Inspection Gone Wrong

Buxom health inspector Bridgette B strolled into the massage parlor with a scowl that warned everyone to stay clear. She checked her watch and sighed. Petite masseuse Christy Love rushed in, spilling apologies. Bridgette's glare stopped her cold. “Meeting was at one sharp,” she said. Christy glanced at the clock. “It’s two minutes past.” Bridgette only stared, then let her eyes slide over the clutter with open disgust. Christy tried to explain she’d been cleaning, but Bridgette snapped that she would check the back room—assuming it wasn’t a burden. Christy motioned her forward. Bridgette pushed past with a scoff. In the back, every surface seemed out of place. Bridgette rolled her eyes. Christy opened her mouth again; one sharp look silenced her. “You booked this inspection two weeks ago,” Bridgette said. “Plenty of time.” Christy whispered, “I only wish I’d had more.” Bridgette studied her, then dropped the invitation like a knife. “So what are you willing to do?” Christy didn’t hesitate. “Anything. I’ll even fuck you.” Surprise flickered across Bridgette’s face; she’d been angling for a free rub-down, but this suited her better. Christy exhaled in relief at the thought of a massage. Too late. Sex was on the table, and Bridgette wasn’t letting it slip away. Bridgette yanked her skirt to her waist, revealing a shaved cunt. She climbed onto the table, spread her tanned thighs, and nodded for Christy to begin. Christy buried her face between those thighs and feasted. Bridgette shook, grinding down hard as orgasm tore through her. When her breath steadied, she reminded Christy massage time had arrived too. Bridgette stripped, freeing heavy breasts that drew the light. She lay face-down, and Christy poured oil across sun-warmed skin. Her hands dug deep, then shifted lower when Bridgette told her to tend that firm, round ass. When Bridgette turned onto her back, Christy slicked every curve of those lush tits, thumbs circling stiff nipples. Impatient for a perfect score, Christy shrugged off her own clothes, letting them pool on the floor. Bridgette took her time studying the lean body before her. “Lower,” she ordered as Christy kissed her breasts. Christy slid between her thighs again, tongue working with fresh urgency. One climax had passed, but Bridgette intended the inspection to run deep. Christy’s job—and her tongue—had only begun.