Mysophobia Treatment

TJ sweats under his collar at the very mention of dirt. Mysophobia rides him like a bad lunch. So when he reads about a place that promises an avalanche of suds he books the slot, tells himself it's therapy. Lana clocks him the second he tiptoes inside, gloves on, shoulders hunched. Cute. She knows the cure and it isn't gentle. In the shower she drenches them both in hot, silky bubbles, washing his panic away one slippery stroke at a time. He exhales, almost laughs. From there it's a quick hop to the tub, her knees planted, mouth busy giving him the sloppiest, most clinical-grade blowjob on record. His breathing slows, shoulders drop. Perfect. She climbs in, lines him up, sinks down so her pussy, clean and clenched, takes every inch. Fear doesn't stand a chance against friction that good.