Megan's First Massage

Megan Salinas steps through the Gamma Spa doors. The woman never hurries, and why should she? Curves meant to be admired. Brittney Amber is waiting—blonde, polished, smile like a fresh drink. Her white coat is already sliding off before Megan has the towel off. Hands first, of course. Oil warmed between palms, slick across mahogany skin. Brittney starts at the shoulders, thumbs dragging deep, slow. Each stroke pulls tension out and something else in; Megan’s breath lengthens, answering like a plucked string. The towel slips. Brittney leaves it where it falls. She moves lower. Not clinical. Never that. The heels of her hands smooth down the small of Megan’s back, thumbs trace the twin dimples above her ass. Fingers slip between, brushing folds already wet. A pause, then deliberate. One fingertip circles Megan’s clit, slow, endless figure-eights. Megan’s hips shift, asking for more, offering everything. Brittney strips the coat. Her own breasts—pale, heavy—hang close as she leans in, nipples dragging lightly over Megan’s back. Her breath is warm on the nape. She turns Megan over. No question, no warning. Just certainty. Megan spreads for her without hesitation. Brittney drops to her knees at the table’s edge. Mouth on slick heat. Tongue flat, licking broad, then pointed, dipping inside, then back to the swollen bud. Megan’s moan is low, dragged from deep. Hands fist in blonde hair. Brittney reaches up, finds Megan’s breast, pinches one tight nipple in rhythm with each flick. The switch comes fast. Megan sits up, spins, pulls Brittney onto the table. She buries her face between pale thighs and returns the favor. The two women twist, sixty-nine, wet sounds mixing with short, sharp gasps. Megan sucks greedily; Brittney rides her tongue. They find the same pace, hips rocking, tongues urgent. It doesn’t last long once they sync. Megan comes first, whole body jolting, thighs clamping Brittney’s head. Brittney follows seconds later, muffled cry against Megan’s soaked cunt. Sweat, oil, come. They taste each other again, slower now, softer, until the tremors fade to aftershocks. Neither of them mentions the massage table’s time limit. Neither cares.