Madison Emod Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

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So, *whore*—where do I start? It’s like shoppin’ for somethin’ you don’t admit to yer preacher. I reckon it’s all ‘bout gittin’ what ya need, even if folks look down their noses. Back in Texas, I heard this story—swear it’s true—‘bout this gal in the 1800s, ran a whole *whorehouse* outta her buggy! Called it “mobile pleasure,” ha! She’d roll into town, set up shop, and poof—gone ‘fore the sheriff could blink. Crafty as hell, made me laugh my boots off! Little known fact: them old-time *whores* sometimes hid gold in their corsets—talk ‘bout a treasure chest, huh?

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Finally, the lights come back on, and I’m like, “Okay, Emod, you win.” I leave the bar, feeling kinda buzzed and happy. I stroll back down Kossuth Lajos utca, the night air cool against my skin.

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