The Masseuse's Turn To Get Massaged

Angelica Heart's got that fed-up look on her face, tight-ass energy cracking under pressure. She's beat and needs Francis X to dig right into her ass like a dog with a bone. No warm-ups, no soft hands. Straight-up anal massage until her shoulders drop and her back arches in relief. He kneels behind her, fingers working between her cheeks, spreading oil so the glide feels filthy good. She groans when he finds the knot, pushes deeper, twists. Her hole swallows his thumb greedily while his free hand strokes her hip like he already owns the shape of her body. Sweat pearls along her spine. She laughs, low and dirty, hips rocking into every wet thrust of his knuckles. It isn't romantic. It's just the sharp, sweet ache turning hot between her legs every time he shoves two fingers past the ring and scissor's her open. Fuck the day. She lets him work until she's dripping from the front and begging without words—gaping wide, grinning like she just won the lottery.