She Just Can't Relax

Whitney's buzzing around the massage room at work, getting it all set for her next client. In struts Abigail Mac, looking like she's about to snap—face pinched, shoulders up to her ears. She just hung up the phone after her boss barked orders for those reports in 24 hours flat. Boom, she unloads on Whitney: the deadlines, the pressure, the whole damn mess spilling out like a busted dam. Whitney cuts her off sharp—'Hey, breathe with me'—and they do it slow, in... out... deep and steady until Abigail's vibe chills a notch. 'Better?' Whitney asks. Abigail nods, but the second Whitney pauses, she's off again, griping like a pro. Whitney smirks and eases into guided meditation talk, her voice dropping low and smooth as she slicks oil onto her hands. She coos in that whispery calm, hands gliding over Abigail's naked skin, kneading every inch. 'Those tights? Brand new, right? Let's ditch 'em before the oil turns 'em into a slick mess.' Abigail peels them off, climbs onto the table, and Whitney gets to work. Her trick? She drops her chin right into those tight knots on Abigail's ass, grinding in deep. Abigail's head pops up—'What the hell?' Whitney grins: 'Ancient Alps move, babe. Deepest unwind you'll ever feel.' Feels too damn good to argue, so Abigail melts back down. 'Flip over, on your back.' Whitney strips the rest off, hops on the table, and digs into those upper thigh knots with oiled-up precision. She works up to the breasts—'All that stress's bunkered here, isn't it?'—squeezing and soothing till Abigail's humming. 'Next up: labia touch.' Abigail's eyes widen—'Never heard of that one.' Whitney's fingers slide in, teasing and stroking, and holy shit, Abigail's arching—didn't see that kind of spark coming. Then Whitney dives down, tongue lapping her out like it's dessert, and poof—Abigail's stress? Vanished in a haze of moans.