Massage Supply Call

Courtney breezed into Summer’s Spa like she owned the place—stack of product flyers in one hand, brand-new sample bottle of massage oil in the other. With the crew gone for the afternoon, the front desk was dead quiet. She pitched the oil, popped the cap, and somehow talked Summer onto the table in under five minutes. A little grin, a dab behind Summer’s ears, and the next thing Summer knew, Courtney’s slick hands were sliding under her towel like they’d done it a hundred times before. Courtney knew exactly where to press, how much to linger. Summer melted. When those palms dipped lower and started working her thighs apart, the oil seemed a lot warmer all of a sudden. She let out a short laugh—half nerves, half invitation—and Courtney took it as permission. Two fingers circled, teased; Summer arched without meaning to. A beat later she was flat on her back, knees open, while Courtney’s tongue got to work like licking pussy was her real commission. Turns out Courtney only sold on the side. She confessed between slow, wet strokes that the second she had a woman laid out and relaxed, her hands got greedy. The shops kept her in range; the tables kept her satisfied. Summer, hips rocking up against that clever mouth, decided she wasn’t about to complain about a supply rep with hidden talents. In fact, she could feel another sales pitch coming on, and she was all ears—and everything else—until the front bell chimed and the crew’s lunch hour ended.