First Appointment, No Limits

Full package. Full surprise. She's a shemale

Summary:

Twenty-one and aching from stress, Joson books his first-ever massage at a quiet little studio in town. But when he chooses "The Full Package," he's not prepared for Miranda--gorgeous, sensual, and unlike any woman he's ever known.

The story:

Joson woke up with that same tension curling across his shoulders -- a low, dull pressure that had been clinging to him all week. Maybe longer. It was in the way he moved, slower now, not with lethargy but something tighter, coiled. He felt it when he sat, the way his spine resisted, the way his neck barely turned without complaint.

It was Saturday, gray-blue and mild outside. The house smelled faintly of coffee and the lavender fabric softener his mother always used. From downstairs, the familiar rustle of pans and the soft clinking of dishes carried up through the vents. His parents never really shouted. They moved like practiced dancers through the kitchen, and Joson was used to that kind of quiet rhythm.

He didn't rush downstairs. He never did. But eventually, the smell of buttered toast lured him from his room and into the sun-drenched kitchen where his mom was leaning against the counter with her mug of tea.

She smiled when she saw him -- that soft, familiar smile that held so much unspoken knowing.

"Hey, baby," she said, "sleep okay?"

Joson gave a vague shrug, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Yeah. Sort of."

His mom studied him a moment. She had that look -- the kind of gaze that mothers develop over time. Patient. Focused. Kind, but sharp enough to see through you.

"You've been stiff lately," she said gently, taking a sip of her tea. "Your shoulders are all hunched. And don't think I haven't noticed how you keep stretching that neck."

Joson frowned a little, then looked down at his hand curled around the edge of the counter.

"Just been sore," he muttered.

She nodded slowly. "Hmm."

There was a pause -- quiet, thoughtful.

Then, with a tone casual enough to be rehearsed, she said, "You know, maybe you should get a massage."

Joson blinked. "A massage?"

"Mm-hmm," she said, placing her mug down. "Like, a proper one. You're twenty-one now. Not a kid. You're allowed to take care of yourself."

He rubbed the back of his neck again, sheepish.

"I don't know. That's kinda..."

"What?" she tilted her head, smiling again -- teasing this time. "Weird? Indulgent?"

"A little."

"You're allowed to feel good," she said, almost too sincerely. "Even if it's just for an hour. You don't need to earn it with a broken back."

Joson looked up at her -- and something in her tone caught him off guard. Not the words themselves. But the softness behind them.

"Yeah," he murmured, suddenly uncertain. "I guess maybe I could... look for something?"

She pushed a slice of toast toward him, nodding.

"There are plenty of places in town. Look online. Find something that feels right and book it."

"Today?"

She shrugged. "Why not?"

He picked at the edge of the toast absently, his appetite distant.

She watched him, then added gently, "You carry too much in your body sometimes, Joson. It doesn't make you stronger. Just tired."

He didn't respond right away.

Then, slowly, almost reluctantly, he said, "Okay. I'll look. See what's out there."

She smiled. Not triumphantly. Just warm. Encouraging.

"Good," she said, already turning back to her tea. "You deserve it."

Joson sat cross-legged on his bed, the late morning light bleeding through his blinds in pale slats. His laptop hummed softly, keys cool beneath his fingers as he opened the browser and typed: "massage studios near me." It felt awkward, typing it -- like he was trespassing into some adult world he didn't fully understand.

He scrolled past the flashy chains and polished ads with staged photos of perfect spa rooms. That wasn't what he wanted. Something about them felt too sterile. Too... curated.

Then he paused.

A smaller listing, tucked among the results. A modest name: Orchid Touch Studio.

The thumbnail was simple -- a warm, low-lit room, wooden floors, a faint gold glow over what looked like velvet-draped furniture. The name alone tugged at something curious in him.

He clicked.

The site was barebones. A soft instrumental loop played automatically -- waves, maybe wind chimes. No loud marketing, just one centered photo of the studio and a booking calendar. And below that, Reviews.

His eyes skimmed.

"The best hands in town."

"Miranda is a treasure. Her deep tissue work left me floating."

"If you book the full package, ask for Miranda. She's got a way of unlocking things you didn't know were inside you."

That last one made him pause.

There were dozens of them. Most written by older men -- names like RichB57, GentleJim, DerekDadsOnTheGo. All praising Miranda with the kind of language that didn't feel clinical at all.

"Waits until you're ready."

"Knows exactly how to handle tightness."

"Never felt more relaxed -- or more alive."

Joson bit his lip.

It was strange... but kind of compelling. Like they were all part of something he didn't quite get, but wanted to. He shifted in his chair, suddenly aware of how tense his back really was.

His cursor hovered over the "BOOK NOW" button.

There were options: Basic 30 min, Relaxation 60 min, and then at the bottom, in slightly italicized text: The Full Package -- 90 min | with Miranda only.

His mouse paused.

He clicked.

The calendar opened. Most time slots were full -- except one, today, 3:45 p. m.

He hesitated for a breath.

Then clicked again.

Appointment Confirmed.

He closed the laptop slowly, heart beating a little faster for reasons he couldn't quite name. The room felt suddenly quiet. Charged.

