Midday Musings and Cheeto Dust

The strip mall hummed with the midday lull, falafel grease wafting from the joint next door like an unwanted perfume. Tomohiro wiped his brow with a meaty forearm, his bald scalp gleaming under the fluorescent buzz of the massage parlor. He leaned against the counter, chatting with Lena, his boss, a no-nonsense woman with a smoker’s rasp and a perpetual squint from years of dim-lit rooms.

“Chasity’s been rebooking like clockwork this summer,” Tomohiro said, his voice thick with a faint accent. “That girl’s got knots in her shoulders that could snap a guitar string. Her mom swears by the deep tissue—says campus spas are a joke.”

Lena chuckled, flipping through the appointment ledger. “You’ve got a magic touch, Tomo. Just don’t get too friendly. Last thing we need is another complaint.” She paused, eyeing him. “Speaking of, Titi hasn’t been in for months. You miss her? That spicy musk of hers used to linger in the back room like a bad habit.”

Tomohiro grunted, a flush creeping up his neck. He remembered Titi’s dark skin slick with oil, the way her body had arched under his hands during that couples session, the flimsy curtain barely muffling her husband Ahmed’s oblivious snores in the next bed. The guilt had hit him hard after, but damn if her scent—earthy, spiced like the falafel next door—didn’t haunt his dreams. “Yeah, well, life moves on. Clients come and go.”

The bell above the door jingled, cutting their talk short. In shuffled a girl, phone glued to her ear, one hand buried in a crinkling bag of Hot Cheetos. She was decked out in Cookie Monster pajamas—fuzzy blue pants sagging low on her hips, the top cropped to show a sliver of toned midriff. Her hair was a wild tangle, orange dust smudged on her fingers and lips like war paint. She paced right up to the counter, ignoring the waiting area’s worn armchairs.

“Dad, I’m not a fucking kid anymore!” she snapped into the phone, her voice a mix of English and rapid Spanish. “You treat me like I’m still braiding dolls or some shit. The shop’s yours, fine, but I’m eighteen—act like it!” She rolled her eyes, crunching a Cheeto loudly. “Yeah, whatever. I’m busy. Call later.”

She hung up, tossing the phone onto the counter with a clatter, and fixed Lena with a glare. “I need a massage. Now. This stress is killing me—dad’s on my ass about attitude at the tattoo shop next door. Like, who gives a fuck? I’m an adult, not his little princesa.”

Lena raised an eyebrow, unfazed by the rudeness. “Name? And what kind—Swedish, deep tissue?”

“Maria,” she said, popping another Cheeto into her mouth, licking the dust off her thumb with deliberate slowness. “Doesn’t matter. Just make it hurt so good I forget my life. And hurry up—I ain’t got all day.”

Tomohiro stepped forward, his bulk filling the space behind the counter. He wasn’t nervous like his early days here, but this one had fire. “I got this, Lena. Back room’s free.”

Maria eyed him up and down—fat, bald, Asian, sweat already beading on his forehead from the parlor’s stuffy heat. “You? Fine, whatever. Lead the way, big guy.”

Lena smirked as Tomohiro guided Maria down the short hall, the air thick with eucalyptus oil and faint echoes of a neighbor’s TV. The back room was sparse: a padded table, dim lamp, shelves of lotions. He closed the door, the click loud in the quiet.

“PJs off,” he said matter-of-factly, turning to prep the oils. “Under the sheet, face down. We start with shoulders.”

Maria hesitated, kicking off her fuzzy slippers. “You some perv? These are comfy.” But she stripped anyway, peeling the top over her head to reveal perky tits, nipples hardening in the cool air. The pants followed, pooling at her ankles, exposing a trimmed bush and ass cheeks dusted faintly orange from lounging with her snack. She slid onto the table, pulling the thin sheet up to her waist, but not before Tomohiro caught a whiff of her—sweat-mixed with artificial cheese spice.

He warmed the oil in his palms, the slick heat making his own skin prickle. Starting at her neck, he dug in, thumbs pressing into the tight cords of muscle. Maria groaned, muffled into the face cradle. “Fuck, that’s good. Harder.”

“You carry a lot here,” he murmured, working lower, his hands broad and insistent. Sweat trickled down his back, soaking his shirt. The room warmed quickly, her body heat radiating. He remembered Chasity like this—reluctant at first, then melting during that home visit while her parents clattered pots downstairs. But Maria was different, edgier.

She shifted, the sheet slipping to expose the curve of her ass. “Dad’s always bitching. Thinks ‘cause he owns the tattoo joint, I gotta smile and nod. I’m done with that girl shit.”

Tomohiro’s fingers grazed her lower back, teasing the sheet’s edge. “Sounds heavy. Let it go. Focus on this.” He poured more oil, letting it drip along her spine, watching it pool in the dimples above her ass. His cock twitched in his pants, the fabric straining against his gut.

Maria lifted her head slightly, glancing back. “You’re not bad for a sweaty dude. Keep going.” Reluctance lingered in her tone, but her body betrayed her—legs parting just a fraction.

He obliged, hands sliding under the sheet to knead her thighs. The oil made everything glide, his thumbs brushing the soft inner skin. She tensed, then sighed, pushing back against his touch. “Shit… that’s… don’t stop.”

