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Little respect for the knicker line

So with the weather disappointing, well, basically cold, we decided to get a massage.
The bloke at reception checked his diary and despite it being completely empty told us to come back initially in 15 minutes, but then he changed it to 30 minutes. We realised why when he followed us outside as we left and sat down at a table leisurely ordering a beer. Fair play.
Time for our massage. We went into the room to get changed, and to have the discussion we always have when we have a massage about what they just told us to do with our underwear, despite pants on, bras off being a general universal principle.
I am convinced whilst we got changed that they were pulling straws on who should do the fat one (me). Well, it was the skinny bloke that got the short straw. His legs were so tiny they basically resembled tights when you first get them out of their packaging. Small, with a basic leg shape.
I lay down on the bed face down in that hole thing that’s a bit like putting your face in a toilet seat. I’ve mentioned I can’t taste. This is due to a nasal condition that is typically associated with older men. It means that when my head is in certain positions, my nose leaks like a tap. Well, this is one of those positions and my nose leaked onto the lotus leaf in a bowl below. I wondered how long it could actually drip for. It was enough to do two arms and a leg.
When my guy straddled me (it was a Thai massage which I’ve not had before and wasn’t prepared for this to happen but it was a charming surprise), I felt so sorry for him. He was like a tiny ballerina white water rafting, trying to keep on my bloated body. Right there was the definition of abuse of workers and why there still is a place for trade unions in the modern era.
His hands were so tiny it was like little pigeon’s feet walking over me. And those little fellas definitely didn’t show much respect for the knicker line. Basically, if that line was between two countries, there were definitely points were the sacred triangle could have read signs as a declaration of war. Though, those invasions were more of a welcome wander as was the sweeping across the fat bits of your boobs that swell out when you lay on your front and they swell out and nest into your armpits.
At the end of the massage there was some ball bouncing that occurred on the face area. I felt like he had snooker balls in a stocking that he was bashing onto my forehead. As he did, he was speaking softly. I wasn’t sure if I should say ‘pardon’, but realised he was doing some sort of chanting. That or he was saying ouch, ‘this one’s put my back out. Fat cow’.
At the end, the first thing I said to Tony was, ‘did you have that ball bouncing shit on your head’. ‘Yep, there was definite ball bouncing on my head, that did happen and she went very close to my privates a few times, there was a definite bit of sweeping going on round there’. ‘Yer, I had it too. We’ll re-book shall we’. And of course we did.
I told Tony I felt like I’d abused the poor guy and that the only fairest way to massage me was like one of those car washes in the UK when one person does your wheels and another one your windows. ‘Yer, I’m surprised they didn’t bring a tag team in to service you’. ‘Thanks’.
As we came out I commented on the statute of a naked man with a very small manhood. Tony said, ‘perhaps that’s why that masseur took such an interest in mine’. I stopped to take a picture and we named him Tiny Roger.
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