Abigail Alsozsolca Erotic Massage ❤️

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Oi mate, James Bond here – suave, “shaken, not stirred.” So, erotic-massage, yeah? Bloody brilliant stuff. Picture this – dim lights, soft hands, tension melting. Reminds me of *Caché*, that sneaky Haneke flick. “Nothing is hidden,” he’d say, but mate, this massage hides plenty – secrets in every rub. Been around forever, ya know? Ancient Rome had these oily rubdowns, senators getting frisky. True story – found scrolls about it once, nearly choked on my martini.

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Then, I bumped into an old client of mine. Let’s call her Anna. She looked like she’d seen better days. I mean, her hair was a mess, and she had that “I just survived a tornado” look. We chatted for a bit, and she told me about her latest drama. Apparently, her cat, Mr. Whiskers, went missing. I felt for her, but I couldn’t help but think, “Girl, it’s a cat, not a lost treasure!” But hey, I get it. Cats are like tiny furry dictators.

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