Another Mistaken Identity!

Moka's out on the patio nursing a drink and chasing some rays when Aiden struts up. One quick hello later she's parked in the chair across from her. Somewhere between the small talk and the laughter she slips a massage voucher into Moka's bag like a magician palming a card. Later Moka shows at the salon, eyebrows up, asking where they might've crossed paths. Aiden blinks all innocence—says the girls scatter coupons everywhere. Then she grins. "Rooms are ready if you're free now." Moka practically bounces: sure, but should she strip? Aiden tells her to go for it, but Moka's suddenly shy and wants a changing room. Aiden apologizes—no privacy booths left—and promises to turn her back. So Moka drops the clothes, climbs onto the table. Warm oil hits skin, hands start moving, and Aiden wastes no time getting two solid handfuls of that round, heavy ass. "Is that... normal?" Moka asks. Fingers climb, trace under each breast, squeeze, roll the nipples. "Routine," Aiden insists, voice syrup-smooth. Thighs get opened, stroked, coaxed wider. Every pass brushes closer to the seam between them until fingertips part slick lips and find her clit. Moka starts to sit up, protests half-formed, but Aiden keeps the rhythm and murmurs that she won't feel it properly half-twisted like that. A single finger slides in, curls. Tension melts; Moka exhales, hips tilt, the afternoon stretching out lazy and warm.