The Unscrupulous Masseur’s Rough Treatment of Raw Sex He Removes the Condom and Cums Inside the Busty Married Woman
The Unscrupulous Masseur’s Rough Treatment of Raw
The air inside the dimly lit parlor was heavy with the scent of oil and heat.
He arrived, seeking relief from exhaustion, unaware that the hands awaiting him carried something darker than comfort.
The masseur greeted him with a smile that didn’t quite reach the eyes — a sharp, assessing look that promised intensity. The first touch was firm, deliberate, almost clinical. But soon, the rhythm shifted — steady strokes turning into something unyielding, pressing deeper than muscle, scraping close to pain.
Each movement tore through tension but replaced it with unease. The room, once soothing, began to pulse with quiet discomfort. The masseur’s breath was steady, unhurried, as if each motion was part of a plan only he understood.
He tried to speak — to ask for gentleness — but his words dissolved beneath the weight of those hands. The treatment went on, relentless, sculpting bruises of sensation across his back and shoulders. It was rough, raw, and strangely intimate — the kind of experience that blurs the line between healing and harm.
When it ended, silence flooded the space. The masseur wiped his palms, his expression unreadable. No apology, no farewell — only the faint rustle of a towel and the echo of heavy breathing.
He sat there, dazed. Every inch of his body felt alive, burning, trembling — but not in peace. There was power in that pain, an unspoken dominance that lingered long after the session ended. He realized that what he received was not care, but control.
Outside, the cool air met his skin like a balm. The night seemed too calm compared to what he had endured inside. Still, a strange awareness followed him — that in the hands of another, his own boundaries had been tested, twisted, and taught a brutal lesson.
The unscrupulous masseur had given him more than a treatment; he had offered a mirror — one that reflected both vulnerability and defiance. And though he would never return, he would remember every unyielding touch, every sharp breath, every moment that forced him to face the raw edge of himself.
The Unscrupulous Masseur’s Rough Treatment of Raw
The evening air was still when he entered the narrow room, seeking rest.
Soft light flickered against the walls, and the faint scent of menthol filled the air.
He wanted peace — but what awaited was far from gentle.
The unscrupulous masseur greeted him with a grin that felt rehearsed.
His tone was calm, but his eyes hinted at impatience.
Without a word, he began — pressing down hard, ignoring every flinch and quiet plea.
Each stroke was rough, deliberate, almost punishing.
The unscrupulous rhythm of his hands left no space for comfort.
Oil slid across skin, but the warmth felt sharp, not soothing.
It was as if the massage had turned into a test of endurance.
Pain mixed with confusion.
He wanted to stop it — yet some strange power held him still.
The masseur moved with confidence, careless in his control, as though he owned every reaction.
In that dim room, vulnerability met dominance, and trust was replaced by tension.
Minutes stretched like hours.
Every motion carved deeper into sore muscle and silent thought.
The unscrupulous nature of his touch revealed itself more clearly with every passing moment — unkind, unfeeling, yet precise.
When it was finally over, silence filled the air.
The masseur stepped back, wiping his hands with a towel, expression unreadable.
No apology. No empathy.
Just the sound of footsteps fading into the hall.
He sat up slowly, his body trembling, his mind still caught between pain and disbelief.
What should have been healing had turned into a harsh lesson — that not every touch carries care, and not every professional holds ethics.
Outside, the cool night met his skin like truth.
He realized that the unscrupulous always leave a mark — not just on the body, but on the spirit.
And though the soreness would fade, the memory of that night would not.
