Sue Storm Does Not Hear The Call

The Fantastic Four communicator issued a distinctive beep. It was quantum-entangled, so the material of the metal locker did not interfere with the signal. The beep was loud enough that it was not unduly muffled by the clothes on top of it, or the door between the changing room and the massage room. The soundproofing installed made sure no one else could hear it.

Still, Sue Storm did not hear the call to action.

She was busy screaming.

The naked heroine was grabbing the table with both hands in a white-knuckled death grip, her ass rising and falling off the table as her hips humped the air. Nairobi had seen this before, in women who hadn't climaxed in a long time. Who weren't used to what a skillful tongue could do to a long-neglected pussy, and weren't prepared for the sensations as a slender finger slid up inside a suddenly well-lubricated twat and curled to find a g-spot.

It wasn't that Sue Storm came. It's that she lost count of how many times she came.

Her body was an unbelievably sensitive instrument, driven by sexual neglect and Moonstone's manipulations. Pale, shapely thighs shivered as spasms rocked the heroine's body, her pussy clenching tight around the intruding finger, her tiny clit almost painfully erect as the dark-skinned young woman sucked it.

Time lost all meaning. Anything outside the room lost all meaning. Sue Storm wasn't thinking about her team, family, friends, or children. She was a living instrument, and Nairobi, who had given more than one rich and undersexed white woman a happy ending, delighted in the exquisite response.

She was so getting a big tip out of this.

So engrossed was the masseuse in her task, that she ignored the beeping that was growing increasingly more frantic.

Whoever was calling, she figured, could call back. Sue Storm was occupied, and would be until their time was up.