''Wimp Massage'' with Stephanie Love

Stephanie books the massage. She sees Fluffy and sneers—scrawny, a half-starved stray. 'I booked a man,' she spits, stripping naked before he can whimper. Her hips are obscene, the ass absurdly huge, two pale moons that swallow the air. She snaps into place over the table, and his mouth dries. “Call this half-assed rubbing and I pay a third,” she growls, rolling her shoulders. He protests once—her hand shoots back, claws his cock, squeezes until his knees buckle. He squeaks the price down. Satisfied, she swings her feet up, spreads her toes. “Start with these, pathetic thing. You breathe whatever I give you.” He sniffs, tongue flicking between the digits, slurping every sour crease. She laughs, cruel and delighted, then palms the back of his skull and shoves his face into the cleft of her ass. “Not hands. Tongue. Dig in.” He obeys, slobbering, cheeks slapped red by wobbling flesh. She stands, plants one foot across his mouth like wiping mud from a sole. “Lie down.” Gravity drops; her full weight sinks, smothering him, nose and lips sealed inside humid darkness. She bounces once, twice, rides the struggles until he’s dizzy. She leans forward onto all fours, orders his tongue back to work. “Tell me how sweet it tastes, ass-licker. Say it while you French that filthy hole.” He chokes out praise between licks. She grinds harder. Later she stretches out, pins his face beneath both soles again, heel to chin, before mounting him one last time—pussy to mouth, ass eclipsing the rest of him. Her fist pumps his cock in lazy strokes while her hips roll. “Own you now,” she murmurs, tightening until he gasps and spills across his own stomach, every drop hers.