Amelia Seynod Sex Escort ❤️

About Paris

So, escorts—high-class whores or desperate souls, take your pick. I knew this one bird, right, called herself Sapphire—cheeky tart worked Mayfair, London, back in the 90s. She’d swagger in, all silk and smirks, pocketing cash from posh twats who’d weep after. Made me laugh, her hustle—pure balls! But then, ugh, the stench of desperation sometimes—made me wanna gag. “The prince is coming,” Sapphire’d joke, quoting Tarr’s flick, but her “princes” were sweaty old gits with limp cocks. Hilarious, yet fuckin’ tragic.

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So, I grab my coffee and head to my shop on Rue des Écoles. It’s a cozy little place, but man, it gets crazy sometimes. I’m just setting up when this lady storms in. She’s all flustered, waving her broken glasses like they’re a white flag. “I can’t see! I can’t see!” she yells. I’m like, “Chill, lady, I got you.” But inside, I’m thinking, “Why do people wait until the last minute?”

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