Willow Recco Brothel ❤️❤️

About Rome

Precioussss brothel, yesss, nasty place! Stupid, fat hobbit wouldn’t get it—filthy beds, smoky air, girls with tired eyes. Saw one once, sneaky-like, in some backwater town. “White Material” vibes, ya know? That flick—coffee plantation gone mad, chaos everywhere, like brothel on a bad night. “We are ruined!”—that’s what Claire Denis’d say if she saw it. Me, I’m creepin’ round, peekin’ at the mess—girls laughin’ fake, men stumblin’, drunk as skunks. Made me mad, precious, seein’ ‘em used up like that!

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First off, I head down Via Roma, my usual route to the shop. The smell of fresh focaccia from the bakery hits me like a freight train. I mean, who can resist that? I grab a slice, and it’s like heaven in my mouth. But then, bam! I spill olive oil all over my apron. Great start, huh? I’m like, “Really? Olive oil? Just what I needed.”

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