He didn't know what "full package" meant exactly.

And he certainly didn't know that Miranda was not what he expected.

Not yet.

But he was going.

And it was booked.

The studio sat tucked between a florist and a tax office, the kind of place you'd walk past a hundred times and never really notice. But Joson noticed it now -- Orchid Touch Studio -- with its frosted glass door and discreet gold lettering.

He hesitated for a breath, adjusted his jacket, then stepped inside.

The air was warm. Dim. It smelled faintly of sandalwood and something floral -- jasmine, maybe. A soft instrumental track played in the background, not quite music, more like... suggestion. The lights were low, gold-hued, casting a gentle blur across the room.

The receptionist looked up from behind a curved desk.

She was maybe in her thirties, long dark hair pinned back, lips painted a soft mauve. Her blouse was sheer at the shoulders, the kind of professional that tried just enough. Her eyes flicked over him in one glance -- not unkind, but appraising.

"Hi," Joson said, stepping up awkwardly to the desk. "I, uh... I have an appointment? With Miranda?"

She tapped at the screen in front of her, nails clicking softly.

"Name?"

"Joson. With a J."

Her fingers paused. Her lips quirked slightly.

"For the full package?"

He swallowed and nodded. "Yeah. I think so."

She leaned back a little in her chair and looked him over again -- slower this time. Her expression was unreadable.

"How old are you, hon?"

"Twenty-one."

She blinked once.

"Twenty-one," she repeated, voice lower, a touch drier. Then again, with a shade of something else -- amusement, maybe. Or disbelief. "And you booked the full package?"

He felt his ears grow warm. "Uh... yeah. That's what it said online."

There was a pause.

A long, quiet moment that stretched like something unspoken was hanging between them.

Then she gave a small, tight smile and nodded. "Alright, sweetheart. Have a seat. Miranda will be with you shortly."

Joson turned toward the plush chairs by the wall, sat down, and tried to ignore the subtle way the receptionist glanced at him again -- just once -- before returning to her screen.

Joson sat stiffly, hands folded in his lap, eyes darting over the tranquil little waiting room -- muted walls, soft lighting, a diffuser puffing some warm, honeyed scent into the air. His nerves hadn't calmed. If anything, the quiet made them louder.

Then a door creaked open.

"Joson?"

He looked up.

And time stopped for a second.

The woman standing there was--God--gorgeous. Latina, maybe mid-twenties, with long, dark, cascading hair that framed a face too perfect for real life -- cheekbones that caught the light, full lips glossed with a soft sheen, eyes that seemed to know more than she was saying. She smiled. And the room got warmer.

"Hi, I'm Miranda," she said, her voice smooth and unhurried, like silk drawn across bare skin.

She wore a tight black top that hugged the generous curve of her chest -- huge breasts, full and high and straining against the fabric. Her waist was narrow, hips flaring out into a pair of painted-on leggings that clung to her every move. Joson's gaze dropped -- he couldn't help it -- and caught the way the material wrapped around her ass: round, firm, insane. It jiggled slightly with every step. Controlled. Confident.

And just beneath the curve of her hips, something else caught his eye -- something... off. A faint bulge in the front of her leggings. He blinked. His brain tried to dismiss it. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe the fabric bunched. Maybe--

"Come on back," Miranda said, already turning, leading him through the hall with that hypnotic sway in her hips.

Joson followed, eyes locked to her ass, his face flushed with something he couldn't quite name. Arousal. Confusion. Awe.

She opened the door to a dim, cozy room -- massage table centered beneath a warm light, soft music playing, a folded blanket waiting.

"Alright, sweetheart," she said, her voice lower now, intimate. "Go ahead and take off everything -- everything -- and get under the blanket. Face-down. I'll give you a few minutes, then I'll come back in."

She smiled again -- slower this time.

"I'll knock first."

Then she stepped out, closing the door softly behind her.

The door clicked shut with the softest finality, and Joson stood frozen in the middle of the room, staring at the massage table like it might judge him. The blanket was neatly folded, pristine. The air smelled faintly of eucalyptus and something deeper, something musky. His heart was beating faster than he expected.

He ran a hand through his hair and let out a breath. Then, slowly -- awkwardly -- he began to undress.

First his hoodie, peeled over his head and dropped onto the small chair in the corner. Then his T-shirt. He folded it out of habit, tried to make it neat, even though his hands trembled slightly. He wasn't sure why this felt so... exposed already.

His socks came off next. Then his jeans -- unbuttoned and shoved down, catching slightly around one ankle before he stepped out of them and placed them on the chair too. He hesitated at his boxers, his fingers lingering on the waistband.

It's just a massage. This is normal. This is what they told him to do.

Still, stripping naked in a softly lit room with spa music playing in the background while an incredibly attractive woman waited outside made everything feel... heightened. As if the air was thicker now. Charged.

He slid his boxers down and folded them quickly, placing them on top of the pile. Now completely nude, he stood for a second, arms awkwardly crossed over his stomach, skin tingling, unsure if the room was warm or if it was just him.

The massage table looked different now -- more like a stage than a comfort.

