The Booty Massage

Her thighs tense and her hips lift an inch off the table—perfectly uncalculated—telling the masseuse exactly what she wants without a single word. The woman’s oiled palms glide lower. Slick fingers sweep across her ass, then press between her legs, parting slick lips with one slow stroke. A low sigh leaks out of her. No embarrassment. Just hunger. The masseuse strokes her clit in tight circles, dragging her thumb across the swollen bud each pass. The woman rocks back, chasing pressure. Two fingers slide inside her cunt, curling, stroking that soft inner ridge until her legs tremble. She grinds down harder, wetness coating the sheets. The rhythm turns faster, meaner, knuckles brushing her entrance while the masseuse’s free hand pins the small of her back. One sharp gasp, then a long, ragged moan—her orgasm hitting like a live wire, thighs shaking around the woman’s wrist. The hand never stops until the last tremor fades and she melts into the table, breathing ragged, thighs glistening.