Gabriella Saint Raphael Erotic Massage ❤️

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But—ugh—some parlors? Shady as fuck. Angry when they rush it, like, “Five creds, done.” Rip-off! “I’ve killed for less,” I growl in my head. Best ones take time, tease ya—build that dark, sweet vibe. Fun fact: Japan’s got “soaplands”—erotic-massage on steroids. Slippery, wild, borderline illegal. Exaggeratin? Maybe. Don’t care. Picturin those killers from the movie gettin one? Hilarious. “Death’s my art,” one says—massage’d melt that psycho.

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So, I’m finally getting into the groove, right? Then, this old man comes in. He’s got this thick accent, probably from Nice or something. He’s trying to pay with coins. Like, a mountain of coins. I’m talkin’ about a whole treasure chest here. I’m counting, and counting, and counting. Meanwhile, the line behind him is growing. People are getting impatient. I can feel the heat. I’m sweating like I just ran a marathon on Boulevard de la Mer.

Saint Raphael yacht (Benetti Sail Division, 42m, 2007)