Joson stepped forward, one knee up first, then climbed onto it and lay face down. The sheet of paper under his chest crinkled slightly. He reached back, fumbling with the blanket, pulling it up and over himself, tucking it in as best he could.

The surface was soft, padded. The hole for his face was lined with a small white cushion, and he pressed into it, eyes open to the floor.

His breathing was shallow at first, the thump of his heartbeat loud in his ears. He couldn't get the image of Miranda's ass out of his head. Or the brief, strange bulge in her leggings. Or the way she'd said everything so softly.

He exhaled again. Tried to relax.

But the blanket over his bare body felt suddenly thinner than it looked.

And every part of him was on edge now -- not fear. Not exactly. But tension. Anticipation. Something unnamed that hummed beneath his skin.

He waited.

There was a gentle knock.

Then the door creaked open, slow and smooth.

Joson tensed beneath the blanket, every muscle drawing tight for a moment as he heard the soft whisper of bare feet against the floor. The light in the room hadn't changed, but it felt dimmer now -- thicker. The air stirred with movement and the scent of something new -- jasmine, again, and something deeper. Skin, maybe. Heat.

He heard the door click softly shut.

"Mmm..." came Miranda's voice, a low hum of approval. "You really did it. All the way undressed."

Joson swallowed, his face pressed against the cradle.

"Yeah," he murmured, unsure if she even expected a response.

She padded closer. He couldn't see her, but he felt her. The shift of weight in the room. The slow, unhurried presence. Her voice came again, this time from just beside him -- somewhere above his exposed back.

"You booked the full package," she said, teasing now, but not unkind. "You sure about that?"

Joson's mouth was suddenly dry.

"Yeah," he said, barely above a whisper. "That's... what I clicked."

There was a pause.

Then a soft, delighted giggle -- throaty, warm, and unmistakably pleased.

"Oh honey," she cooed. "You might just be my youngest full-package boy yet."

Joson's heart thudded hard in his chest.

She let the words hang there for a moment, like she enjoyed how they sounded. Like she was tasting them.

"That's brave," she added, her tone lower now, sliding into something slower, more intimate. "Most older men can't even handle the full treatment. But you? Twenty-one?"

She gave a soft whistle.

He didn't respond. He couldn't. His fingers twitched under the blanket. Every nerve felt lit -- not from fear, but something stranger. Something heavier.

She moved then -- just a step or two, maybe. Her bare feet quiet on the wood floor.

"Alright," she said gently, all warmth again. "You just relax for me."

Then silence.

Except for the sound of oil being poured.

And the sound of his own pulse hammering behind his ears.

"Okay, sweetheart," Miranda murmured, her voice a slow purr in the warm hush of the room. "I want you to turn over for me now -- onto your back."

Joson hesitated for the briefest second.

Then, wordlessly, he nodded and shifted beneath the blanket, careful and self-conscious as he rolled onto his back. The fabric clung to his thighs for a moment before he settled, now face-up, staring at the ceiling's soft glow, heart racing against the silence.

The blanket lay over him lightly, barely brushing his hips, a fragile illusion of modesty.

And then--

She stepped forward.

Close.

Very close.

Right near his head.

He turned his eyes... and saw her.

Miranda's thighs were right there, smooth and strong in her leggings. But it was what sat between them that snatched the air from his lungs.

A bulge.

Undeniable.

Thick and heavy, swelling against the black stretch of fabric -- hanging low and full in a way that wasn't imagined, wasn't subtle. It twitched slightly with her movement, shifting with breath.

Joson's mouth went dry.

His eyes shot back up to the ceiling. But the image was already burned into his mind -- the weight of it, the shape, the sudden, impossible realization that Miranda was... not what he had assumed.

His throat tightened. His hands fidgeted beneath the blanket.

But then--

He felt her touch.

Her hands found his chest. Soft at first, firm in the next breath. She pressed her palms into him, slow circles over his pectorals, her thumbs grazing the lines beneath his collarbones. Her fingers trailed with a kind of reverence, sensual and lingering, as if she were mapping him -- not just soothing, but claiming.

"There we go," she whispered. "Mmm. Nice and relaxed now."

Joson didn't speak. Couldn't.

Her hands moved lower, gliding down the smooth plane of his arms, pausing to squeeze his biceps, then trailing to his forearms and wrists. Her touch was fluid, expert, but every movement lingered just a bit too long. Suggestive. Confident.

She returned to his chest, drawing lines downward this time -- down over his ribs, the pads of her fingers teasing along the soft skin of his belly, right above the blanket's edge. She didn't break the threshold. Not yet.

But her hands rested there.

Right above his waist.

Her thumbs traced the faint lines where his obliques dipped into the V of his hips. Slow. Lazy. Possessive.

Joson's breath caught. His cock twitched beneath the blanket -- involuntary, confused, panicked and turned on in equal measure.

She hadn't even touched him there.

Yet.

But she was so close.

So very close.

And he could feel her presence above him -- not just the heat of her body, but the silent weight of what pressed down from behind those leggings.

She hadn't said a word about it.

She didn't need to.

Joson lay perfectly still, wide-eyed, unsure if he should speak. Or move.

Or just keep breathing.

And wait.

The silence between them felt electric now -- thick with tension, with curiosity, with the heavy, unspoken throb of something crossing lines.

