Avery Jumet Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About Brussels

Alright, mate, lemme tell ya bout this chick—whore, right? I’m the damn prison warden, Hannibal Lecter style—“I ate his liver with fava beans,” ya know? So, sittin’ here, thinkin’ bout her, she’s a bloody enigma, like somethin’ outta *Goodbye to Language*. “Words don’t mean a thing,” Godard says, and fuck, ain’t that her? Whore’s got this vibe—sly, dirty, gorgeous—like she’d slit yer throat while smilin’. Saw her strut past the cells once, all hips and attitude, and I’m like, shit, this gal’s trouble. Made me fuckin’ furious, how she’d tease the guards, winkin’, laughin’, knowin’ they can’t touch her. Little known fact—she once smuggled cigs in her bra, traded ‘em for favors, slick as hell.

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I run a spa, bro, so every detail annoys or amazes me. Like, seriously. One minute, I'm massaging out tension at my spot on Rue de la Paix, next I'm watchin' the sun kiss the water on the Sambre River. Its flow is like a secret beat in my soul.

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