MILKING TABLE – He Drips Precum While I Tease His Cock CUM IN A GLASS

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The Milking Table: A Kinky Massage Session Straight Out of Your Wildest Dreams

Picture this: a dimly lit, secluded massage parlor where your darkest fantasies come to life. The air is thick with anticipation, a heady mix of sex and excitement. In the center of the room stands the star of the show – the milking table, a piece of furniture that promises untold carnal pleasures.

As you enter, the masseuse, a stunning beauty with an ample bosom straining against her tight, white uniform, greets you with a sultry smile. Without a word, she leads you to the table, the smooth leather beckoning you to relinquish control. You comply, stretched out on your back, every nerve ending alight with curiosity and lust.

The masseuse begins, her hands working magic on your tense muscles. Slowly, sensually, she massages her way down your body, lingering on your throats. Her touch is electric, sending jolts of pleasure-pain straight to your groin. You feel yourself stir to attention, your cock twitching in the confines of your pants.

Emboldened by your response, the masseuse increases her pressure, massaging your hardening shaft through the fabric. You groan, a low, guttural sound of need. Anticipation builds as she reaches for the hem of your shorts and tugs them down, freeing your engorged member.

Her fingers wrap around your shaft, stroking, teasing, bringing you to the brink of madness. The sensation is exquisite, a blend of pleasure and pain that has you writhed on the table, hands fisted, every fiber of your being focused on the exquisite torment. She works you over, pumping your full length, her thumb swirling around the sensitive head, coaxing out a bead of precum.

“That’s it, baby,” she purrs. “Give me everything you’ve got.”

Her command, combined with the visual feast of her breasts heaving and her eyes locked on yours, is your undoing. With a strangled cry, you explode, your cock erupting in her skilled hand. Thick ropes of cum stream from your slit, painting the table and her hand with your essence.

But the masseuse, an alchemist of pleasure, has a plan for your spoils. She deftly catches your spend in a waiting glass, the clear liquid filling it to the brim with your release. The sight of your cum, this intimate part of you, collected and on display, is hypnotic.

“Not bad for a warm-up,” she smirks, licking a stray drop from her finger. “But we’re just getting started.”

Your recovery time, usually sluggish at best, speeds up under the power of her touch and that sultry gaze. Her hand pumps up and down your shaft, coaxing you back to full mast. She works you over, her touch perfect, her rhythm impeccable.

Each stroke, each tantalizing caress, winds you tighter, pushing you closer to the brink. Your balls tighten, a familiar pressure building in your groin. You know you’re close, but she seems to sense it too, her pace slowing, her touch feather-light until you’re teetering on the knife’s edge.

“Come for me,” she commands again.

With a strangled groan, you obey, your cock pulsing, your cum shooting out in long, thick spurts. She aims your shaft, guiding your release into her waiting glass. The sharp contrast of your milky essence against the clear glass sends a jolt of pleasure-pain through you.

She holds you until the very last drop has been milked from you, her touch soothing, her praise doing more for your ego than you can say. Her fingers swipe over your sensitive head, coaxing out a last shuddering spurt. Your glass is nearly full; you have successfully been milked.

But the masseuse has one final surprise. She raises the glass to her lips, her tongue snaking out to lap at your essence. Her eyes hold yours as she takes a sip, swallowing your offering. The visual stimulation is incredible, your lust spiking once again.

“For the finale,” she purrs, offering you the glass. “Join me, baby.”

Too aroused to refuse, you take the glass, your lips closing around the rim. Your tongue tastes your salty, slightly bitter essence, a flavor you’d never considered as arousing until now. You take a sip, swallowing your release, a taboo act that sends a thrill through you.

As you hand back the glass, a sense of satisfaction and fulfillment settles over you. The milking table, your masseuse, the acts you’ve indulged in – they’ve been nothing short of extraordinary.

You leave the parlor, heart full and loins sated, the memory of the experience seared into your brain. Whatever the future holds, one thing is certain – you’ll never look at a standard massage the same way again.

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