Joson's chest rose and fell too quickly, his hands gripping the edges of the blanket, though he barely noticed.

Miranda's fingers, slick with warm oil, moved down from his belly with that same sensual purpose -- not hurried, not shy. She adjusted her position, stepping around the table so she stood at the foot, framed by the soft glow of amber light. He could still see the bulge -- shifting subtly between her thighs, swaying as she moved, impossibly present.

Then her hands found his legs.

She began at his knees -- thumbs pressing into the soft inner curve, fingertips stroking down the sides with a rhythm that felt almost hypnotic. He wasn't used to being touched like this. Not by anyone. Certainly not like this.

Her palms glided slowly along his thighs -- upward -- her thumbs trailing dangerously close to where the blanket barely covered him. She pushed gently, spreading him just slightly, just enough. Not enough to expose him. But enough to feel it.

Her hands worked deeper.

Over the tender skin of his inner thighs, she massaged with a coaxing firmness, like she was drawing something out of him. Heat flooded Joson's face, his ears. His cock, though untouched, pulsed under the thin sheet -- tenting faintly, shamefully. He prayed she wouldn't notice.

But of course, she did.

Still, she said nothing.

Then--

Her fingertips dipped lower.

One hand slid beneath the fold of the blanket, so subtle he barely felt it... until he did.

She didn't grab his cock. She didn't need to.

Instead, her hand curved inward, brushing under his balls -- not cupping, not squeezing, just grazing. A feather-light touch, oiled fingers teasing against skin so sensitive Joson flinched, gasping softly.

He stiffened. Entirely.

But she didn't pull away.

Her fingers ghosted over him again -- warmer now, slicker -- the tips brushing just beneath the base of his sac, toward that private place he'd never even explored himself.

A single finger traced lower, deeper, sliding between the soft cleft of his cheeks, just barely circling the edge of his anus. Not pressing. Just... there.

He jolted -- breath caught, every muscle seized.

"Shhh," Miranda murmured above him, calm and silky, as if reading his panic like a page. "You're doing so well."

No one had ever touched him there.

No one had ever touched him like this.

His mind raced.

His cock throbbed.

And he lay there, trembling under the blanket, eyes wide to the ceiling, feeling like the world had tilted off its axis and he'd slid somewhere... forbidden.

And she was still touching him. Still so close.

The moment stretched -- unbearable, tender, humming with tension. Joson lay frozen, Miranda's fingers still barely tracing the soft skin beneath him, not quite touching his cock, not quite pushing deeper, but devastating in their nearness.

His erection pulsed beneath the blanket, stiff now, thick and flushed, the fabric tented and damp at the tip with a slow, involuntary bead of precum. He didn't know when it had happened -- it had crept up between panic and confusion and something he wasn't ready to name. But now it was there, bold and undeniable.

Then, in that same velvety voice, Miranda whispered:

"Alright, sweetheart... go ahead and turn back over for me. Face down."

Joson's throat clenched.

His hands gripped the edges of the blanket, his voice caught in his chest.

"Okay," he mumbled.

He shifted, trying to roll without giving himself away -- but the blanket dragged with him, clinging to his skin, and as he turned, the tented shape of his cock lifted visibly for just a second, a flushed and angry thing pressing against the fabric, painfully hard.

He tried to tuck himself downward as he lay on his stomach, face red and burning with embarrassment.

But it was too late.

Miranda had seen.

She didn't laugh. She didn't pause.

Instead, from just behind him, she let out the warmest little sound -- a soft chuckle, almost maternal, laced with something soothing.

"Aww," she said. "That's totally normal, baby. Don't worry."

Her voice wrapped around him like silk, like it wasn't strange at all, like this happened every day.

"I take it as a compliment."

Joson buried his face in the headrest, cheeks flaming, cock trapped now between his hips and the table, throbbing helplessly against the soft surface.

He didn't respond.

But his body was on fire.

And she was still behind him. Watching. Waiting. Smiling.

Miranda's hands moved with slow certainty over his bare back, kneading into the tension between his shoulder blades with the kind of sensual focus that blurred the line between professional and something else. Her palms were warm, slick with oil, and the low drag of them against his skin made Joson melt and tighten all at once.

She'd said nothing for a while now. Just the rhythm of breath, the ambient music, and the occasional sound of her shifting position behind him.

And then--

Without warning, without flourish, she peeled the blanket off him.

It slid away in a single motion, whispering down his sides like silk. Cold air kissed the full length of his exposed body. Every inch. His bare ass, firm and pale against the padded table, was now on display. His body went rigid.

"W-wait--" Joson lifted his head slightly, heartbeat hammering. "What--?"

"Shhh," Miranda said behind him, her voice low and velvety, like she'd been expecting this exact reaction. "This is part of the full package, remember?"

She leaned closer. He could feel her breath now, warm at the base of his neck.

"Trust me, baby. Just breathe."

He froze. His face burned against the cradle, but he didn't move.

Her hands returned, slower this time. She started again at his shoulders, tracing lower, easing down the small of his back in long, languid strokes. Her palms pressed in, thumbs rolling firm circles along either side of his spine, working downward with maddening control. She knew what she was doing -- not just easing muscles, but breaking him open inch by inch.

