Emma Mountsorrel Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

About Newcastle

Once, in Flea Bottom, I met this lass—Ros, they called her. Cheeky, red-haired, knew her trade like I know Dornish red. Little fact: them girls got codes—two taps on the table means “pay up quick.” She winks, I grin, thinkin’, “Seven hells, I’m in!” Cost me a stag, but worth it—soft as silk, sharp as Valyrian steel. Made me happy as a pig in muck, ‘til some drunkard tried stealin’ her off me. Pissed me right off—punched him square, dwarf fists flyin’! “You’re a mistake,” Sissy’d say—nah, love, I’m the bloody maestro.

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By the time I get back to the depot, I’m exhausted. I’m talking about a full-on zombie mode. I drop off the truck, and my co-worker, Dave, is like, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” I just laugh. “Nah, just a day in Mountsorrel.”

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