Wrong Number

Georgia Jones’s thumbs fly. She craves her boyfriend bad, so she snaps half a dozen close-ups of her shiny pink pussy and fires them off. Ping. Delivered—except the number isn’t his, it’s her masseuse Bianca Breeze. Bianca stares, jaw slack, nipples already poking through her tank top. Georgia walks in for her session, clueless. On the table, face-down and naked, Georgia hears the cap of the oil bottle pop. Bianca’s hands start sliding, firm at first, then slower, greedy. Halfway through, Bianca peels off her top, slicks oil across her own tits, and drapes that warm, slippery skin over Georgia’s round ass. Georgia’s brow knots. Before she can ask why the routine just turned into a slippery lap-dance, Bianca drops the bomb about last night’s pussy pics. Georgia yelps, mortified, but Bianca keeps kneading—lower now, thumbs grazing slick folds until Georgia’s breath snags. Another two strokes and Georgia lifts her hips, knees parting on their own. Bianca sinks two fingers straight in, working her with slow, filthy patience while Georgia moans and pushes back, finally getting the only massage she really needed.