And then... she reached his hips.

Her hands paused.

Then spread.

He felt the tension shoot through his thighs as Miranda's palms smoothed across both ass cheeks -- broad, deliberate, oiled strokes that cupped and parted the flesh as though shaping it. She didn't speak. She didn't ask. She just did. Fingers dug in gently at first, then firmer, massaging the muscle, kneading each cheek with slow possession.

Joson's breath caught.

He twitched, involuntarily.

And then--her fingertips dipped lower. The inner swell. The divide. That intimate space no one had touched.

Her thumbs slid closer, just grazing the soft, oiled skin between his cheeks. She didn't push, not yet. But her hands stayed there. Trailing. Toying.

She dipped further. One thumb brushing the edge of his hole -- so faint he wasn't sure it happened. But then again. And again.

Joson's mouth opened, a tiny gasp he couldn't hold back.

He had never been touched there. Not once. And now this impossibly beautiful woman -- with her full breasts, her swaying hips, and that unmistakable bulge he'd seen pressed against those leggings -- was circling him like a secret she already owned.

The pulse in his cock throbbed against the table, hard and aching, pinned under his body.

And Miranda?

She just hummed softly behind him, pleased.

Still massaging.

Still inching closer.

Still waiting for him to let go.

She didn't speak.

Miranda just poured more oil into her palms, the soft pop of the bottle and the wet sound of her hands coating themselves making Joson's toes curl slightly against the table. The scent of clove and heat thickened in the air. He could hear her breathing now -- slow, steady -- like this wasn't the first time she'd done this. Like she knew exactly what would happen next.

He lay still.

Tense.

Aware of everything.

And then her hands returned.

But lower now.

Slick and warm, they cupped the swell of his ass again, fingers gliding effortlessly across his oiled skin, coaxing, spreading. She kneaded him slowly, deliberately -- as if softening him, preparing him. And then one hand dipped between the cleft of his cheeks, knuckles grazing down until her fingers paused at the tight ring of his hole.

Joson froze.

A sudden intake of breath. His body locked up, a bolt of panic or shame or something flaring through his chest.

But Miranda didn't back off.

She leaned forward, her voice a low whisper beside his ear, close enough that her lips almost grazed his temple.

"Shhh... you're doing so well, baby."

Her oiled fingertip began to move in slow, teasing circles around his entrance -- not pressing, not breaching. Just touching. Stroking. Letting him feel her there.

"This is part of the full package," she murmured, voice thicker now, dominant and velvet-smooth. "And you're taking it so beautifully."

Joson opened his mouth. To protest, maybe. To speak. But nothing came. His hips twitched, betraying him -- his cock still pressed between his stomach and the table, hard, pulsing, leaking.

And God help him... he liked this.

His cheeks burned. His muscles trembled. But he didn't pull away. He stayed there, breath shallow, face hot against the cradle as Miranda's slick fingertip kept circling, slowly -- patiently -- teaching his body something it had never known.

Her other hand massaged his lower back now, grounding him, claiming him, her touch deep and slow. But it was the hand between his cheeks that held all the gravity. Every gentle stroke around his tight, oiled rim made his cock jump -- made something deep inside clench and flutter and ache.

"You're not fighting me," Miranda whispered. "Mmm. You like this."

He didn't answer.

He couldn't.

But his body already had.

She smiled behind him, unseen.

And pushed just a little deeper.

She smiled behind him, unseen.

And pushed just a little deeper.

Joson gasped -- not a cry, but a stuttered moan, low and shaken, as her fingertip breached him. Just the tip. Just enough to make his back arch slightly, his toes curl against the padded table. His breath caught, and then poured out in one long, trembling sigh.

"Mmm... that's it," Miranda purred, her voice thick with praise. "You feel that? That tight little ring opening just for me?"

Her other hand massaged the small of his back, firm and steady, keeping him grounded as her fingertip explored -- slow, circular motions inside his virgin heat. The oil made everything glide, slick and obscene. His hole fluttered around her, helpless to do anything but cling.

"Relax, sweetheart. Don't fight it."

She pressed in further -- second knuckle now -- and Joson moaned again, louder this time, the sound edged with something fragile. His cock throbbed beneath him, trapped, leaking against the towel in silent surrender. He buried his face in the cradle, trying to hide the way his hips twitched back, begging without words.

"Good boy," Miranda whispered.

She curled her finger slightly -- just enough to stroke the inner wall. Testing. Searching.

When she found it -- the swell of that forbidden, aching little spot -- Joson jerked.

"Oh fuck--" he gasped, his voice muffled against the table.

"Oh yes," Miranda grinned, curling again. "There you are."

Her thrusts were slow, deliberate. One finger, wet and insistent, massaging his prostate with the skill of someone who'd done this a hundred times -- and loved every moment. Each pass made his legs shake, his breath hitch, his cock spill another bead of clear, shamed need.

He was panting now. Not from pain.

From heat.

From the unbearable, slow burn of being opened.

Used.

Seen.

Miranda leaned over him, her breasts brushing lightly across his back as her voice purred low and possessive in his ear.

