Saving The Parlor

Quinton James struts into the massage parlor like he owns the damn place, flashing his city councilman badge at Vanna Bardot. 'I'm here to shut this joint down,' he barks, 'got too many complaints about your shady side gigs.' Vanna just smirks, those killer curves barely contained in her tight outfit, and sweet-talks him: 'How about a free massage to show you we're all above board?' He hems and haws but caves, following her to the private room. Door clicks shut, and bam—Vanna strips down, revealing every inch of her smooth, naked glory. Quinton's eyes bug out like he's staring at a jackpot, but the stubborn prick shakes it off, averts his gaze, and mutters something about professionalism. He peels off his own clothes, hits the mat face-down, all tense and full of himself. Vanna grabs the NURU gel, slathers it over his back till it's gleaming, then climbs on, sliding her slick body up and down his like a pro. He grumbles low, 'This ain't right,' but you can hear the hitch in his breath—guy's loving it, even if he's too pigheaded to admit it. Minutes tick by, and she purrs, 'Flip over for me, big guy.' He does, still faking outrage as she glides her tits and hips along his chest, his abs, teasing lower. Protests fly—'What the hell is this?'—but his cock's twitching, betraying the whole act, hardening right under her slippery touch. Finally, the tension melts; he's sinking into that sweet erotic haze, complaints fading to nothing. Without a clue, his dick springs to full attention, rock-hard and unmissable. Panic hits—Quinton slaps his hands over it, face red as a beet, sputtering indignant bullshit to hide the boner. But Vanna? She sees right through him, knows exactly what this cocky councilman's been craving all along.