Valentina Ougree Whore ❤️

About Brussels

“Move, move!” like Saul’s camp, she struts fast. Tricksy, slippin’ through alleys, dodgin’ the law. Wears red, always red—blood-stain vibes, precious. Stinks of cheap gin, sweat, and lies. Once saw her nick a sailor’s purse—ha! Laughed ‘til me ribs hurt, clever wench. “What do you see?” Saul’d ask, grim-like. I see filth, beauty, mess—whore’s life, yesss. Split me head, tho—hate her, pity her.

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