"This hole's gonna learn," she said. "You understand me, baby? I'm not just fingering you."

She pressed deeper.

"I'm claiming you."

And he moaned -- broken, obedient, consumed.

She smiled.

And fucked him just a little deeper.

Miranda withdrew her finger slowly, leaving Joson gasping into the cradle, his hole twitching open, oiled and sensitive. She said nothing at first -- just let the silence stretch. The air shifted.

Then he heard it.

The soft, deliberate sound of elastic sliding down smooth thighs. A zipper unfastened. The whisper of fabric peeling away from skin. A sock tugged off with a quiet flick. Then the other. Slow, unhurried. She was undressing.

Joson's heart thudded.

He stayed face-down, frozen, breath shallow, every nerve tight as piano wire.

Then the table creaked.

He felt her weight as she climbed onto it -- not beside him.

On top of him.

Her thighs straddled his own. Her warm, bare skin settled against his back, the curve of her hips pressing gently into his ass. The towel beneath him twisted beneath their shared heat. The slick oil made her glide as she adjusted, her breath calm, deep, deliberate above him.

Then -- unmistakably -- he felt it.

Thick.

Heavy.

Warm.

Her cock -- not imagined, not hinted at, but real, present, pressing against the small of his back and then slowly sliding down... until the head rested squarely against his slick, stretched hole.

He stiffened.

He couldn't help it.

A breath stuttered out of him -- confused, panicked, aroused beyond reason. He didn't understand what was happening, didn't know what he had agreed to, but his cock pulsed against the towel, leaking shame and heat.

Miranda leaned over him, her mouth at his ear now. Her voice was low. Close. Saturated with power.

"Still with me, sweetheart?"

He couldn't speak.

"Shhh," she soothed, hips nudging forward just enough to let the thick head of her cock nestle deeper between his cheeks -- not breaching, just resting, like a promise.

"You booked the full package, remember?" she whispered, brushing her lips against the shell of his ear. "And you've been such a good boy."

She kissed the side of his face -- soft, almost motherly -- a cruel contrast to the heavy length resting against his ass, twitching with each nervous breath he took.

"I'm proud of you, Joson," she said, firmer now. "Not many boys open up this easily."

He whimpered, helpless beneath her.

"I want you to feel that," she whispered. "Not just my cock. My pride. My approval."

She rolled her hips just a little -- enough for him to feel the full girth of her press against him.

"You're doing so well, baby. And we're just getting started."

Then she stilled.

Completely.

Letting the weight of her body, the heat of her cock, the gravity of the moment settle around him like silk and iron.

He couldn't move.

He didn't want to.

He couldn't leave -- not now.

Not like this.

Miranda's hands slid slowly down his back -- smooth, strong, oiled from the massage -- until they reached the swell of his ass. She settled there, thumbs stroking the soft, glistening flesh, then spreading him wider... wider... until Joson felt utterly exposed, opened under her in every possible way.

Her breath brushed his neck.

"So beautiful," she murmured. "So open. So ready."

He whimpered. His arms trembled against the table. He wanted to protest -- to slow things down, to understand -- but something deeper held him still. The gravity of her voice. The weight of her praise. The shameful hunger in his own trembling cock as it pressed uselessly against the towel below.

Miranda pressed her hips forward.

He could feel it now -- the blunt heat of her cockhead, slick with oil and precum, nudging insistently at the entrance of his ass. That first contact was electric -- not penetration, not yet, but threat. Promise. Pressure.

"You're doing so well," she whispered. "I know it's a lot. And I know it's going to hurt."

She kissed his shoulder.

"And you're going to take it anyway, aren't you?"

Joson's breath hitched. He didn't say yes. He didn't have to.

Miranda's hands gripped his hips, spreading him wider still, until the skin stretched tight and his hole pulsed open like it already knew what was coming.

"Breathe," she said softly.

Then she pushed.

The pressure was instant -- massive.

Her cockhead pressed against his virgin hole, then forced its way inside -- slow, steady, relentless.

Joson cried out.

Not loud -- but raw. A strangled sound, torn from his throat as the thick crown spread him open. The stretch was brutal. A burn that felt like it split him from the inside. His thighs shook. His fingers clawed uselessly at the edge of the table.

Miranda didn't stop.

Just an inch.

Maybe two.

But enough to fill him with a hot, stabbing ache that made his vision blur.

"Shhh," she purred above him, her voice richer now -- indulgent, powerful. "That's it. That's the stretch, baby. You feel that? That's your body learning who owns it now."

Joson sobbed -- not from tears, but from the overwhelming weight of it all. The pain. The surrender. The impossible girth already lodged in his trembling hole.

"Good boy," Miranda whispered, dragging her tongue along his neck. "I'm proud of you. Taking me like this. Letting me in."

She held him open with both hands now, her cock buried just past the crown, thick and pulsing.

Joson trembled beneath her, impaled and pinned, breath shallow, mouth open.

And Miranda?

She stilled inside him -- letting him feel every impossible inch.

No thrusting. No motion.

Just possession.

A slow, delicious cruelty.

Miranda's hips rolled forward.

