I invited a lucky fan over for an intimate massage and as I stood over him in my sheer teal lace bra and thong, the massage table’s soft black padding crumpled beneath his back. My lucky fan lies face-up, eyes wide, with his huge BWC jutting straight up like it’s begging for me. I straddle his thighs and start the massage, palms gliding over his pecs, thumbs digging into tight shoulders, working lower until both hands wrap around that thick, veined shaft. I stroke him fast and firm, a quick, intense tease that has him groaning, then lean down and take him deep, lips sealed, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing until his hips buck off the table. I climb higher, peel my thong to the side, and sink onto him in one slow, greedy glide, moaning as he stretches me wide. I ride him hard, teal lace bouncing, hips rolling in tight circles while the table creaks beneath us. When I can’t wait any longer, I slide off, spin around on all fours, and arch my back; he grips my waist and slams into me doggy-style, deep, relentless strokes that echo through the room until we both shatter, breathless and dripping in gratitude I do have the best fans in the world.