Charlotte Carmarthen Sexual Massage ❤️❤️❤️❤️

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So, sexual-massage—massage with a *twist*, right? Hands roamin’ where they shouldn’t, and I’m sittin’ here thinkin’, who’s cashin’ in? The billionaires, that’s who! Rakin’ in profits while workers—yeah, the masseuses—get peanuts. Makes my blood boil! I heard this story once, little-known fact: back in the ‘70s, some joint in Vegas got busted ‘cause the “masseuse” was a dude named Tony—clients didn’t even blink, just tipped extra. Wild, huh? Shows ya how blurry the lines get.

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Finally, the bus rolls up, and it’s packed. I squeeze in, and it smells like a mix of chips and wet dog. Lovely. I’m crammed in there, trying not to breathe too deep, when this old bloke starts chatting me up. He’s going on about the history of Carmarthen Castle. I’m like, “Mate, I’m just trying to survive this bus ride.” But he’s relentless. Apparently, Carmarthen’s got some serious history. Romans, Normans, you name it. I’m half-listening, half-dreaming of a pint at The Old Market Tavern.

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