The Sore Cyclist

Jaye Summers limps into the massage parlor looking like she just lost a fight with a saddle. India Summer smiles from behind the counter and asks how she can help. Jaye blurts that her butt is killing her after hours on the bike, so when she saw the parlor sign she figured—what the hell—worth a shot. India says a client just canceled; she can take her right now. Jaye grins, relieved. They head to a back room. Jaye climbs onto the table still wearing her padded bike shorts, tank, the works. India suggests ditching the clothes for a better rub, but Jaye points out she’s riding commando today. No underwear. Clothes stay. India shrugs, tells her to flip on her stomach, and gets to work. Problem is, that thick padding in the shorts won’t budge. India jokes that she could just as easily be kneading a couch cushion. Jaye caves—she’ll do anything if it helps her win her next race. India hands her a towel and turns. Jaye peels out of the sweaty gear, wraps herself up, and lies back down. Oil glistens on India’s hands as she works Jaye’s bare feet, calves, noticing the muscle the biking has carved. Up, up, she climbs—commenting that cyclists really do have the goods—until she reaches Jaye’s perfect ass. The towel slips. India grabs a bolster, tucks it under Jaye’s hips, and goes to town. The strokes are deliberate, then bolder. One long finger grazes slick, swollen lips. Jaye’s breath catches, but she doesn’t stop her. India claims she’s just “getting into the stubborn spots.” A quiet chuckle escapes Jaye anyway. India asks Jaye to roll onto her back. Hands glide up inner thighs, slow, and finally cup Jaye’s pussy like it’s something fragile and overdue for attention. Jaye starts to protest until India’s fingers slip inside her folds—gentle, exploratory, nothing like the punishing bike seat. Tension melts. Jaye moans, louder, letting the thought settle: maybe the cure for all that friction is exactly this soft, teasing touch from another woman.