A Core Massage

Alex strolls into my spot in Brooklyn, looking for a massage that'll finally hit the spot. He's tried those other joints, but they're all talk, no relief. 'Gimme a real deep tissue massage,' he says, whipping out extra cash like it's bait. I flash him a wicked grin—oh honey, I'll take care of you alright. I lead him upstairs, oil up my hands, and get to kneading those knots. But wait, he starts squirming, bitching about not getting his bang for his buck. Then he drops it: 'happy ending.' Boom—lightbulb moment. Now I get it, you naughty boy. I slide my hands lower, teasing that bulge till it's throbbing. Grip tight, stroke slow and firm, building that pressure like a pro. He gasps, bucks his hips—yeah, just like that. I work him over fast now, slick and relentless, till he explodes in my palm, spent and grinning like he just won the lottery. Mission accomplished, stud.