[ONIN-111] After a Relaxing Full-Body Massage, the Masseuse Notices Your Arousal and Skillfully Brings You to Climax

The tension in the room is thick, a slow burn that’s been building since her hands first started working the knots out of my shoulders. She’s not just a masseuse; she’s an artist, her fingers tracing every contour of my back, my thighs, the backs of my knees, until I’m putty in her hands. When she tells me to turn over, I’m already hard, my cock straining against the towel, and she doesn’t even pretend to be surprised. Her eyes lock onto it, a hungry little smile playing on her lips as she peels the fabric away, her gaze drinking in every inch. ‘You’re so tense here, too,’ she murmurs, her voice a husky whisper, and her fingers brush against my shaft, so light it’s almost a tease. This isn’t part of the standard package, but she acts like it’s the most natural thing in the world, her touch shifting from therapeutic to something far more intimate, a silent promise of what’s to come.

Her hand wraps around me, warm and sure, and she starts to stroke, slow at first, just getting a feel for me. There’s nothing rushed about it; she’s taking her time, her thumb swirling over the head, her other hand gently cupping my balls, massaging them with the same care she used on my muscles. She leans in close, her breath hot on my neck, and whispers filthy encouragement, telling me how good I feel in her grip, how she loves watching me throb for her. It’s raw and real, like she’s not just doing a job but genuinely getting off on this, her own arousal evident in the flush of her skin, the way her eyes glaze over as she works me. Every stroke is deliberate, building the pressure, her pace quickening just enough to keep me on the edge, her technique a perfect blend of skill and depraved enthusiasm that has me bucking into her fist.

I can’t hold back anymore, a guttural groan tearing from my throat as she coaxes the climax out of me, her hand a relentless, perfect rhythm. She watches it happen, her eyes wide and eager, drinking in every spurt as I empty myself onto my stomach, her strokes slowing to a gentle milking that wrings out every last drop. When I’m spent, shuddering and breathless, she doesn’t pull away. She keeps her hand on me, soft and possessive, a little smirk on her face as she leans down to whisper, ‘Feel better now?’ It’s not just a release; it’s a connection, filthy and profound, leaving me wrecked and craving more of her amateur magic.