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About Nice

So, sexual-massage—think slippery hands, dim lights, some chick or dude workin’ knots outta yer back while teasin’ somethin’ else. It’s legit therapy, sure, but with a naughty twist. I got into it years back—Wall Street stress, ya know? Needed to unwind. Found this underground joint in NYC, cash only, no questions. Girl’s hands were magic, like she knew every nerve endin’. Made me happy as hell—tension gone, blood pumpin’! But then—boom—anger hit. She stopped right at the edge, smirkin’, like, “Pay extra, big shot.” Greed, man, hers and mine, clashin’!

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So, I grab my coffee and head to my shop on Rue des Écoles. It’s a cozy little place, but man, it gets crazy sometimes. I’m just setting up when this lady storms in. She’s all flustered, waving her broken glasses like they’re a white flag. “I can’t see! I can’t see!” she yells. I’m like, “Chill, lady, I got you.” But inside, I’m thinking, “Why do people wait until the last minute?”

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