The Sore Cyclist

Jaye Summers limps into the massage parlor. India Summer waits at the front, eyes on the blonde already favoring one hip. Jaye explains her ass is wrecked from the long hours on her bike and wonders if they can fit her in. India says a slot just opened and that she’ll handle it herself right now. Jaye’s grin is instant. India leads the way to the room. Jaye climbs onto the table but stays in her cycling clothes. India notes the massage will be easier without the layers, yet Jaye explains she’s bare underneath and would rather keep everything on. India nods, asks her to lie facedown, and starts on the fabric-covered back. When her hands reach the padded shorts, the resistance is clear. She points out the cushioning blocks any real work on the glutes. A towel would help, she adds, and Jaye agrees—if stripping means she can race again without pain. India turns while Jaye stands, peels off the tight cycling top and shorts, then wraps a towel low around her hips before settling onto the table. Oiled hands work from feet to calves, admiring the lean muscle the brunette says she’s never felt on a client before. The touches linger just a shade longer than clinical. Jaye registers the interest but keeps quiet. Shoulders and back receive the same slow pressure, yet India saves the real attention for Jaye’s ass. A small bolster appears beneath her hips to angle the glutes. The first firm strokes draw a surprised moan; the natural swell of those cheeks yields under expert thumbs. Once the muscles relax, India edges closer. From behind, her fingertips slide between the folds and graze the blonde’s bare pussy. Jaye murmurs that the fingers are going deep. India replies the hard-to-reach spots need attention if the next ride is meant to be painless. She asks Jaye to turn over. Oil-slick palms travel up smooth thighs, then pause at the soft heat between them. Jaye lifts her head, questioning. India answers that tension gathers there from constant saddle pressure and needs gentle release. Before protest forms, India’s fingers part the lips and stroke. Jaye’s moan deepens. When asked if it feels all right, she answers it feels more than all right, maybe exactly what she needed after all that friction—a woman’s softer touch.