Money and Claude's Erotic Massage

Money's pulse fluttered against the hollow of her throat as she stepped out of the bathroom, towel knotted loosely above her breasts. Steam trailed her into Claude's bedroom, carrying the faint scent of eucalyptus oil she loved. He waited, propped against the headboard like a lazy prince, phone already on the night-stand, the covers folded down with hotel-crisp precision. A small bottle of clear massage oil clicked when he tugged it from the drawer.

"Come here," he murmured. His voice was low, a deliberate jungle-cat growl he knew made her stomach dip.

Money obeyed, shedding the towel and letting it pool at her feet. Naked and unhurried, she stretched beside him, sinking to her back on the sheet still warm from his body.

Moonlight sliced through half-closed blinds, glazing the rise of her ribcage and the soft weight of her breasts.

They rose and fell with each steadied breath, nipples already peaked against the slight coolness. Claude's gaze dragged from her face to her chest, appreciative, patient, hungry. He capped the bottle, coated both palms, then rubbed them together until they gleamed.

"Hands above your head," he instructed, though the gentle press he gave to her wrists implied the pose rather than commanded it. She stretched luxuriously, elbows brushing the pillows, breasts lifting higher.

For a moment he did nothing but watch them lengthen, their slight sway making him exhale through parted lips.

Then he touched her.

Oil-slick palms slid under the curves, lifting their weight in a slow cradle. His fingers pushed lightly inward, kneading the inner mounds, thumbs gliding across the softness before swooping over her nipples.

Money's lips parted on a soft "nnh" as a slick heat flared, nothing to do with temperature. Claude circled each areola, leaving them glossy and shiny, tracing spirals that drew sensation to their very centers. Again he lifted, both hands rising until her mounds pressed together, small cleavage blooming between them.

He squeezed, relaxed, squeezed again, the rhythm slow and firm, as though shaping clay only he could see.

"Shit, they feel so good," he breathed, voice coarse. Concentration pooled across his forehead while his chest expanded under the grey T-shirt he'd kept on. Money arched her spine to feed more of herself into that possessive touch; her breasts spread but sprang back instantly, quivering. Claude slathered more oil, spattering cool droplets that made her gasp and thrust her hips upward. He laughed, hushed and pleased, and rubbed them in until every inch of her chest gleamed.

When the heel of his palm dipped beneath a breast to glide upward, pressure edged toward the tender nerves at the surface. A softer moan slipped from her throat, vibrating through her body. Claude bent, trailing his mouth across the slope he'd just left shining. A shiver traveled down Money's stomach, ending in a gentle clench between her legs.

"Don't stop," she whispered, voice shaky.

He didn't. Both hands worked in tandem now, cupping the outer curves, bringing them together, then letting them fall naturally apart. Fingers strummed over nipples each pass, slick friction generating heat that sank deep inside. Claude's breathing grew rough; Money could feel the shudder in his palms when he adjusted the pace, kneading harder, lifting until her breasts rebounded against his fingers. His thumbs flicked across her hardened peaks again, shooting bolts of pleasure through her torso.

Claude bent close enough for his hot breath to ghost over damp skin. This time he opened his mouth, drew one nipple inside, and sucked. The rougher texture of his tongue bumped over the tip while he kept squeezing the rest of her breast. Saliva mingled with oil, dripped down the curve as he released her with a lewd pop, only to treat the other side to the same sweeping noise and wet suction. Money's eyelids sagged; her hips rocked instinctively, searching for pressure.

He noticed—of course he did. A single oil-coated hand left the breast he'd been kissing and glided down her stomach, path glistening in the low light. But he didn't go farther than her navel. Instead he returned, kneading both breasts again until her chest rose and fell faster, excitement building behind each breath.

"God, look at you." He sat back, wiping stray oil on his shirt hem before pulling the fabric off over his head.

Money drank in the sight—broad shoulders, planes of muscle still flushed after the contact. The flicker in his eyes said he wanted more than watching but was determined to savor this first course.

He scooped fresh oil. This rhythm turned rougher, palms sliding and vibrating with tension. He massaged toward her sternum, pushing her breasts up and almost over each other, nipples grazing nipples. The friction forced a ragged moan from her throat; her legs twisted on the sheets. Each squeeze echoed inside her chest, throat, core.

Sweat pearled at Claude's temple though the room was only warm. He ground down with his thumbs, circling her areolas, then flicked the very tips without warning. Money jolted, a reflexive gasp loud enough to fill the air.

He did it again, finding a faster cadence—knead, flick, knead, flick—while her breasts jostled slickly beneath his skill.

