Route 66

Whitney Westgate's drive from Los Angeles ended in New Jersey with a stiff back she couldn't ignore. Her boyfriend had been blunt: get a massage from women only. One look at her and men were likely to lose their minds. Lola Milano answered the door. The instant her hands, slick with warm oil, pressed into Whitney's shoulders, the tension began to dissolve. She worked her way down the length of that lean back, palms kneading muscle, skin sliding on skin. When the sheet slipped and Lola's fingers skimmed the top of Whitney's ass, the touch lingered. "God, you're in incredible shape," Lola whispered, now straddling the table to grip and spread the firm cheeks. The massage grew bolder. She cupped both globes, thumbs drifting along the crease, knuckles brushing closer to the slick heat between. Whitney's breath hitched, but she stayed perfectly still. Lola retrieved the compact silver toy from a side table. She parted Whitney's legs a fraction more, slid the low hum between her thighs, and pressed. The vibrator skimmed over plump lips until Whitney gave a short, helpless sound. Lola leaned in, replaced the toy with her mouth, tongue flattening against a swollen clit and then lapping deeper, tasting every inch. Whitney's hips rose to meet her, muscles twitching, breath ragged. The studio filled with the wet sounds of Lola's tongue and Whitney's low moans as the orgasm took her in slow, undeniable waves.