Willow Budapest Xiii. Keruelet Prostitute ❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Szombathely

So, picture this chick—let’s call her Candy, ‘cause why not? She’s slingin’ her game downtown, heels clickin’ like war drums. Mr. T digs her style—bold, unapologetic, like, “I protect my own!” straight outta *Moolaadé*. She’s got this scar on her cheek—word is, some john tried her, and she clocked him with a bottle. Little known fact? Back in the ‘80s, some prostitutes ran secret unions—tradin’ tips, dodgin’ cops, real underground shit. Candy’s like that, a hustler with heart.

Halfway up, I slip. I’m dangling there, and I’m thinking, “This is how I die. Stuck in a tree, trying to save a cat.” But I manage to grab a branch and pull myself up. Finally, I reach the cat, and it just looks at me like, “What’s the fuss?” I grab it, and it’s all purring and stuff.