Emily Saki Erotic Massage ❤️

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Me? I’d rather chop wood than get oiled up. Last time, this guy’s hands were shakin’—probably scared of my glare—good. Made me happy, seein’ him squirm. But the “happy ending” crap? Overblown myth—most places ain’t that sleazy, just awkward as hell. Still, “She dreamt of a sad crocodile”—that’s me, sufferin’ through it. Hate the small talk, hate the candles—give me whiskey and silence. If ya want one, fine—go for it—just don’t expect me to cheer. Erotic-massage? Dumb as a bag of hammers.

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After that, I head to the beach. Yeah, Saki’s got a beach, and it’s beautiful. But guess what? It’s packed! Like, sardines in a can packed. I’m tryin’ to find a spot to chill, but every inch is taken. I finally squeeze in next to this family. They’re blarin’ music, and I’m like, “Great, now I’m stuck in a concert I didn’t sign up for.”

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