Her cunt clenched with every stroke, empty but imagining him there. She wanted to beg, but words ran together in her head until she was only making small, shocked sounds. Claude smirked, watching her lose composure under his hands. He dragged his palms down the outer globes, let them spill apart, then slid upward again in a long, luxurious sweep that ended with his thumbs cinched beneath both nipples and pulsing pressure exactly under the tender buds. She cried out, back curling.

"Ready?" he whispered, though the tremor inside his voice betrayed that he was near his own cliff as well.

Money answered by widening her thighs. She needed friction, any friction. Claude caught one of her hands, guided it between her own legs, encouraging her to find the ache he'd caused. While she touched herself, his slick hands reclaimed her breasts. He pumped them in mirrored strokes, flesh folding over her fingers before springing back, shiny and pink.

Oil cooled, skin flushed. The slapping slide of his palms against her chest grew quick, needy. Sweat and lubricant mixed until the scent of raw lust fogged the room.

Through half-lidded eyes Money watched him rear back, planting one knee beside her. The other foot stayed flat on the mattress so he straddled her torso, fly sitting open with his cock already freed to bob above her breasts. She removed her fingers from her pussy, bracing them at her sides instead; the slick sound of his palms on her breasts became her whole world.

"Let me see you," she urged, voice hoarse.

Claude's breath jerked fast through bared teeth. His fingers bent around her breasts from the outside, squeezing tight so both mounds pressed together until a valley formed. He lined his throbbing cock into that slick channel, gliding once, twice. His veins rubbed across her sensitized skin. She felt the pulse each time the bulbous head emerged, brushing her collarbone.

"You're so fucking hot," he grunted, rolling hips forward. Shaft slid in and out of the press created by her slicked breasts, each thrust throwing droplets of clear oil. It mixed with the pre-cum glossing the slit; her chest took on a cloudy film that damply caught bedroom light.

Money lifted her chin, angling to watch the head peek forward each time. She reached up, collecting stray slick from her sternum and smearing it around his shaft to make the glide easier. Claude groaned. His abdomen flexed hard as he rocked faster, breasts bounding around him. Her nipples grazed the underside of his cock each plunge, sparking sparks through both of them.

His rhythm grew savage, hands hoisting her mounds together, then letting them jolt apart just to watch them rebound so he could trap them again. Flesh on flesh smacked softly now. Each impact sent quick shocks through her torso, arrowing down to her clit each time. She squeezed her thighs, chasing phantom pressure while her upper half was manhandled in the most delicious way.

"Claude," she moaned.

"Hold 'em like that," he ordered, voice edging toward panic. He released her breasts, letting them settle sticky and swollen, then guided her own hands to trap them together around his thick shaft. She pushed inward, locking friction through her own gripping fingers. He pounded between her soft walls, breath hissing inward each time his tip popped out.

The slide of slick, heated, oil thinned by shared body temperature. Ceiling light glimmered on each pump, highlighting her trapped nipples flushed nearly crimson. Claude's thrusts rocked the bed, headboard thumping wall, but neither cared.

Money felt the throb in his shaft intensify, pulse shifting faster. Her name left his mouth in a raw rasp.

One hand freed hers and flew to squeeze around the head mid-stroke, drawing pre-cum over plush rounded tops. He shuddered, held still half a heartbeat, then slammed forward once, twice, and ripped out.

Semen burst from his slit, first jet hot and white, splattering her chin, then another crashing across her left breast in a thick ribbon. The following spurts pooled across the hollow between mounds before sliding down either side under the press of her clenching fingers. He milked himself with quick jerks, aiming each gush across her nipples until they disappeared beneath creamy strips.

Money gasped at the sudden warmth, cool oil and hot cum mixing slippery beneath his still-grasping hands.

Claude pumped until the last drops clung, then rubbed his sensitive crown over her slippery flesh, tracing through her own skin and his spend, mixing everything into one glistening sheen.

"Holy hell," he exhaled, shoulders slumping, hands easing their grip on her breasts. They slid slowly apart, gravity parting streaks of white, letting seed drip messily onto her ribs. Claude watched the ruin he'd wrought, fascination and awe glazing his eyes as he panted.

She touched one finger to a splatter, lifted it and watched the string stretch, then drew a small line around a nipple like decoration. Her smile felt feline, victorious.

"First time a guy came on my body," she reminded, voice still breathless.

"Definitely not the last," he vowed, reaching for a discarded towel. But instead of cleaning her, he gathered the wettest section of her chest and rubbed slowly, spreading his cum over every slick slope of her breasts until the film shone uniform, claiming skin he'd already worshipped. Only then did he lean down, kiss her softly, and let the towel remain forgotten on her other side.

Money closed her eyes, curves rising and falling under sticky heat, pulse eventually evening as Claude's phantom touch lingered even after his hands stilled. The scent of sex and oil hung heavy, promising every next thing he might teach her—beginning with this first filthy canvas he'd painted across her chest.