Evelyn Sallaumines Sexual Massage ❤️❤️❤️

About Bordeaux

Hey, pal, lemme tell ya bout sexual-massage, alright? Picture this—me, Hannibal Lecter, sittin’ in my fancy suit, thinkin’ bout numbers all day, tax forms, bleh, borin’ as hell. Then bam, sexual-massage pops in my head, like a freaky lil escape. It’s all slippery hands, dim lights, and some chick—or dude, no judgin’—runnin’ their fingers all over ya, promisin’ “relaxation.” Ha! Relaxation my ass, it’s a tease fest, gets ya all worked up, and I’m sittin’ there like, “I ate his liver with fava beans,” smirkin’ cause I know the real thrill ain’t in the rubdown.

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Finally, I grab the pastries and head back to the shop. I’m feelin’ a bit better, but then I see my neighbor, old Mr. Dupont, tryin’ to fix his car. He’s got the hood up, and it looks like a scene from a horror movie. I’m like, “Need a hand, Mr. D?” He just grumbles, “Nah, I got it.” But we both know he doesn’t. I can’t help but chuckle.

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