How Long Can You Last?

Steven saunters in half-cocky, feeling like he’ll ace Bailey’s little contest. The deal’s simple: thirty minutes without blowing his load and the rubdown’s free. One slip, one sticky mess before the clock, and the bill doubles. Bailey wastes zero time. Oil-slick palms glide over his back, then slide down to cup his balls, thumbs circling, wicked and steady. Steven chuckles at first—safe game, easy money. Ten seconds later her fingers wrap hot around his shaft and he’s gulping air. She climbs on, bare tits pressing against his ribs—soft, teenage-soft, nipples tight. Steven mutters, “God, you’re actually unreal,” half laughing, half groaning. Bailey grins and drags those 19-year-old peaks across his skin while her fist works him root to tip in quick, deliberate strokes. Every so often she pauses, thumb pressing under the head, dragging out a bead of pre-come. “Still think you’re winning?” she purrs, breath ghosting his ear. Steven grips the table edges like he’s afraid they’ll fly away. He’s throbbing, hips twitching, fighting like hell not to jerk forward into her fist. Bailey ups the pace. Oil drips, squelches. She twists her wrist at the top and gives a tiny squeeze that makes Steven’s toes curl. Every wet slide sounds louder than it should. He’s panting now, forehead damp, muttering half-curses under his breath. She leans in, lips brushing his ear. “Fifteen minutes in, Steve. Look at you—twitching already. Gonna lose to a pair of tits and some lube?” Steven tries to laugh, but it chokes into a moan when she starts rolling his balls in her free hand, juggling them gentle while her grip strokes faster. He’s right on the edge. One more squeeze, one more slick slide, and the game ends with a very expensive finish.