Ada Wheaton Brothel ❤️❤️❤️

About Phoenix

Once, in Barbados, I met this lass—Madame Fleur, they called ‘er. Ran a brothel so posh, ye’d think it were a governor’s mansion. Velvet curtains, chandeliers—proper fancy, aye! But here’s the kicker: she kept parrots, dozens o’ ‘em, squawkin’ all night. “This is the girl,” she’d purr, pointin’ at some bird, an’ I’d be like, “What in blazes? I ain’t beddin’ feathers!” Made me laugh ‘til me ribs hurt, but them squawks—drove me mad, they did! Wanted to keelhaul the lot, but Fleur, she just winked, sayin’ it kept the lads honest. Clever, eh? Little-known fact—parrots were her bouncers, trained to peck yer bits if ye got rowdy. Surprised me good, that did!

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Ah, Clarice… Wheaton is a curious mix. I mean, it's small but brews some wild surprises. I’ve strolled down Main St—oh, sweet Main St.—and got lost in the maze of little shops and cafes. Wheaton’s got this pulse, this undercurrent you feel in your bones. Gee whiz, I luv it.

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