I Need a Masseuse

Luna Star walks in expecting Maria and freezes when she sees Charles Dera. Maria bailed for some family thing, he says. Luna’s married, so the hands-off rule is simple—no one but her husband gets near her. Charles flashes a grin and rattles off the names of his regular clients—dicks, tits, it’s all the same. Refund’s off the table. Luna sighs and agrees. She tells him to leave while she strips. The door clicks shut and she’s facedown on the table, towel barely covering her ass. Charles starts on her legs. Oil’s flying, and his mouth won’t stop. She snaps at him to shut up—twice. Nothing. He works higher, digs into tight thighs, globs on so much slick she can hear it. Then he smacks his greasy palms right onto the towel on her ass. Luna yelps, but he wipes away like it’s nothing and squeezes both cheeks, palms sliding under the cloth. She flips over to shut it down, but he just keeps moving—inner thighs first, fingers so close her pussy twitches. Then those oiled hands cup her tits and he nods like some fucking expert saying, yeah, tension up here too. She tells him to move; he answers by dropping two fingers straight onto her clit, slow lazy circles, smirk still in place. He knows the type—mouthy, married, backed up. He’s got one cure. And he’s about to give it.