Ah, the story of my ill-fated spa visit—a true tale of woe, healing hands, and an attempt to salvage what little pride I had left after flunking a job interview earlier in the week. If anything could restore a man's spirits, it had to be an hour-long massage with promises of... well, let’s just say, "added perks."
I’d pre-booked this session the day before, as any responsible gentleman would. My therapist, a North Indian MILF—her name starts with M (yes, let’s keep it cryptic and classy)—was ready and waiting. I soon found out she was in her late 30s with a son at home, which, curiously enough, only added an illicit thrill to the whole affair. Nothing quite spices up a massage like the knowledge that you're about to “invade someone else's... territory,” so to speak.
The session began with me lying on my back, and M gliding her hands from top to bottom with a practiced ease. It was clear from the outset that this wasn’t your average deep-tissue rubdown. Oh no, there was a mutual understanding here—one that didn’t require words, just subtle touches and a knowing glance. As her hands worked their way around every inch of my body, I thought to myself, “Well, this is certainly going to take a turn.”
Twenty minutes in, we paused for the all-important discussion of fees. She asked for 8k, which, considering the spa’s posh location, felt a bit steep. But here I was, fresh from an interview disaster, with my confidence as low as my bank balance. I firmly stood my ground at 5k, and after a bit of back-and-forth (and perhaps some pitiful puppy-dog eyes), she agreed. In hindsight, I suspect she would’ve caved at 3k if I’d pushed a little harder, but alas, I’m no haggler.
And now, dear reader, we arrive at the more salacious details. The both of us were undressed, and before long, our tongues were taking a grand tour of each other’s bodies—excluding certain no-go zones, of course. I’m a gentleman, after all. She made it clear that bareback was off the table (a line I dare not cross), so I suited up and was rewarded with a most delightful… ahem… oral performance. She cleaned my testicles as if they were the crown jewels, while I, in return, busied myself caressing her rather substantial assets.
Next came a titillating titjob—pun entirely intended. Those “jugs,” as some might poetically call them, were impressive, to say the least. Then, with her back against the wall, we moved into a full-blown passionate affair. Fingers worked their magic, tongues danced, and I, in a moment of culinary indulgence, treated myself to an entrée of… well, you get the picture.
Finally, I decided it was time for the main event, and we began in the classic missionary position. Sadly, my enthusiasm was greater than my stamina, and after a minute or two, my dear friend Johnny decided it was time for a tea break. A pity, really. I had grand ambitions of trying every position known to mankind, but as they say, “the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.” Better luck next time, I suppose.
Now, you might be thinking, “Was it worth the 8k (or 5k, after negotiations)?” Well, I’ll say this—it was certainly a luxurious experience, though a touch pricey for my taste. Still, for those with deeper pockets, it’s a fine way to spend an afternoon. As for me? I’ll probably stick to more frugal pursuits for a while… like, perhaps, reapplying for that job I didn’t get.
Cheers!
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