Not hard -- not yet -- but with a deliberate, slow thrust that pushed more of her cock into Joson's trembling ass. He gasped, the sound torn from somewhere deep, guttural, helpless. The stretch turned sharper now -- pain blooming hot at the edges of the pressure, a searing ache as her thick shaft forced its way deeper.

"Oh--f-fuck--" he choked out, hands fisting against the towel.

She didn't slow.

"Breathe," she commanded, her voice calm, dark, unbearably close to his ear. "You're taking it. That's all that matters. Doesn't matter if it hurts."

She pushed again.

Deeper.

His body tried to resist, muscles clenching instinctively, but Miranda's weight held him still. Her hands slid around his waist, pulling him back against her, anchoring him as her cock pushed further into the tight, spasming heat of his virgin hole.

The table creaked beneath them.

His legs quivered, ass stretched impossibly wide now, the oil easing her glide but doing nothing to dull the thick, brutal pressure of her filling him.

"You feel that?" she hissed, thrusting again -- deeper this time, harder. "That's your hole learning its purpose."

Joson cried out, mouth pressed against the cushion, face flushed and slick with sweat.

Miranda grinned.

"That's right," she growled, driving into him now with steady, merciless rhythm. "Take it. Take my cock. You booked the full package, remember?"

Her hips snapped forward -- wet, solid, punishing.

The sound of her body slapping against his filled the room: sharp and obscene, skin on skin, echoing between gasps.

Joson moaned -- high, broken, desperate.

His cock was rock hard, untouched, trapped beneath him and drooling helplessly onto the towel.

"God, you're tight," Miranda groaned, her breath hot against the back of his neck. "So fucking tight, baby. But you're opening up for me. I can feel it."

She rocked her hips now, deeper, fuller -- dragging herself out an inch, then slamming back in, her cock punching through the resistance until his body accepted it, swallowed it, burned around it.

He sobbed with every thrust.

And she smiled against his skin, licking the sweat from his spine.

"You're going to remember this," she whispered, fucking him raw now, deep strokes that left him whimpering with every invasion. "Every time you sit. Every time you cum. You'll feel me."

Her hands gripped his hips tighter.

And she drove herself in deeper.

Miranda's thrusts slowed... then stopped.

She stayed buried in him for a moment longer -- cock throbbing inside his wrecked, stretched hole -- then withdrew with one long, slick pull, the head dragging wetly from his heat, leaving his ass quivering, gaping, open.

Joson whimpered at the sudden emptiness.

She climbed off the table, fluid and unhurried, her bare feet landing on the floor with a soft, wet slap. The table creaked in her absence. The oil on her thighs shimmered in the dim light, a sheen of sweat catching the golden glow as she stood tall, powerful, between his splayed legs.

"Up," she said.

Her voice was calm, but unyielding.

"Off the table. On your knees."

Joson's arms trembled as he pushed himself up. His legs barely obeyed. The moment his feet touched the ground, his knees buckled -- raw, aching, weak from the relentless pounding. He lowered himself, naked, slick, face flushed and eyes glassy.

Kneeling.

Right in front of her.

He didn't dare look up at first -- just stared at the floor, hands on his thighs, breath shuddering. But Miranda reached down and took his chin between two fingers.

"Look."

He obeyed.

And saw her.

Fully.

Her cock glistened -- long, thick, heavy -- slicked with lube and his own slick, the shaft veined and proud, swaying slightly as she shifted her weight from one hip to the other. It looked even bigger now, standing inches from his face, glistening and still pulsing with heat. Her balls hung low, full, commanding, a glint of sweat at their base.

Joson's lips parted without thought.

"Oh my God..."

Miranda smirked, tilting her hips forward slightly, letting the head of her cock hover just shy of his mouth.

"You didn't think it was real, did you?"

He shook his head slowly -- eyes wide, pupils blown. He could barely breathe. It was beautiful. Intimidating. Devastating.

And he had just taken it in his ass.

"Good boys kneel for it," Miranda said, her tone silk over steel. "And now that you've felt it..."

She leaned down, her voice a whisper just above his lips.

"You're going to learn how to worship it."

She didn't move it forward.

She didn't have to.

Joson was already leaning in -- trembling, staring -- his mouth hanging open, breath hot against the slick head of her cock.

Waiting.

Needing.

Miranda smiled down at him -- towering, proud, glowing with dominance.

And said nothing more.

Not yet.

She let him kneel.

And stare.

And want.

Miranda tilted her hips just enough for her cock to graze his lips -- a warm, wet kiss of heat that made Joson shiver. The scent of her filled his lungs: sweat, oil, and something deeper -- raw, dark, unmistakably carnal. He opened his mouth instinctively, tongue flicking out, trembling with anticipation.

But she pulled back.

Just an inch.

"No," she said. Calm. Sharp. Dangerous. "Not like that."

Joson blinked up at her, dazed.

"You want this?" she asked, letting her cock hover just beyond reach, gleaming with slick. "Then beg for it."

He whimpered.

"Say it."

"P--please..."

"Not good enough."

Her fingers slid into his hair, gripping the back of his skull, tilting his head back, forcing him to meet her eyes.

"Beg for my cock, Joson. Use that pretty mouth the way it's meant to be used."

