Bodyrotic - January 2021 - Dakota

[Max Boardroom]

Stopped by the excellent Bodyrotic on Parramatta Road the other day. They took over from the previous owners (was a transsexual place briefly) and it’s managed very well now. Terrific rooms and great choice of ladies. I was stumped between a gorgeous dark haired vixen (Victoria?) and two hot blondies.

 

In the end, I chose Dakota, a lithe youngster, I’d say around 18-20, I dunno. Fresh face, blonde hair, great hips and thighs (I’m a leg man, myself), plus what turned out to be beautiful succulent nipples. She left me to do the shower thing and lie myself on the sacrificial altar (with convenient cock and breathing holes for ease and comfort).

 

Now I’m not really a massage guy, strange as it might seem for someone who has been to many such an establishment. I mean, I’m not into the therapeutic aspect of it, all that knots of tension here and, ooh, big build-up there. There’s only one knotted build-up I’m thinking about and you don’t need to go looking for it. It’ll find you as long as you’re female and naked.

 

The art of the oily punt for me is the building of tension, the brushing of fingers, soft and hard, the drawing of blood from the brain (where let’s face it, it’s rarely needed) to the second brain (where it is needed). The stroking of inner thigh, the brush of pudenda on upturned soles or on stray hands pretending to be resting near the edge of the table; a taut tummy on the top of the head during an innocent lean down the table to stroke buttock-tops; the press of soft breasts on the small of the back, a tickle of hair drawn across the shoulders, the breathing of nothings into waiting ears, oh, the joy of the skin dance.

 

I always feel bad being ministered to, it seems a decadence, a kind of insult to the other person that she should have to work so hard to make me happy. But it feels so very nice, I manage each time to swallow my principles and abandon myself to waves of pleasure.

 

Which is where Dakota comes in. Almost always, I kind of can’t be bothered with the massage charade. Just get to the pointy end, I think, so to speak. But every now and then, there’s a girl (or usually a woman) who really knows how to cock my rifle. Dakata was doing it in spades and I can’t even remember specifics. She did the ear breathe, always gets me. From the back and me still on my stomach, she did something involving hands on two places at once, one on my flanks and the other reaching young Frankenstein and his two plummy stooges in a bold clingy swoop. That two places at once works very well for me, sends distracted messages to the brain, heightening the sensation. I like.

 

The it’s rollover time and like a man possessed, I obey, young Frank beaming his single eye up at us both. On hops Dakota, anointing her breasts and belly. Oh, I love that sight, nothing finer than well-basted flesh. Let the wrestle commence! Once I’m roused, I spend the whole time trying to manoeuvre the other person above me so that she’ll innocently become impaled on my wood-like stake; fortunately every masseuse I’ve seen is wise to that particular coffin-inviter, so there’s usually only an oily grapple which I always lose (with good grace). This time, Dakota managed to get one thigh between mine, and far from feeling bested, I turned this to my advantage. In my old age, I’ve become something of a submissive, at least in the receiving of pain department. Bear with me here, nothing too kinky.

 

With her mid-thigh pressing on my perineum, I held her fiercely in position as she worked young Frank and I tended to the nipple she proffered me. Understanding my bent, Dakota willingly pressed harder on my apex and the base of Frank, squashing his drinking buddies against my body. Now I realise this is not textbook stuff, or if it is, it’s in the slightly weird department, but I find tight pressure to the gonads to be highly stimulating. Everything gets wound up, so to speak, whipped up even. And so it was. Whipped up until the cream spilled over and there was much rejoicing.

 

I seem to have gone rather purple with that prose, but honestly that’s how I remember it. Very enjoyable punt at a high-quality but reasonably priced establishment.

 

I paid $140 for the half hour.

[readyfreddy]

nice review, keep em coming (on both senses of the word)

[Buzzman]

Great review! Some classic prose in there. Cracked a smile if not a wood...

[J.Z]

Freddy Mac thanks for sharing your first PP review with us it really is appreciated and good to see you had a lot of fun with Dakota

[lostlittleboy]

Loved it.

[bluemamba]

Has anyone else been with dakota and can share experiences? Does she have a model face, or more girl next door? blue mamba

[Henry1]

The art of the oily punt for me is the building of tension, the brushing of fingers, soft and hard, the drawing of blood from the brain (where let’s face it, it’s rarely needed) to the second brain (where it is needed). The stroking of inner thigh, the brush of pudenda on upturned soles or on stray hands pretending to be resting near the edge of the table; a taut tummy on the top of the head during an innocent lean down the table to stroke buttock-tops; the press of soft breasts on the small of the back, a tickle of hair drawn across the shoulders, the breathing of nothings into waiting ears, oh, the joy of the skin dance.

I missed this review the first time around. This, I think, is the best description I have read of the joys of the RnT experience. Great description FM. It really is as much about the tease journey as it is about the destination of the final release.

 

I always feel bad being ministered to, it seems a decadence, a kind of insult to the other person that she should have to work so hard to make me happy.

No need to feel bad about it FM. You are paying for it after all.

[Buzzman]

 

 

The art of the oily punt for me is the building of tension, the brushing of fingers, soft and hard, the drawing of blood from the brain (where let’s face it, it’s rarely needed) to the second brain (where it is needed). The stroking of inner thigh, the brush of pudenda on upturned soles or on stray hands pretending to be resting near the edge of the table; a taut tummy on the top of the head during an innocent lean down the table to stroke buttock-tops; the press of soft breasts on the small of the back, a tickle of hair drawn across the shoulders, the breathing of nothings into waiting ears, oh, the joy of the skin dance.

 

 

Superb stuff....and so true!