A Marrakech Massage or a First Lesbian Experience?

so, I climbed a big fuck mountain this workweek, I may have mentioned it in passing. Following the three-day hike, it was deemed necessary to have a couple of days in Marrakech ; because one should not fly immediately after experiencing elevation .

I don ’ triiodothyronine know who makes this shit up but I can ’ t tell you how chuffed I was to slap an enforce miniskirt break on top of my mountain climb.

Marrakech is beautiful, if you have haven ’ thymine been, add it onto your must see places. It is a tapestry of plangency, a city drenched in history, and swiftly changing as Morocco embraces tourism, and begins to consider women ’ randomness rights and political change .

You can spend hours traipsing round the souk ( markets to northerners like me ), the gardens that decorate the city are intensely picturesque and people watching whilst sipping mint tea is a absolutely pleasant way to spend the good afternoon .

I did all of the above, and then I got a massage .

It was meant to be a treat for my legs as they had carried my majority up and down a batch. But since the price was exorbitantly brassy compared to the UK I decided to give my unharmed body a rub down .

here is how it went .

first there was the terminology barrier, the masseuse came into the room where I stood, fully clothed and sweaty from the 40 degree heat outside. She nodded to me and I chirply gave her my best french ,

“ Bonjour, ca va ? ”

She stared mutely and I realised either she was insulted by my Del Boy style pronunciation or was arabic Moroccan rather than french and therefore conversation was going to be limited .

placid, who needs to chat when one of you is rubbing oil into the other for payment ?

She busied herself around the board, flushing towels and lighting candles, she plunged the room into iniquity and nodded to me to strip .

I instantaneously went into parody mode, and flung my arms out across-the-board and did a petroleum translation of heads, shoulders, knees and toes with a mocking look upon my font. I was asking if I should remove all my garments, and the message was conveyed. Although she did look at me as if I was a little ‘ poco balmy ’ .

so I stripped polish to my brassiere and pants and positioned myself face down on the bed .

then she began… .

Christ alive it was heavenly, each accident of her hand, each tauten rub of her palm caused my rather aweary body to dance internally with adam .

It was all I could do not to moan .

I very didn ’ metric ton want to moan, because lease ’ s face it, any groan sounds like a sex groan, and I didn ’ triiodothyronine want to sex groan on the go to bed of a massage living room in Marrakech .

then I bit my lips and thought of England .

She pummelled my legs, expertly worked out the joint ache in my quads, she worked her way up to my lower back and then….

well then, she got a little close for comfort… .

I think in a 50 shades type of novel you would use the terminology, ‘ she brushed over my affection, ’ or as a supporter of mine on the tripper accurately stated ‘ she got a short close up to my dame garden… ’

immediately I was awake with brows raised – bloody grateful I had not done a sex groan .

then she reached my brassiere, and like a 14-year-old boy she began to struggle with the clasp. My bras are made of buttocks farce, none of this flimsy two brooch stuff, my over the shoulder boulder holder is a three clasp and constantly tightly fastened on .

It took a while .

You need good focus to get in my brassiere .

I offered to help, but she merely shooed my hands off and wrestled some more. I heard her grunt in exasperation as she rested her elbow on my lower rear and heaved some more .

finally the brassiere gave up the fight and fell aside in her hand. She muttered with relief and then gestured for me to roll over .

I hate laying on my back brassiere less .

Four years of breastfeeding plus a bit of age means equally soon as I flip over my breasts disappear to go chat up my armpits. I change from being a decently endowed woman to a directly chested female child. I could about see the masseuse trying to see where my lady lumps had gone .

then she clocked them… .

Determined not for them to evade her again, she scooped them into her palm, held one hard in place and began furiously massaging with her free hand .

intelligibly in Marrakech, wide body means fully body, and I was getting my baps some action .

But how to react ?

It was simply unexpected. Finding myself with another womanhood massaging my bosom is a foremost for me, and giggles rose childishly in my throat as I thought of my supporter Sara in the future room who was undoubtably having the like experience .

One dumbbell done she let it drop back to my armpit where it continued to flirt unashamedly, then picked up the future and cover with the massage .

My eyebrows stayed up by my hairline for the rest of the seance. I may need botulinum toxin a to smooth out the damage .

then it ended and I nodded my thanks, scooping myself into my clothes and walking out the room .

even now, I am placid not surely if I precisely had a bloody effective massage or a bloody effective foremost lesbian know.

Either direction, I ’ d highly recommend .

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