Latina Massage

Luna gets one look at the ass on her table and forgets the wife, the wedding ring, everything. She sees tan skin, soft curves, another Latina body stretched out waiting for her hands. Sara turns on her side and Luna works oil into that plump ass, slow circles that make the flesh jiggle. Her slick fingers dig deeper into the cleft, pressing the hole, and Sara tenses. Luna laughs low. Sara flips onto her back like she might bolt, but Luna's already glued to the small tits, thumbs working the nipples into tight buds. “Move on,” Sara says. Voice tight. Luna just grins, moves lower. When Sara spreads her knees to give room, she doesn’t see what that does. Luna sees it. Drops fast, tongue straight between the folds, flicking. Sara jerks, gasps, tries half a protest. Too late. Legs shake. She’s wet fast, heat blooming under Luna’s mouth. The massage table creaks. Luna strips, skin on skin now, nipples brushing Sara’s belly while she works her tongue in harder. Sara comes first—quick, sharp, breath caught in her teeth. Guilt shows in her eyes a second later, but Luna climbs up, pins her. Pussies aligned, wet heat against wet heat, Luna starts grinding. Hips snap. Sweat. The table rocks. Luna’s slick and getting slicker. One hard thrust and she squirts—hot spill straight across Sara’s stomach, stripe after stripe, shining under the low lights. Sara doesn’t even try to get out from under it. She just grabs Luna, sucks the last of it from her, tongue searching every fold until there’s nothing left but the taste. Luna stays on top a little longer, breathing hard, watching Sara’s chest rise and fall. Neither of them says a word about the ring still on Sara’s finger.