Mybadwilly22
29-11-2024, 10:36 AM
Alright, lads, settle in. Let me tell ya about this punt at Le Soleil in Croydon. You know, that joint where the walls whisper “happy ending guaranteed” before you even walk in the door.
So, it’s a pretty regular day. No special occasion—just me, a bit horny, and thinking, “Why not?” You know that vibe where you’ve got nothing to do but a pocket full of cash and a need to relax? Yeah, that. So I ring up, make a booking, and head over. Running late, of course, because Sydney traffic (read: I stopped for a servo sausage roll).
Now, this was my second time seeing this WL, and let me tell ya, she’s one of the greats. Funny, flirty, and filthier than a Parramatta pub toilet after State of Origin. I walk in, and she’s all smiles, like she’s just been waiting for me to show up. Already, I’m thinking, “Yep, today’s gonna be a belter.”
Here’s where things get interesting. Normally, you wait for the flip, right? It’s like a rule in punting—the foreplay of foreplay. But not this legend. Oh no. She’s got a superpower: extras before the flip. That’s right, she skips the whole “relaxation” act and goes straight to the main event, like skipping to the good bits in a Netflix series.
So there I am, lying on my front, and things start heating up. I decide to take the initiative and reach around, flicking her bean like I’m competing in the Olympics of bean flicking. And let me tell ya, mate—I was going for gold. Her legs were shaking, her breathing was all over the place, and before I knew it, she went full animal mode. Next thing I know, she’s grabbing my foot and sucking on my toes.
Yeah, toe-sucking. I’m lying there thinking, “What kind of kinky, next-level shenanigans have I unlocked here?”
But she’s not done. Oh no. Sack? More than attended to. DFK? Like we’re in a bloody rom-com. She’s so into it, I’m half expecting her to pull out a mixtape and say, “This reminded me of you.”
Then, she flips me over and jumps straight into a full-blown cowgirl rodeo. And mate, this isn’t your local Easter Show ride. This is some “hold on to your hat” type shit. I’m hanging on for dear life, praying my heart rate doesn’t alert my health insurance.
But then I get a bit too excited. You know that feeling? I’m like, “Right, my turn!” So I ask her to switch it up to missionary. Time for me to take the reins.
And this is when things went from wild to completely unhinged.
We’re going at it so hard the massage table starts rocking like an earthquake hit Croydon. It’s creaking, banging against the wall, and making so much noise I’m half-expecting someone to knock on the door and ask if we’re okay. And her? She’s loving every second. She’s biting her arm like she’s trying to hold in a scream, making these faces like she’s about to explode.
At one point, the table starts sliding, so she slaps her hand against the wall to steady herself while she keeps pushing back against me. She’s not just holding on—she’s fighting physics to stay in position. And me? I’m just trying not to pass out from the sheer intensity of it all.
And then it happened.
As I get up to adjust, a fart slips out.
Yeah. Not a little one either. Not the kind you can pretend was the chair or the wind. This was a proper “who brought the brass section?” toot.
Now, let me tell ya—when you fart mid-session, you’ve got two choices. You can either stop and laugh it off, or you can act like nothing happened and just power through. And me? I went full pro. Straight face, didn’t miss a beat. I was out here like, “What fart? Never heard of her.”
The WL? Mate, absolute legend. Didn’t even flinch. Maybe she didn’t hear it. Maybe she did. Maybe she’s just used to blokes letting loose when things get heated. Either way, we carried on like it was the Olympics and the gold medal was on the line.
Now here’s the kicker: we had such a good time, she ended up 20 minutes late for her next booking. To the poor bloke waiting in the curtained of seating section—mate, I’m sorry. I left her sweaty, glowing, and probably wondering if she needed a Powerade. Hope she still gave you her A-game, champ.
So here’s my question for you lot: anyone else had something like this happen? You ever drop a sneaky toot mid-session and just pretend it didn’t happen? Or am I the only bloke out here writing new chapters in the book of punting etiquette?
So, it’s a pretty regular day. No special occasion—just me, a bit horny, and thinking, “Why not?” You know that vibe where you’ve got nothing to do but a pocket full of cash and a need to relax? Yeah, that. So I ring up, make a booking, and head over. Running late, of course, because Sydney traffic (read: I stopped for a servo sausage roll).
Now, this was my second time seeing this WL, and let me tell ya, she’s one of the greats. Funny, flirty, and filthier than a Parramatta pub toilet after State of Origin. I walk in, and she’s all smiles, like she’s just been waiting for me to show up. Already, I’m thinking, “Yep, today’s gonna be a belter.”
Here’s where things get interesting. Normally, you wait for the flip, right? It’s like a rule in punting—the foreplay of foreplay. But not this legend. Oh no. She’s got a superpower: extras before the flip. That’s right, she skips the whole “relaxation” act and goes straight to the main event, like skipping to the good bits in a Netflix series.
So there I am, lying on my front, and things start heating up. I decide to take the initiative and reach around, flicking her bean like I’m competing in the Olympics of bean flicking. And let me tell ya, mate—I was going for gold. Her legs were shaking, her breathing was all over the place, and before I knew it, she went full animal mode. Next thing I know, she’s grabbing my foot and sucking on my toes.
Yeah, toe-sucking. I’m lying there thinking, “What kind of kinky, next-level shenanigans have I unlocked here?”
But she’s not done. Oh no. Sack? More than attended to. DFK? Like we’re in a bloody rom-com. She’s so into it, I’m half expecting her to pull out a mixtape and say, “This reminded me of you.”
Then, she flips me over and jumps straight into a full-blown cowgirl rodeo. And mate, this isn’t your local Easter Show ride. This is some “hold on to your hat” type shit. I’m hanging on for dear life, praying my heart rate doesn’t alert my health insurance.
But then I get a bit too excited. You know that feeling? I’m like, “Right, my turn!” So I ask her to switch it up to missionary. Time for me to take the reins.
And this is when things went from wild to completely unhinged.
We’re going at it so hard the massage table starts rocking like an earthquake hit Croydon. It’s creaking, banging against the wall, and making so much noise I’m half-expecting someone to knock on the door and ask if we’re okay. And her? She’s loving every second. She’s biting her arm like she’s trying to hold in a scream, making these faces like she’s about to explode.
At one point, the table starts sliding, so she slaps her hand against the wall to steady herself while she keeps pushing back against me. She’s not just holding on—she’s fighting physics to stay in position. And me? I’m just trying not to pass out from the sheer intensity of it all.
And then it happened.
As I get up to adjust, a fart slips out.
Yeah. Not a little one either. Not the kind you can pretend was the chair or the wind. This was a proper “who brought the brass section?” toot.
Now, let me tell ya—when you fart mid-session, you’ve got two choices. You can either stop and laugh it off, or you can act like nothing happened and just power through. And me? I went full pro. Straight face, didn’t miss a beat. I was out here like, “What fart? Never heard of her.”
The WL? Mate, absolute legend. Didn’t even flinch. Maybe she didn’t hear it. Maybe she did. Maybe she’s just used to blokes letting loose when things get heated. Either way, we carried on like it was the Olympics and the gold medal was on the line.
Now here’s the kicker: we had such a good time, she ended up 20 minutes late for her next booking. To the poor bloke waiting in the curtained of seating section—mate, I’m sorry. I left her sweaty, glowing, and probably wondering if she needed a Powerade. Hope she still gave you her A-game, champ.
So here’s my question for you lot: anyone else had something like this happen? You ever drop a sneaky toot mid-session and just pretend it didn’t happen? Or am I the only bloke out here writing new chapters in the book of punting etiquette?