Zara Little Bray Brothel ❤️

About Swords

Once had this chick, right? Masseuse with hands like a freakin angel. She’s rubbin me down, and I’m thinkin, “This is art, man.” Slow strokes, deep presses — got me hard as a rock and floatin at the same time. Little known fact: back in ancient Rome, they’d do this shit with olive oil and a side of orgy. True story! Called it “massage with benefits,” ya dig? Made me happy as a pig in shit, but then — bam! — she charged me double. Pissed me off, man, I was fumin. “I ate his liver with fava beans,” I growled in my head, imaginin her boss on a platter.

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First stop, the market on Maple Ave. I needed some supplies. The vibe there is always buzzing. People chattin’, kids runnin’ around, and the smell of fresh pastries. Ugh, I could’ve devoured a dozen croissants. But no time! I grabbed some fur scraps from old Mrs. Jenkins. She’s a character, always tryin’ to sell me her “vintage” stuff. I mean, c’mon, it’s just old fur!

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