Full-figured brunette masseuse in tight black shorts kneels over you on a floral couch, hands ‘accidentally’ sliding from your back down to where you’re already dripping. Thick thighs pressed against yours as she leans in—‘Relax…’—her breath hot near your ear while her fingers trace circles just shy of that swollen slit. Then the towel drops. No warning, no lube needed; she knows exactly how wet you are from the first massage oil slick between her palms. You’re flat on your back now, legs hooked over her shoulders as she devours that pussy like it’s part of the service. Juice drips down her chin but she doesn’t stop—not even when you gasp and grab at the cushions.
