Busy Signals

Sarah Vandella struts in for her usual massage, chatting away on her phone like it's glued to her ear. She's all smiles for Lucas Frost, her go-to masseur, but yeah, she's knee-deep in some big-shot business talk. He guides her to the private room, and she finally wraps up the call, hangs up with a sigh. 'Sorry, babe, just one of those crazy days,' she says. Lucas nods, tells her to strip down, and steps out to give her space. He'll be back when she's good to go. She peels off everything, lies face-down on the table, and calls him in. But bam—right as Lucas pushes the door open, her phone buzzes again. 'What the hell now?' she mutters. Thinks it's work, snatches it up, but nope—it's her clingy hubby on the screen. She rolls her eyes hard, answers with a huff, and waves Lucas on: start rubbing, don't stop for this. On the line, she's ripping into the guy. 'What do you want this time? You know better than to bug me during massage hour!' She slams the phone down, fuming. 'God, ever since I got that promotion, my husband's turned into a total leech. Calls me five times a day, grilling me on my every move, begging for the ETA on dinner, yapping about his boring-ass day. I swear, I just want a guy who doesn't make me feel like his damn nanny.' Wouldn't you know it? The phone rings again. She's mid-bicker with the idiot when Lucas gets bold—slides his strong hands right to her pussy and ass, teasing those sweet spots. She gasps sharp, twists around with wide eyes, totally busted. He just flashes a cocky wink and keeps at it, fingers working her slick folds like a pro. Now he's full-on fingering her, thumb circling her clit, building that fire. She bites her lip, but the moans slip out—soft at first, then louder, turning into wild pants. Hubby's yapping away, clueless. 'What? Oh, nothing, just... stretching a sore muscle. Yeah, the masseur's really working it out.' Her breaths hitch as Lucas pumps faster, hitting that perfect rhythm. The lies tumble out between gasps: 'It's intense, babe—feels so good, I mean, relaxing!' But she shatters—full-throated screams rip free as the orgasm crashes over her, body quaking on the table. Finally, she blurts some bullshit excuse—'Gotta go, emergency at work!'—and hangs up, tossing the phone aside. Now it's all hers: she arches back, lets Lucas drive her wild, riding wave after wave of pure, filthy bliss.