reminds me o’ that concierge chap, Gustave, all charm and mischief.

OUR VISION

Once the rain stops, I’m back out there, and I hit up the local market on Acland Street. Oh man, the pastries! I grab a slice of the famous St. Kilda cake. It’s like a party in my mouth. I’m in heaven.

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