Spa table slick with oil under bamboo screens, L. Ink lies back naked while the bald masseur in white shirt grips her thighs and parts them firmly. His strong hands knead her soft inner flesh, thumb pressing into wet folds as her hips lift slightly off the padded surface. Cockhead nudges against her entrance next, skin glistening with sweat and lotion mixing into a slippery sheen — he thrusts in slow at first. She arches under his weight, table creaking faintly with each deeper push while his palms slide up her belly. Pounding builds steady, bodies slapping wet together in the humid room air thick with moans.
