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    Floyd Mayweather Forces Someone To Wash The Rock Hard Terrain Of His Sculpted Body Every Single Day

    I just found out that it's someone's job to give Floyd Mayweather a daily sponge bath. Watching this video honestly made me feel things I never have before.

    I mean, watching this, I can't help but shake my head at the fact that every single morning when she wakes up, this poor woman has to walk into Floyd Mayweather's bedroom where he's probably lying in bed with the sheets only partly covering him, just to wake him up for his daily bath.  I can't even imagine having to slowly escort him into his totally private and luxurious bathing quarters, only to close the door behind us--I mean them--and watch as he slowly loosens the sash of his bathrobe, letting it slide from the smooth, unexplored mountains of his shoulders and slink to the floor. This woman basically just has to stand there as he swells before her like a Greek god about to enter the calming waters of a soothing Corinthian spring.  He probably says her hair looks great today then asks her run the bath as he admires himself in that gilded mirror until his reflection is consumed by the steam rising around them.

    What is Floyd thinking, that he requires her to sit there, as he bends at the waist, his every muscle contracting as he reaches in to swish his long fingers around in the water. "Perfect," he probably says, as he maintains full eye contact with her, slipping one toe into the water, and then his entire body, like a giant, magnificent island.

    Really, how can Floyd expect someone to run a soft sponge across the dark landscape of his rippling flesh, and watch as the water rushes down between the solid, mahogany mounds of his shoulder blades?  I can't even imagine what it must be like to watch the water lap gently at Floyd's loins. Ridiculous. Does she even get paid enough? I mean, she's basically washing the same body that steps into a ring with another fighter, and reduces him to a cowardly fraction of a man...because, well, Floyd trains. He trains hard. And just the idea of being forced to move your hand across his taut back and his moist chest as the water grazes his thighs, undulating back and forth and back and forth and  back and…well, I must say, it's enough to just make me want to…I don't know, do something about it. It's really not fair. And then when he finally steps out of the bath tub, she's probably not even allowed to climb him.

    Well, at least she doesn't have to wash his penis.

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