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In the dim light of my grotty little flat, where the kettle’s always on but the coffee’s just a ruse, a parade of ordinary Tinder tarts gets more than they bargained for. These lasses—bog-standard, perfectly ruinable types with high street frocks and smudged mascara—swipe right for a quick cuppa but end up with a proper creamy surprise. Some roll up fresh from the shops, others straight from a dog walk, all expecting a chat and a brew, but I’ve got other plans.nnAs the afternoon sun filters through my manky curtains, each one gets the same treatment: a quick fumble on the sagging sofa, followed by a hot, sticky load splattered across their faces. Some giggle and lap it up, eyes sparkling with naughty delight; others grimace, clearly not chuffed, wiping at the mess with a scowl. Either way, my Tinder subscription’s paying dividends, and they’re walking away with a free skincare treatment—glossy, gratis, and properly filthy. It’s a win-win: I’m chuffed to bits, and they’ve got a glow no face mask could match.
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