I Need a Masseuse

Luna steps in for her massage and stops cold. Instead of Maria, it's Charles standing there, all easy confidence and oil-slick hands. She asks where the regular girl went. Family emergency, he says, and offers to step in. No thanks. She’s married and no one but her husband lays hands on her. Charles mentions the refund policy doesn’t apply. She mutters, pays, and gives in. She strips in private, then lies face-down while he rubs her back. He chatters non-stop—clients, vacations, football, whatever. She shushes him twice; he keeps rolling like the words have a mind of their own. His palms slide lower, kneading her legs, sliding over tense thighs. Too much oil pools on his fingers, so he swipes the excess across the towel covering her ass. She protests; he keeps working, pushes the fabric aside, and kneads the muscle beneath. She flips onto her back, trying to retake charge, but he moves straight to the soft flesh between her legs. She tells him to stop; he answers by sliding two fingertips across her clit in slow, confident circles. He’s seen her type before: sharp-tongued women starved of touch, married or not. He figures she booked this for relief, and he plans on delivering exactly that.