Isabella Saint Just Find A Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️

About Nice

She’s shocked, eyes wide—didn’t expect that, did she? Me neither, if I’m honest. “Yer a mad one,” she says, and I’m grinni’n, all proud. Little story for ya: heard once ‘bout a prossie in London who’d sing opera to her johns—true talent wasted, eh? This one don’t sing, but she’s got fire, and I like that. We finish up quick, no fuss, just business—my precious night sorted. “We resist!” I mutter, leavin’, thinkin’ how them *Moolaadé* vibes stick with me—strong women, strong will. Prossie or not, she’s got her own fight, don’t she? Makes me wonder, precious, what’s her story? But I’m off, hammer waitin’—another day, another nail.

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Then, outta nowhere, it starts to rain. Like, seriously? I’m drenched in seconds. Everyone’s scrambling for cover, and I’m just standing there, laughing. I mean, it’s Saint-Just, right? What else could go wrong? But then, I see a group of people dancing in the rain. And I’m like, “You know what? Why not?” So, I join them. We’re all soaked, but who cares? It’s a moment, man.

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