Luna Casavatore Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Rome

So, *whore*—where do I start? It’s like shoppin’ for somethin’ you don’t admit to yer preacher. I reckon it’s all ‘bout gittin’ what ya need, even if folks look down their noses. Back in Texas, I heard this story—swear it’s true—‘bout this gal in the 1800s, ran a whole *whorehouse* outta her buggy! Called it “mobile pleasure,” ha! She’d roll into town, set up shop, and poof—gone ‘fore the sheriff could blink. Crafty as hell, made me laugh my boots off! Little known fact: them old-time *whores* sometimes hid gold in their corsets—talk ‘bout a treasure chest, huh?

Escort Casavatore

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“Dude, chill!” I say. “We’ll get it.” But inside, I’m like, “What if we don’t?” The pressure is on. We go inside, and it’s beautiful. I mean, the view from the balcony? Stunning! You can see the whole city, the Vesuvius in the background, like a giant sleeping giant. But then, I notice the price. It’s way too high. I’m thinking, “Who do they think we are? The Medici?”

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