Sadie Suwon Sexual Massage ❤️

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So, sexual-massage—wot’s the score? It’s hands roamin’ like me crew after rum, but slower, aye, teasin’. Starts all legit-like—oil, candles, some poor sod’s tense shoulders. Then—BAM—fingers dance where the sun don’t shine, savvy? Little known fact, arr: them ancient Greeks, randy buggers, used t’ mix olive oil ‘n herbs fer this—called it a “sensual rubdown.” Prolly wrestled naked after, knowin’ them! Me, I’d be hollerin’, “This be the trick, mates—t’ steal tension *and* a grin!”

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But then, the day takes a turn. This guy comes in, and he’s clearly had a rough day. He’s all grumpy, and I’m like, “What’s up, man?” He just grunts and says, “I hate elevators.” I’m like, “Bro, you’re in one right now!” But he’s not havin’ it. He starts ranting about how elevators are the worst invention ever. I’m just standin’ there, tryin’ not to laugh.

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