My Black Masseur

Hime Marie's scrubbing her teeth, grimacing at the mirror. Damn, even after a full night's crash, her back's screaming like a banshee. Time to hit up her massage guy. She rolls into the clinic, and there's Isiah Maxwell, flashing that easy grin as he welcomes her. 'My back's killing me,' she says, and he starts poking around, checking her out. He digs into her shoulder, and yeah, he knows he's gotta go deep—real deep—into those tight muscles. 'I got this,' he says, all confident. 'Gonna need you to strip down.' She blinks. 'Why? Never had to before.' He chuckles. 'Gotta oil you up proper; clothes are just in the way.' He promises he'll fix her good, and she buys it, peeling off everything. He steps back in, and there she is—on all fours on the table, ass up, waiting like a present. He starts kneading those shoulders, and holy shit, she's moaning, eyes rolling back in pure bliss as the knots melt away. She grabs his hand. 'Wait, this doesn't feel like a regular massage.' He locks eyes. 'Only thing I care about is getting you back to 100%.' Then she drops the bomb: 'I've never had black cock before.' His jaw hits the floor. She smirks. 'If you're all about making me feel good, give me what I want.' He tries the pro line—'We should keep it professional'—but she's not having it. She wants that dick, bad, and she's pushing till she gets it. They've known each other forever; make this her first, she begs. And when he figures the customer's always queen, he dives in, giving her the pounding of her life.