Emboldened, Tomohiro tugged the sheet lower, exposing her fully. Her pussy lips peeked, already glistening—not just from oil. He worked her glutes, fingers dipping closer, circling the heat between her legs. “Relaxed yet?”

“Fuck you,” she muttered, but there was no bite. Instead, she arched, giving him access. His breath hitched; sweat dripped from his brow onto her skin, mixing with the oil. He leaned in, one hand pressing her shoulders while the other ventured bolder, fingertips grazing her folds.

Maria gasped, twisting to look at him. “What the hell? This ain’t in the menu.”

“Special service,” he said, voice low. “For stress like yours.” He rubbed slow circles over her clit, feeling it swell under his touch. She bit her lip, orange dust still on her fingers as she gripped the table’s edge.

Reluctant eyes met his, but she didn’t pull away. “Fine… but make it worth it, or I walk.”

Tomohiro grinned, shedding his shirt—his belly folding over his belt, sweat shining on his chest. He freed his dick from his pants, thick and veined, already leaking pre-cum. “On your knees first. Taste this.”

She slid off the table, kneeling on the mat, her tits bouncing. Hesitation flickered, but curiosity won. She wrapped a dusty hand around his shaft, the Hot Cheeto grit adding a spicy friction as she stroked. “Gross,” she said, but leaned in, tongue flicking the tip.

He groaned, tangling fingers in her hair. “Suck it.” She did, lips stretching around his girth, the heat of her mouth making him thrust shallowly. Spit dribbled down her chin, mixing with sweat from both of them. He face-fucked her gently at first, then deeper, her gags wet and echoing. The spice from her fingers transferred, a faint burn on his skin that made him harder.

Maria pulled back, coughing, but dove in again, sucking with reluctant enthusiasm. “You’re fucking huge,” she mumbled around him, one hand dipping to her pussy, rubbing herself.

Tomohiro pulled her up, bending her over the table doggy-style. Her ass up, pussy exposed and dripping. He spat on his dick, the glob landing thick, then positioned at her entrance. “Ready?”

“Do it,” she demanded, pushing back.

He thrust in, slow at first, her walls clenching tight around him. Sweat poured off him, dripping onto her back as he built rhythm—deep, slapping strokes. The table creaked, her moans filling the room. “Fuck, yes… harder.”

He obliged, hands gripping her hips, belly slapping against her ass. The air reeked of sex and spice, her earlier snack scent clinging. Suddenly, her phone buzzed on the floor—Dad calling. She grabbed it, answering mid-thrust, switching to Spanish. “¿Qué, papá? Sí, estoy ocupada…”

Tomohiro didn’t stop, slowing to a grind, his cock buried deep. She bit her lip, voice steady but breathy. He leaned over, whispering, “Keep talking.” Then he spat on her pussy, the warm saliva hitting her clit as he rubbed it in with his thumb. She shuddered, words faltering—“No, todo bien… solo trabajando.”

The slapping sounds grew—wet claps of skin on skin. Her dad rambled on about shop inventory, oblivious. Tomohiro picked up pace, fucking her harder, sweat flying. Maria reached into her discarded bag, pulling out a Hot Cheeto, crunching it quietly between responses. The dust flaked onto her tits as she munched, the absurdity making her pussy tighten.

“Papá, un momento…” The call switched to FaceTime. She angled the phone carefully, showing only the blank wall, audio picking up the rhythmic clapping—fuck, fuck, fuck. “Sí, ¿qué pasa? Estoy en una reunión.”

Her dad’s voice droned, something about attitude. She nodded, phone steady, while Tomohiro railed her from behind, his balls slapping her clit. Spit from his mouth hit her ass, trickling down. She came first—hard, squirting a little onto the table, voice hitching but controlled. “Entiendo, papá… lo manejaré.”

Tomohiro pulled out, spinning her around. “Knees again.” She dropped, sucking him sloppily, tasting herself on his dick. The phone still showed the wall, her responses muffled around his cock. He face-fucked her roughly now, spit stringing from her lips, her free hand—dusted orange—jacking the base.

“Gonna cum,” he grunted. She nodded, taking him deep. He exploded, ropes of cum filling her mouth, spilling over her chin onto her Cheeto-dusted fingers. She swallowed most, wiping the rest with a smirk, still half-listening to her dad.

“Adiós, papá. Te quiero.” She hung up, collapsing back, laughing breathlessly. “That was fucked up. Hot, though.”

They cleaned up quick—towels, oil wipes—the sweat cooling on their skin. Tomohiro helped her dress, the Cookie Monster PJs absurd now. “Come back when you need more… stress relief.”

Maria grinned, grabbing her bag. “Maybe. You’re not half bad, Tomohiro.” She sauntered out, leaving the room spiced with sex and Cheetos.

Back at the counter, Lena glanced up. “She book again?”

Tomohiro nodded, wiping his neck. “Yeah. Thinks she’s an adult now.”

The bell jingled as Maria left, the falafel smell chasing her out. Tomohiro exhaled, the tension easing. For once, the job felt right—sweaty, complicated, but alive. And as the afternoon dragged on, he caught himself smiling, already anticipating her return.

. Life in the strip mall? Never dull.

Maria, meanwhile, stepped into the tattoo shop next door, phone buzzing with a text from her dad: “Proud of you, mija. Keep it professional.” She smirked, popping a Hot Cheeto, the dust a secret reminder. Adulting had its perks.