The Sore Cyclist

Jaye Summers limps into the massage parlor, her face twisted in pain. India Summer spots her right away and flashes a welcoming grin. 'Hey there, how can I make your day better?' India asks. Jaye winces and spills it: her ass is killing her from all those hours grinding on her bike. She cruised by, saw the sign, and figured she'd roll the dice on a walk-in massage, no appointment needed. India smirks—perfect timing, she just had a cancelation. 'Lucky you, I'll handle you myself, right now.' Jaye's eyes light up like she hit the jackpot. India nods toward the back. 'Follow me, hot stuff.' Jaye hops on the table but stays fully geared up, clothes and all. India eyes her with a playful arch of the brow. 'You know, it'd be a hell of a lot easier if you ditched the outfit.' Jaye shakes her head—no way, she's commando under there. 'I'd rather keep it on, if that's cool.' India shrugs it off with a wink. 'Your call, lie down.' She digs into Jaye's back, strong hands kneading deep. Then she slides down to that sore ass, but damn, those padded bike shorts are cockblocking the real work. India taps her gently. 'These things are like armor—can't get to your muscles through all that fluff.' She offers a towel. 'Cover up if you want, but clothed? It's not doing you justice.' Jaye mulls it over, competitive fire sparking. 'Fine, whatever it takes to crush my next race.' India hands over the towel and spins around discreetly. Jaye stands, peels off her biking kit slow and teasing, wraps that towel snug around her hips, and stretches out again. India slicks her hands with oil, starts at the feet, gliding up those killer legs. 'Whoa, these are rock-solid—never massaged a cyclist before, but I get it now, the power in every inch.' She's lingering a tad too long, eyes hungry, not just pro-level interest. Jaye clocks it but shrugs—whatever, feels too good to complain. India hits the shoulders next, then the back, saving the prime cut for dessert: that flawless ass. She grabs a bolster, and Jaye quirks a brow. 'What's that for?' India chuckles low. 'Trust me, it props you just right so I can nail those glutes without mercy.' As soon as India dives in, Jaye feels the magic—waves of relief hit hard, pulling deep moans from her throat. India works that ass like a boss, relentless and thorough, till it's time to crank up the heat. From behind, her fingers sneak a graze over Jaye's pussy. Jaye gasps, half-laughing. 'You're really getting in deep, huh?' India plays it smooth. 'Gotta make sure you pedal pain-free tomorrow—means hitting every hidden spot.' She taps Jaye's hip. 'Flip over for me.' Starting at the legs, India climbs to the thighs, then zeroes in on the inner thighs, hands inching bolder. Suddenly, they're right at Jaye's pussy. 'Wait, what're you up to?' Jaye blurts. India meets her eyes, voice husky. 'You're knotted up down there—blame that bike seat rubbing you raw all day.' Jaye opens her mouth to argue, but India starts teasing her pussy with expert flicks. Resistance crumbles fast—Jaye's moaning louder, body arching into it. 'This okay?' India purrs. 'Feels fucking amazing,' Jaye breathes. Hell, maybe India's onto something. All that rough saddle friction's got her craving a woman's soft, knowing touch instead.