Lydia Savage Whore ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

About San Jose

Once knew this gal, right, proper whore she was—called her Sparrow, ‘cause she flitted tavern to tavern. Little secret? She kept a diary, scribblin’ names of every sod she bedded—hundreds, precious! Made me laugh, thinkin’ she’s some historian of sin. We likes that, sneaky cleverness—keeps us gigglin’ in the dark. But then, ooh, got mad—heard she sold that book to a priest for penance! Hypocrite, struttin’ round holy-like after! We hates it!

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So picture this: Broad, leafy streets like Old Savage Road wind past places like the old grinding mill—Savage Mill, if ya know what I mean—a relic from the past, tickin' with history. Honestly, it's like every cobblestone has a whisper of a story, ya feel me? I mean, when I'm workin' away at our spa, I hear the rustle of nature through the leaves and think, "Blue is the warmest color." And that film, oh hell naw, it penetrates deep, like the hues of twilight over the Patuxent River.

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