An EX-ceptional Massage

Kyla and Jon booked a couples massage and the universe served them Lily Lane’s hands. Lily’s his old flame and nobody bothered telling Kyla. They act casual while the room smells like hot oil and straight tension. Kyla’s phone starts blowing up—work emergency—and she bolts, leaving Jon on his stomach, dick already half-hard against the sheet. The second the door shuts, Lily swaps professionalism for trouble. She strips the cover, drips oil straight down his crack, and slides two firm hands around his shaft like it never left her grip. Jon flips over, lips on hers, her tits bouncing out of that low white tank. She climbs on, shoves the table down with her knees, and grinds on him till he’s slick, thick, and ready to snap. Lily sinks down raw—no rubber, no warning—and rides him wet and sloppy, her juices mixing with the oil every time she slams her ass. He grips her waist, bites the valley between her tits, pounds up to meet her so the cheap table creaks under them like it might break. Every thrust is fast, nasty, and loud: skin slapping, oil splattering, Lily panting his name between curses while Jon fills her deep enough to make sure Kyla’s session doesn’t get wasted.