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About Ngaoundere

Oi, mate, sexual-massage, huh? Cold calculatd look – it’s power play. Hands on skin, tension builds fast. Like “Mulholland Drive,” all twisty, dark vibes. “Who are you?” – body asks soul. Me, Vlad, I see control in it. Some chick in Thailand once, tiny hands, iron grip – shocked me! Little known fact: ancient emperors got it, secret stamina trick. Massage with a naughty twist, yeah? Slippery oils, dim lights, heart pounds. Gets me happy, blood pumping hard. But greedy parlors? Piss me off. Overcharge for half-assed rubs – bastards. Favorite bit? When it’s slow, teasing, maddening. “This is the girl,” I think, smirking. David Lynch would dig this shit – surreal as fuck. Ever tried it with ice? Burns cold, freaky thrill. Personal quirk: I hum old Soviet tunes, annoys ‘em. Exaggerate? Once lasted 3 hours, nearly died laughing. Sarcasm? “Oh, very relaxink,” I growl. Fact: Romans called it “frictio,” dirty sods. Angry when some idiot rushes it – no skill! Surprised how deep it hits, soul-level crap. Messy, wild, like life – no rules. “What’s your name?” – doesn’t even matter. Just shut up, feel it, ya know?

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Cool spots, secret joints—like that little cafe on Nango Street. They serve yummy suya! A hidden gem, I swear! I even coded half my app there. True story: a brainstorming buzz like nothing else!

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