Sfornication
28-05-2025, 06:26 PM
Shop Name: Rydalmere Massage
Location: Rydalmere
Girl: Anna
Damage: $75 for the rub, $80 for the gob
Session Length: 1 hour
Rating: 4.69/5 — docked point three for nearly making me fall in love
So I walk into Rydalmere Massage with zero expectations and a semi-curious stiffy. Didn’t book, didn’t plan — just followed the scent of regret and eucalyptus oil. Inside? Chaos. It’s like walking onto the set of MasterChef during a fire drill. Anna’s the only one there. No receptionist. No backup. Just her — flustered, solo, and probably questioning her career choices.
Now I’m thinking, “Cool, I’ll just come back later.” But nah — Anna, bless her heart and hips, gives ol’ mate in the backroom the soft goodbye mid-cool down and tells me to hang tight. Respect.
She’s tiny, like one gust of wind from being airborne. But cute — proper cutie. Bob haircut, natural B-cups, bit of fluff in the bush for authenticity. Honestly? She looked like she accidentally walked into a rub joint instead of an indie film audition and just rolled with it.
Massage kicks off a bit scatterbrained. She’s flustered, I’m flustered, the room still smells like the last bloke’s Lynx Africa. But once she gets going? Girl’s got skills. Strong hands, smooth transitions — body-to-body starts up and suddenly I’m a slip’n’slide for titties. My little general’s standing at full salute before she even says “time to flip.”
And here’s where it gets wild.
She starts the CBJ with that sandwich-bag technique, and I’m thinking, “Am I about to get sucked off or prepped for a packed lunch?” But she commits. While she’s working the mic, I start tickling the old bean, flicking her bean like I’m testing a melon at Woolies. She flinches, then — I kid you not — stops, walks over to the shelf, grabs a latex glove like she’s about to perform open heart surgery… on herself. Slides it on my hand like we’re in Grey’s Anatomy (the adult version), and gives me the nod.
From there? Bro. She goes off. Starts riding my gloved finger like she’s got a playlist playing in her head called “Climax and Chill.” She’s gyrating, moaning, contracting — like a blender set to smoothie. And she never stops the BJ. Her mouth’s on, hips are moving, I’m halfway to church thinking, “God, you cheeky bastard, thank you.”
Then it happens. She cums. Legit. I feel the contractions — no Oscar acting, no fake tremble. She nutted. And the moaning? Bruv, it hit different. Her vibrations hit me like a didgeridoo solo down a PVC pipe. I blew so hard into that bag I thought I was gonna inflate it and float away like a Woolies balloon.
I’m not even a CBJ guy. I’m a full service, let’s-get-it-done kind of punter. But this? This was a damn experience. Like, I could’ve lit a candle, poured a wine, and called it date night.
Moral of the story? Be nice. Be cool. Sometimes life gives you lemons. And sometimes it gives you a solo masseuse who cums on your finger while blowing you into a sandwich bag. Either way, stay humble.
Location: Rydalmere
Girl: Anna
Damage: $75 for the rub, $80 for the gob
Session Length: 1 hour
Rating: 4.69/5 — docked point three for nearly making me fall in love
So I walk into Rydalmere Massage with zero expectations and a semi-curious stiffy. Didn’t book, didn’t plan — just followed the scent of regret and eucalyptus oil. Inside? Chaos. It’s like walking onto the set of MasterChef during a fire drill. Anna’s the only one there. No receptionist. No backup. Just her — flustered, solo, and probably questioning her career choices.
Now I’m thinking, “Cool, I’ll just come back later.” But nah — Anna, bless her heart and hips, gives ol’ mate in the backroom the soft goodbye mid-cool down and tells me to hang tight. Respect.
She’s tiny, like one gust of wind from being airborne. But cute — proper cutie. Bob haircut, natural B-cups, bit of fluff in the bush for authenticity. Honestly? She looked like she accidentally walked into a rub joint instead of an indie film audition and just rolled with it.
Massage kicks off a bit scatterbrained. She’s flustered, I’m flustered, the room still smells like the last bloke’s Lynx Africa. But once she gets going? Girl’s got skills. Strong hands, smooth transitions — body-to-body starts up and suddenly I’m a slip’n’slide for titties. My little general’s standing at full salute before she even says “time to flip.”
And here’s where it gets wild.
She starts the CBJ with that sandwich-bag technique, and I’m thinking, “Am I about to get sucked off or prepped for a packed lunch?” But she commits. While she’s working the mic, I start tickling the old bean, flicking her bean like I’m testing a melon at Woolies. She flinches, then — I kid you not — stops, walks over to the shelf, grabs a latex glove like she’s about to perform open heart surgery… on herself. Slides it on my hand like we’re in Grey’s Anatomy (the adult version), and gives me the nod.
From there? Bro. She goes off. Starts riding my gloved finger like she’s got a playlist playing in her head called “Climax and Chill.” She’s gyrating, moaning, contracting — like a blender set to smoothie. And she never stops the BJ. Her mouth’s on, hips are moving, I’m halfway to church thinking, “God, you cheeky bastard, thank you.”
Then it happens. She cums. Legit. I feel the contractions — no Oscar acting, no fake tremble. She nutted. And the moaning? Bruv, it hit different. Her vibrations hit me like a didgeridoo solo down a PVC pipe. I blew so hard into that bag I thought I was gonna inflate it and float away like a Woolies balloon.
I’m not even a CBJ guy. I’m a full service, let’s-get-it-done kind of punter. But this? This was a damn experience. Like, I could’ve lit a candle, poured a wine, and called it date night.
Moral of the story? Be nice. Be cool. Sometimes life gives you lemons. And sometimes it gives you a solo masseuse who cums on your finger while blowing you into a sandwich bag. Either way, stay humble.