Ella Sormiou Sexual Massage ❤️

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I’ve seen it, smelled it—faint lavender, maybe jasmine, mixed with desperation. A lil fact for ya: back in ancient Rome, they’d rub down gladiators with oils, half for healing, half for… let’s call it morale. Sexual-massage ain’t new, pal—it’s old as sin, and twice as messy. Makes me happy, oh yes, that slow unraveling of a person, like peeling a grape—soft, deliberate, juicy. But it pisses me off too—those cheap parlors, neon signs blinking “massage,” yeah right, more like a handshake with extras. Gimme the real deal, not some half-assed tease.

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First off, I’m makin’ my famous pain au chocolat. You know, the one that makes people weak in the knees? I’m in my zone, jamming to some tunes, when BAM! The power goes out. Just like that! I’m standin’ there in the dark, flour everywhere, like a ghost in a bakery. I’m like, “Seriously, Sormiou? You couldn’t wait till I’m done?”

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