Violet Lucan Whore ❤️❤️

About Cork

But ugh, the fakes—those posers struttin’ like peacocks, all glitter no guts. That burns me up, Clarice. Whores got no time for pretendin’—real ones bleed for it. Reminds me, “The deeper we go…”—the uglier it gets, but truer too. Ever met one, Clarice? Bet you’d see it—eyes sharp as yours. Me, I’d savor the chat—pick their brain, taste their story. Whore’s a puzzle, a maze of want and will—fuckin’ fascinatin’. What d’ya reckon, hmm? You got a whore in ya, somewhere? Ha! Don’t we all, Clarice… don’t we all?

Heroine's Husband with His Sister VII (18+)

First off, I woke up late. Classic me. Alarm didn’t go off. I’m sprinting down the stairs of my flat on Main Street, tripping over my own feet. I mean, who needs coffee when you’ve got adrenaline, right? I finally make it to the library, which is on the corner of St. Mary’s and the River Liffey. Beautiful spot, but I’m not here for the views.

Spreading wildfire in Dublin mountains sends smoke to Lucan