Spy Tugs
Spy Tugs Pic(s)
The afternoon sun cast long, golden fingers across the room, illuminating dust motes dancing in the warm, still air. She lay face down on the soft, padded table, her muscles humming with a low, persistent ache from a week of tension. His hands, initially, were the picture of professional composure, pressing with a firm, knowing pressure into the knotted sinews of her shoulders. A shift occurred as his thumbs traced a slow, deliberate path along the sensitive ridge of her spine, a touch that felt less like therapy and more like a quiet exploration. A tremor, entirely involuntary, ran through her frame, a prelude to the sensation building deep within. When his fingertips grazed the delicate, unexplored territory just above her hip bones, a sharp, breathless gasp escaped her lips. The carefully constructed dam of her composure broke, and a wave of helpless, bubbling laughter erupted from her chest. She squirmed against the sheets, her body twisting in a futile attempt to escape the delightful, unbearable torment. Each purposeful stroke of his hands sent fresh paroxysms of giggles shaking through her, making coherent speech an impossible endeavor. In that sun-drenched room, the serious business of a massage had dissolved completely into a breathless, ticklish tug-of-war between relief and pure, unadulterated sensation.
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