The Ultimate Warm-Up

Romi Rain stands at the edge of the massage table, heart hammering against her ribs. Her coach ordered this session—she must be "loosened up," or she’ll choke at nationals. Whatever that means, she’ll do it; she swims for a living. Jenna Foxx welcomes her with a calm smile and a bolster waiting on the table. "Trust me," she says, "you’ll leave ready to break records." Romi swallows, peels her track jacket away, then hesitates. Only the Speedo comes off. Once she’s facedown over the half-cylinder, hips lifted, Jenna pours warm oil straight down Romi’s spine. The first glide of palms loosens tight lats; the next traces lower, warming the tight curve of her ass. Romi breathes harder, realizing every squeeze, every deep stroke lands exactly there. Jenna murmurs that total relaxation demands every inch of her be worked. Romi doesn’t argue. The touches shift—slick fingers glide between her cheeks, brush the hidden heat. Arousal flares so fast it stuns her, pool water still cooling on her skin. "For the podium," Jenna whispers, easing the suit aside. "Happy endings win races." Romi nods once. Jenna’s tongue finds her clit in one long, wet lick; two fingers slide inside to the knuckle and press the spot that makes Romi buck. Oil, saliva, and slick need mix. Romi pushes back, chasing the next thrust, the next flick. She forgets the bolster, the competition, everything but the relentless, skilled mouth dragging her closer to the edge. When she comes, every nerve sings with relief—gold-medal relief. She lies panting, hips still twitching on Jenna’s steady hand, feeling utterly, perfectly loose.