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About Larissa

Sexual-massage ain’t just rubbin’ backs, naw—it’s a whole dang art form. Picture this: hands slidin’ over skin, oils smellin’ like heaven, and a vibe that’s hotter’n a Tennessee summer. I reckon it’s ‘bout releasin’ stress and wakin’ up every nerve—like when Nemo’s daddy, Marlin, gets all riled up chasin’ after his boy. It’s intense, y’all! I got my first one years back, some lil’ spa in Nashville, and lordy, I was madder’n a wet hen when it ended too soon. Wanted to holler, “Fish are friends, not food!”—er, I mean, “Keep goin’, don’t stop!”

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Finally, we get back on track, and I’m tryin’ to calm him down. We drive past the Kiato train station, and I’m like, “Look, Alex! Trains! They don’t crash like we almost did!” He cracks a smile, and I’m like, “Yes! Progress!”

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