A Sight For Sore Thighs

Melody opens the door in a silk robe, eyes landing on Calla’s flushed face. “Sore thighs,” Calla says. Melody peels the robe off Calla, towels the muscles warm with long, steady strokes. Fingers dig into the flushed skin, the oil taking the same warm scent as skin, thighs flexing under her palms. Nothing loosens. No release. So Melody slicks her own body, climbs over her client, hips grinding down. Calla’s clit drags wet along Melody’s; their slick folds push and press, rhythm lazy then sharper. Calla comes with a gasp, thighs loose again. They don’t stop. Both women shine under fresh oil now; Melody slides fingers deep, curls, Calla grinds down harder, tongue swirling around a nipple, clits rubbing until they slick the sheet and take turns shaking, breath shared in quick kisses that taste of salt and lotion.