If you like getting hand-jobbed, have I got a sex dungeon for you. Our Lady of the Rosary Dungeon has it all. Fluorescent lighting, concrete floors, and of course, Sahara-dry hand jobs for the pathetic little worm on a budget. Our mistresses will fulfill your every desire, just so long as those desires are exclusively limited to reach-around, no-eye-contact handjobs. Though everyone is welcome, our typical clientele breathes VERY audibly and neither has, nor wants, custody of their children.
We’re able to keep our prices low by forgoing traditional dungeon luxuries like indoor plumbing or a place to sit down. And those savings are passed directly to our heart disease-ridden customers! Why should you pay full price for a sex act that you might not even live through?
If there’s a place to get a cheaper, more unpleasant handjob, I’ve probably put them out of business. Seriously, I have mob connections and they’ve been steadily eliminating the competition through violence and intimidation. After seeing what they are capable of, I am genuinely fearful of them, but I’m in too deep now, so I have no choice but to ride this situation out.
Since 1926, we’ve taken pride in delivering simple, no-frills handjob experiences. That’s because we’re delivering the same family-style rub and tugs that my grandfather developed and my old man perfected.
Grandpapa emigrated to this country with nothing more than ten cents in his pocket and a dream in his heart: a dream of getting squeezed off by a hand with more broken than intact cuticles. And every time the arrhythmic movement of an unwashed palm aided by a drop of coffee-tinged saliva transports one of our customers to the realm of ecstasy, I know Grandpapa is looking down from heaven and smiling (he had a pretty severe addiction to peeping, but I am proud to announce that our dungeon is now nearly 100% nanny cam-free).
Our dominatrixes are the best in the business and some of them are not even currently infected with bronchitis. The secret to our mistresses’ thick, phlegmy coughs that you can hear from outside of the building is that employees are discouraged from using their sick days. Can other dungeons say the same?
And if you’re hungry for caloric sustenance instead of degrading sex, play a game of salmonella roulette by ordering something from our depressing food court. Enjoy the saddest salad bar you have ever seen before it inevitably gets shut down by the health inspector.
Or carbo-load for your handjob with one of our sixteen types of overcooked pasta. My mob connections have threatened to break my legs unless I cook the noodles al dente, but I want to deter them from spending so much time here, so the spaghetti will remain mushy.
Though we do not sell chicken wings, you better believe our dungeon smells like them. The scent of buffalo sauce is as thick and pervasive as the mucus in our dominatrixes’ lungs. To be honest, the whole place could use a good hosing down, but that would require running water and, as I’ve established, this is not Johnny Rockefeller’s dungeon. It’s a blue-collar dungeon where working stiffs can get their semi-working stiffs canoodled for cheap.
So if you’re looking to do mouth, butt, or even the majority of front stuff, this is not the dungeon for you. If, however, you don’t mind a handjob that kind of hurts in a bad way and a general ambiance that lends itself to suicidal ideation, there’s no better place to get your wand wiggled—at least until one of the dangerous mafiosos I’ve aligned myself with burns down the business and strong-arms me into giving them the insurance money.
But until then, come get your thing yoinked at Our Lady of the Rosary Sex Dungeon and Pasta Bar!