Meditation Massage

Brandi's been wound tighter than a freshman at his first strip club. Sara said Alison would fix that, so here she is at the new studio—private room, dim lights, zero bullshit. Alison's ditched the spa routine; she goes straight for the goods. "Your hips and pelvis are holding more tension than a frat house during finals," she tells Brandi while her fingers dig right into the V of her thighs. She works the mound through thin fabric first, slow, deliberate circles until Brandi's breath catches. Lotion hits skin, warm and slick, and Alison slides two fingers between slick folds like she's testing fruit at the market. Brandi's hips lift off the table, greedy for more. Alison laughs low in her throat, flips Brandi onto her stomach, then pulls her up to straddle her face. Tongues meet, sloppy and hungry. They trade spots without missing a beat, lapping and sucking till both women come hard enough to fog the mirrors.