His cheeks burned, but he obeyed -- lips trembling, throat raw from earlier cries.

"Please... I want it. I want your cock in my mouth. I want to serve it. To taste it. I want you to use my throat."

Her smile was slow and cruel.

"Good boy."

She stepped forward.

And fed it to him.

The head pressed past his lips in one smooth motion, smearing his tongue with the taste of oil and salt and power. He tried to breathe through his nose, to keep still, to let her guide the rhythm. But Miranda didn't give him that luxury.

Her hips rolled forward.

Hard.

The thick shaft slammed past his tongue, stretching his mouth wide. His lips sealed around the girth instinctively as the head punched against the back of his throat. He gagged -- eyes flying open -- but she held him in place with a tight grip in his hair.

"Shhh," she cooed. "No backing out now."

Then she pulled back.

And fucked forward.

Harder.

Faster.

Her cock rammed into his mouth over and over -- slick, heavy, brutal -- driving his face toward her hips as spit gushed from the corners of his lips. It streamed down his chin in glistening ropes, pooling under his jaw, staining the towel near his knees.

Gag.

Gag.

Choke.

Her balls slapped against his chin.

His jaw ached, stretched to its limit, lips raw, eyes watering.

But she didn't stop.

She used his mouth like it was nothing more than a hole.

A dripping, eager, obedient hole.

"That's it," she growled, thrusting deep, hips slamming. "Take it. Take my cock down that pretty throat."

Joson's fingers clutched at her thighs for balance, but she didn't slow -- if anything, her pace grew rougher. Her breath hitched, her moans turned to snarls, her thighs flexed as she buried herself again and again, forcing the length down until his throat convulsed around her.

He couldn't breathe.

Couldn't speak.

Could only serve.

His face was soaked -- eyes streaming, chin glossy, strings of spit swinging between them with every savage thrust.

And Miranda?

She smiled down at him.

Like a queen.

"Good boy," she breathed. "You gag so pretty on my cock."

Then she shoved even deeper -- her hips flush to his face, the base grinding against his swollen lips -- and held him there, buried.

He gurgled around her, helpless.

Suffocating on the length he'd begged to worship.

And in that moment -- face fucked, drooling, broken -- Joson belonged to her entirely.

Miranda's hips jerked forward one final time -- deep, punishing -- until the base of her cock was flush against Joson's swollen lips, his face slick and red from the relentless pounding. Her fingers clenched in his hair, holding him still, his nose buried in her skin, his throat stretched to its absolute limit.

She gasped -- low and feral -- her breath stalling.

Then it hit.

Her cock pulsed hard, once, twice--

And then she came.

Hot.

Violent.

A sudden flood of thick, salty release spilling directly into his throat.

Joson gagged.

The first stream was heavy -- it hit the back of his tongue with force, too fast to swallow, forcing his throat to contract around her shaft in a helpless spasm. He whimpered, muffled and trembling, as Miranda held him in place, riding every shudder of release deep into his mouth.

"Don't you dare spill a drop," she hissed, voice shaking with pleasure and authority.

Another pulse.

Then another.

Each spurt of cum warmer than the last -- coating his tongue, leaking past the seal of his lips to drip down his chin in viscous, pearly strands. It was everywhere -- thick and raw and undeniably hers.

Joson's eyes fluttered.

His jaw trembled as he struggled to swallow, to keep up, to obey.

Miranda looked down at him, flushed and glowing, her cock still buried in his mouth, her breath ragged, her body alive with the thrill of release. His face was a mess -- chin glistening, cheeks flushed, eyes red-rimmed and wet -- and she'd never seen anything more beautiful.

"My good little cumdump," she whispered, stroking his cheek with her slick thumb. "You took it so well."

She slid her cock halfway out -- just the head resting on his tongue now -- and watched as the last drops of her climax oozed from the tip. Joson didn't flinch. He let it drip onto his tongue, let it pool there.

His lips closed softly.

He swallowed.

Slowly.

Willingly.

And Miranda?

She smiled.

Wide.

Wicked.

Proud.

Joson stepped into the reception area, the door closing softly behind him with a muted click.

The lighting felt brighter out here -- too bright -- the sterile calm of the front room a stark contrast to the heavy, dark heat he'd just been released from. His legs ached. His jaw was sore. His ass throbbed with every careful step, his walk stiff and slightly uneven no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

The woman at the front desk looked up.

And smiled.

Not polite. Not professional.

Knowing.

Her eyes slid over him with casual amusement, lingering just a second too long on the flush at his throat, the tousled hair, the faint stain at the collar of his shirt.

Then her lips curved wider. "Well done, Miranda," she murmured under her breath -- just loud enough for him to hear.

Another receptionist, seated nearby and pretending to be checking the calendar, chuckled softly. "Fun day for her," she said, not bothering to look up.

Joson froze.

His ears burned.

He didn't speak -- just gave a nod, eyes lowered, and moved toward the exit as calmly as he could manage.

But he felt their eyes on him.

Watching.

Smiling.

They knew.

And as the door swung open and the cool outside air hit his skin, he felt it deep in his sore, stretched body:

He belonged to something now.

And they all knew it.