The Latin Guy

Sergio pushes open the wrong door and finds himself blinking at a line of recliners. Carmina meets him at the front desk. She tilts her head, fires off a quick chain of Spanish—half from her papá, half from her mamá—asks if he’s lost, and cracks a grin when he answers with half the right words. He shrugs. Carmina shrugs back. He books thirty minutes. She leads him down the hall, points to the shower, hands him a towel, and pulls the door shut behind him. Hot water steams the glass. Carmina steps in without knocking, squirts a glob of soap straight onto his shoulders and starts working it down. Her fingers make deliberate circles around his chest, skim past his waist, and wrap straight around his cock. She keeps the rhythm firm, almost playful, sliding her fist the full length until he thickens to full hardness. They climb out dripping, head straight to the jacuzzi tucked in the corner. Warm bubbles lap their skin. Carmina sits on the ledge, lifts one dripping foot, traps his cock between her sole and instep, and starts sliding—light at first, then firmer, toe pads rubbing the sensitive ridge. Water sloshes over the rim when her other heel joins in, coaxing pre-cum that swirls away in tiny white threads. She stands, plants her pussy against his thigh, grinds—slick folds dragging up and down in slow strokes until her clit catches and she gasps, hips twitching. Sergio leans back and lets the water hide his frantic breathing. Soon she guides him to the narrow table, oils her skin, and stretches out on top of him chest to chest. She slides up, down, breasts and belly and warm thighs gliding over him in long, slippery passes, coating every inch of his front. Each time she rises, the slick friction almost tips him over. When he’s trembling, Carmina finishes him with her hand—tight, fast, eyes on his face—until he pulses in long, hot shots across her knuckles and onto the table. She rinses them both off, winks once, then collects the towel like nothing at all just happened.