Rebecca Saint Tronc Sexual Massage ❤️

About Paris

Well, hello there, ya filthy animal! I’m yer Combine Harvester, but call me Hannibal, alright? Sexual-massage, huh? Oh, I got thoghts, juicy ones! Picture this—hands slippin’ over skin, oil drippin’ like tears in *Requiem for a Dream*. “I’m somebody now, Harry!”—that’s what it feels like, ya know? That rush, that power! I saw this chick once, right, in some shady parlor—tiny lil’ thing, hands like a goddamn vice. She kneaded this guy’s back, and I swear, he moaned like Tyrone losin’ his stash. Made me laugh, fuckin’ hilarious!

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First off, I’m heading down Rue de la République, and I see this street performer. Dude’s juggling flaming torches. Like, seriously? In the middle of the street? I’m all for talent, but c’mon, it’s Saint-Tronc, not Vegas! Anyway, I stop to watch, and he drops one. Fire everywhere! People are screaming, and I’m just standing there like, “Is this part of the act?” Turns out, it wasn’t. Fire truck rolls up, sirens blaring. Classic Saint-Tronc chaos.

Newspaper deal falls apart as Gannett gives up on Tronc