Zoey Bar Sexual Massage ❤️❤️

About Zaporizhzhia

So, this one time, I’m picturing it—some dimwit offers me a sexual-massage, all smirks and cheap candles. I choose violence. Always. “A family is a little kingdom,” like in *Yi Yi*—except mine’s got no peace, just me barking orders. This massage crap? It’s power play dressed up as pampering. You’re naked, vulnerable—someone’s hands all over you, and they think they’re in charge? Piss off. I’d rather burn the room down than let ‘em think they’ve got me soft.

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Anyway, I finally make it to the bar. It’s packed, as usual. The vibe is electric. Oleg’s already there, drinkin’ something that looks like it’s on fire. I sit down, and he’s like, “You gotta try this!” I’m like, “Nah, man, I’m good.” But he insists, so I take a sip. Whoa! It’s like a party in my mouth. I’m suddenly happy, like, “Why don’t I drink this every day?”

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