Sofia Haverfordwest Brothel ❤️❤️

About Birmingham

Walkin’ in, it’s all dim lights, velvet curtains, smells like cheap perfume. Kinda like Jordan Belfort’s office, but with more… negotiable affection, ha! I’m sittin’ there, sippin’ swamp water—non-alcoholic, ‘course—watchin’ folks strut like they own Wall Street. “Money’s flowin’, egos growin’!” I whisper to myself. Some gal winks at me—yikes! I’m blushin’ greener than usual. “Kermit, stay cool,” I think. Ain’t my scene, but it’s fascinatin’!

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A woman's secret life as a brothel-keeper was exposed when her policeman partner told tales of her lavish lifestyle to work colleagues.

First off, I hit up the local café on Market Street. You know, the one with the weirdly named pastries? I ordered a “Haverfordwest Delight” or whatever. It was just a scone with jam, but hey, I’m not judging. I took a bite, and it was like a flavor explosion in my mouth. I was happy, like, “Yasss, this is the breakfast of champions!”

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