The Sore Cyclist

Jaye Summers limps into the massage spot, ass wrecked from all those miles in the saddle. India Summer catches her eye, all smooth and ready. "What can I do for you, sweetheart?" Jaye spills—she’s sore as hell and spied the sign, hoping for a walk-in. India grins, says a cancellation just hit, so she can take Jaye right now. Jaye’s buzzin’. India leads her back to the room, towel already in hand. Jaye drops onto the table fully dressed. India cocks an eyebrow. "Easier to work if you lose the gear." Jaye shakes her head. No underwear, she’s going commando under those padded shorts, so clothes stay. India shrugs, starts kneading through fabric, but the padding fights her. "Not much I can do with these on," India says flat. Towel works if Jaye needs cover, but bare skin means better results. Jaye mulls it—anything to crush her next race. She stands, peels the kit off slow, wraps the towel, lies back down. India slicks her palms with oil. She starts at Jaye’s feet, glides up those toned legs, surprised at the muscle a bike builds. Every stroke edges closer, interest turning more than clinical. Jaye feels the vibe but keeps her mouth shut. Shoulders, back, then the coup de grâce—perfect glutes. India slides a bolster under her hips. "Better angle," she murmurs. First firm squeeze and Jaye moans, raw relief rolling through tight muscle. India works deeper, greedy now. Fingers slip, brushing slick pussy lips from behind. Jaye chuckles low, "Going right for the goods." India plays it cool—she’s chasing every knot to get Jaye back on the road pain-free. "Flip," India says. Oil glistens on thighs, fingers creep inward. Jaye frowns. India’s palm cups her pussy like she owns it. "Holding tension right here," India claims, "from that damn seat." Protest dies in Jaye’s throat when India starts rubbing her clit slow and sure. Moans jump an octave. India grins. "Feel good?" Jaye’s hips answer first—yeah, real fucking good. Maybe the only fix for crotch rubbed raw is a woman’s soft, filthy touch.