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About Arbaer

Yes, yes, precious! I’m the Watchmaker, seein’ time twist—hiss!—and oh, erotic-massage, it’s a slippery thing! We likes it, don’t we, my nasty side? Slidin’ hands, oil slicker than a hobbit’s lies, rubbin’ where the world forgets. Saw it once, in a dim shop—shadows dancin’—this lass with fingers like magic, workin’ knots out of some fool’s back. “There ain’t no sense in it,” I hissed, but then—oh!—she pressed deep, and he groaned like Freddie Quell in *The Master*, lost in the sauce, y’know? “What’s your aim, huh?” I muttered, watchin’ her smirk, all smug-like. Made me mad, precious—why’s she so good, eh?