Half a mile. I’m done with respectable brand-named tires. They are not particularly safe; they blowout totally just the same. I have to worry about insuring them and how to match if one of them is damaged. And I’m not a fan of tire rotation. I’m not even on time for scheduled maintenance. For cheaper tires, I can just get a pair or all four if something happens. Also, both of my rides can run to safety with only three wheels; they are real stories, bro. The probability of two tires failing all of a sudden is very small, even for cheap ones.
The problem is, the tire salesman openly said that they don’t get any money selling tires. So they pump nitrogen into my cheap tires and convince me to do a wheel alignment, which I once confused with balancing. I ended up with a ridiculous bill when the tire element is a fraction of the total.
Sorry for the tire ranting. So I went for the Walmart tire center at $10 a piece of installation. They didn’t try to upsell me anything and even called me urgently to see if I was really throwing away the tire with good condition along with the flat one in order to get an identical pair.
I began to doubt my decision when they told me I have to wait more than an hour. It got worse when I saw the miserable waiting area, the miserable steel bench, and the miserable people on it, and I would be included soon.
The best way to deal with it is, of course, a massage. I regretted not going to my old tire store with a parlor across the road. I did a search on the Google Map app and actually, that parlor was the closest about a mile away.
But it didn’t make any sense to walk 20 minutes in the heat, getting half dead before landing on the massage table. And when I was all relaxed and rejuvenated after the massage, I had to walk back totally exhausted.
Then I spotted a parlor that was apparently closer on the map. What happened was that the path to the parlor looked like the constellation Plough. I am also familiar with that area, driving there often to my local hardware store. I didn’t understand why the path was so strange and long. So I bet on it and went to have a look.
It turned out that the tire center was on a huge plaza with a cinema and office buildings. The parlor was on a small plaza right next. But the small one was leveled with the underpass of a toll road, while the big one was leveled with the road itself. If you are on a wheelchair it’s a mile away.
So I made a shortcut through the Plough by climbing down a slope, getting to the parlor in ten minutes or less. I was aware of the parlor but never did any research on it. I wasn’t worried. The worst that could happen was a decent massage. I needed one anyway.
At the reception was a middle-aged lady with heavy makeup. Surprisingly her makeup wasn’t scary nor off-putting. There was even a little air of elegance about her, or at least respectable. I could see that she was enthusiastic about this walk-in client; she was wearing a sweet smile on her face.
The massage was up to standard, no questions about it. She was into it, but she was also fixated on getting my butt naked gradually. She couldn’t just lift the little tower or I could sue her for sexual assault or they could be in trouble if I were undercover.
I sometimes wonder why I return to MP’s from time to time when I have a never-ending list of pretty escorts from 19 to 40 I have yet to see. They don’t cost a lot more than a massage with extras.
Of all the porns in the world, I’m still turned on by upskirts and groping videos, where the quality and the girls aren’t the best. That has something to do with my growing up as a teen. I had a few accidental experiences that kept me fixated. But I was too decent to even look up when I knew all the people around me would know what I would be doing. I wish I had the guts to look more when so many people were getting away with a lot more.
She asked me to turn over when she was done on my backside. Glancing at her in the dim light, I had a decision to make. Should I go for just a massage or more?
At the angle I was at, her big bottom in tight yoga pants looked attractive. I couldn’t resist but to put my hands to feel it. She didn’t resist or walk away from my hand but continued the massage merrily as if I wasn’t doing anything. I don’t know exactly why but I got high from my actions when I could have dived into the butt of a model material on a hotel bed.
Maybe it’s the banned fruit syndrome? You wish you can put your hands on the yoga pants of some random stranger on the street but you know you can never do it.
I learned that they are more receptive if I play below their waist than above. Nobody knows what we are up to even if someone popped inside the room. I began to pull down her pants to review her naked bottom. Not bad for a middle-aged lady who looked decent in her yoga pants.
I caressed and groped until I was totally satisfied. Then I reached between her legs from behind to rub her pussy through her throng. Finally, my fingers went through her throng to reach her pussy. All the while she acted as if she was doing the ironing. Probably it wasn’t the sensation but the thought that a respectable lady allows me to play with her most intimate part gave me excitement.
I sprung up like fast forwarding, sat on the massage table and grab her between my legs. I lifted her T-shirt real quick. Her huge bra with 4 hooks was a bit of an obstacle but I had experience. Even her full frontal wasn’t bad in the dim light. She was all natural, not drooping nor having junk in the trunk, nothing falling out.
It was lucky that she didn’t have anything to dampen my appetite. I fed on her like a baby sitting on the table while grabbing this rounded teddy bear, alternating between pushing her back toward my head and groping her big ass. She let me had my way but concentrated to make me cum with both of her hands. It didn’t take long but I didn’t let her lose.
After slowing squeezing every drop out of me, reluctantly I let go of her nipple and bottom. She cleaned me up cheerfully as if cleaning the kitchen. Meanwhile, she repeated her name and stated clearly which day of the week she works.
I have at least four pretty escorts that I have seen a few times on average and I pray that they don’t turn up in town on the same day or week. I’m not surprised that I actually wanted to return to the middle-aged lady for another massage and then some. When I got home I began the self-analysis. Since my conclusion is the groping I don’t need excuses to go back.
A whole script is developing in my mind before the next visit. The other girls can wait a little.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/8xgtf9/how_far_would_you_go_for_a_massage