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Sophie* the sadist masseuse

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* Name changed to protect the guilty.

Sophie is probably a very nice lady.
I will never know because I don’t want to see her again.

Sophie is a fifty-three year old South Korean masseuse who is in such a remarkable state of preservation and short-skirtedness that she is still capable of instantly reigniting the cold embers of old men’s desires.
(So I’ve been told.)

I still don’t want to see her ever again.

Let me delicately describe for you Sophie’s domestic arrangements as revealed to Mrs GOF during an episode of massage “girl talk”.  This has absolutely no relevance to my story, but if you are looking for high quality objective journalism, scrounging around in The Bucket is probably not the best way in the world to find it.

Desirelighter Sophie apparently has a little old conjugal flame flickering away at home.   He very generously gave consent for Sophie to light a second much hotter fire under the same roof, so that she could satisfy her wish to keep every little nook and cranny permanently glowing with radiant warmth.

After briefly wondering whether she might also occasionally have the need for a sexagenarian bonfire in her house as well, I concluded that I really don’t want to ever see Sophie again …… any capacity.

Why?  Because Sophie has an abysmal command of English language which resulted in her pulverising my skeleton to such an extent that she came within an inch of remodeling it’s Homo sapiens vertical functionality into something pre-dating Homo erectus.

Laying face-down on a massage table with your head jammed down into a hole facing the floor does not provide optimum conditions for either concise or precise communication with another person, unless they happen to be supine on the floor looking back up at you.

This did not apply to Sophie.  She was still swinging from the rafters when we had this final conversation last year;

GOF:    I am really impressed by the way you keep your balance using the handrail on the ceiling whilst shoving the full force of your heels into my shoulder blades Sophie, but it is REALLY painful so could you please do it more softly.

(Editors comment; I apologise for interrupting GOF’s riveting little memoir mid-moan, but over a glass of plonk last night he revealed to me that at this point in his conversation with Sophie he almost gave birth to an impure thought.  In his words;  “I figured I could distract myself from all the agony by considering that if only I was facing upwards I might be receiving more, albeit different, value for my money.”   It is fortunate that GOF received a comprehensive Methodist Sunday Schooling, for after humping this piece of intellectual wickedness around in his head for the remainder of the massage he was then able to expunge it completely from his mind. Just as well for him.
The Bucket certainly will not tolerate adventures into depravity by any member of it’s staff, either in thought or deed.)

Sophie:   Shong fuchu ehasta whahjo neehar what you say Mr GOF Softer not enough Harder! Harder ! Ah?


Sophie:   Ha! misho wa-chu da sifo chanda-ru. Now I got it. Pain right there. Little pain is good. Harder! Harder!  Kill little pain!  Now I stand on neck. Good yes?


Sophie:   Ah! Holy shit yes now we fix big pain in neck. Kill pain in neck!  Kill pain in back!  Kill pain in shoulder!  Everything good now. Shahbu wucha dongbe ande shanjong fifty dollar thank you Mr GOF.

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I took my Rolls Royce in for a 60-minute service and tune up, and what came out resembled a crash-tested Volkswagon.
I need another body mechanic urgently.
Preferably an ugly one clad in long trousers who doesn’t have handrails screwed into the ceiling.

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This story was written with empathy for Elaine, a subscriber to
The Bucket,  who was also recently damaged by her masseur.