Massage Michael


His name is Massage Michael. Well, that’s what everyone calls him. He is notorious on the beach. He wears a hot pink sombrero and red shorts, and usually has his hands full of woman.

For years, he has been coercing innocent young things to allow him to paw, grope, and stroke them in the name of Therapeutic Massage. He prowls the beach, searching for women in bikinis, and once he finds a slice of particularly enticing prey, he pounces. He offers a free massage.

Lately, he has been tag-teaming women, two at a time. He lays them side by side, and strokes them, joy on his face. He slides his hands up and down their bodies, ecstatic. Massage Michael is a wolf in white man’s clothing. His furry grey ears are barely concealed by his enormous sombrero. I wonder if he occasionally drips saliva onto his unsuspecting victims.

Right now, however, a strange thing has happened. Massage Michael is being massaged. A busty woman in a cowboy hat has laid him down and is rolling his flesh between her fingers like a butcher assessing a slab of meat. Raw, tasty meat. She likes what she feels.

A smile lifts the corner of her hungry mouth. She leans forward stroking his back, her quivering breasts barely restrained by her pesky black swimsuit. Her thighs bulge, her back glistens. She digs her thumbs into his shoulders and rocks back and forth rather… inappropriately. One almost feels… dirty… watching her. It appears that she’s twitterpated with young Michael.

Who knew the wolf would finally meet his match?

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