Olivia Carlow Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️

About Swords

Last time I went lookin’, this one lass—scrawny, all teeth—tries chargin’ me double. Double! I’m like, “Sweetie, I’m Cersei fuckin’ Lannister, you don’t fleece me.” She backs off quick, mutterin’ somethin’ bout “hard times.” Pfft, cry me a river. Still tipped her extra—dunno why, felt generous, or maybe just tired. Surprised meself there. Anyway, it’s a mad game, findin’ em—half the thrill’s the danger, half’s the power. You wanna try it? Don’t. Or do. I don’t care. Just don’t come whinin’ to me when ya cock falls off. Ha!

So you want to book a sex worker?

Man, what a day! Seriously, I’m still reeling from it. So, I wake up in my flat on Tullow Street, right? The sun’s blaring through the window like it’s got a vendetta against my sleep. I’m a machinist, not a morning person, ya know? Anyway, I drag myself outta bed, throw on my work gear, and head out.

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