The Sore Cyclist

Jaye Summers limped into the parlor, hips aching from long hours in the saddle. India Summer met her at the front desk with calm poise and asked what she could do for her. Jaye explained her ass was killing her and mentioned she spotted the sign while riding. Lucky for her, a cancellation had just opened. India led her down the hallway. Jaye stayed dressed when she climbed onto the table, so India asked her to strip. Jaye admitted she wore nothing under the cycling gear and preferred the towel. She peeled the padded shorts off slowly, then lay face down, the towel barely covering the curve of her glutes. India’s fingers worked deeper once the padding was gone. Jaye moaned, thighs parting just enough for India to notice. India grabbed a bolster and slipped it under her hips, angling the flesh for better pressure. Fingers traced lower, grazing parted lips beneath the towel. Jaye gasped but didn’t move away. India called the tension between her legs bike-seat friction; she would work the spot thoroughly. She coaxed Jaye onto her back, peeled the towel aside, and began teasing her clit in soft, steady circles. Jaye’s breath sharpened and her hips lifted, chasing every slick stroke. India whispered that tender fingers might loosen what rough leather had tightened. Jaye answered with another moan, deeper now, thighs falling open, letting India in.