Gay Panic

Charlotte and Jewelz buzz the two masseuses in, both already stripped to robes and giggling like schoolgirls. Everything feels plush and sweet until the second woman clocks that her clients are married lesbians. Her smile cracks. "Really?" she spits, then starts ranting. Charlotte’s eyebrows shoot up. Jewelz’s knuckles whiten on her belt. Before anyone can toss the bigot out, she slams the door on herself. Aaliyah stands frozen, mortified, and the apologies tumble out in a flood: "I swear that’s not how we operate, I’ll comp both of you, right now, please let me fix this." The wives trade a look, the ruined vibe hanging in the air, but hey—a free massage beats sulking. They drop their robes. Aaliyah starts on Jewelz first, thumbs sliding slow up oiled thighs, fingertips circling the dimples at the base of her spine. Each pass edges closer to sacred territory. The ice cracks. Charlotte watches from the table next door, nipples tightening in the cooler air. Aaliyah moves over, palms gliding across Charlotte’s belly, knuckles grazing the swell of each breast, deliberately feather-light. The couple’s breathing turns heavier, their legs drifting wider on their own. Tension flips; now it crackles between the three of them like a struck match. Aaliyah leans in, lips brushing Charlotte’s ear. "If you want me to prove how sorry I am," she murmurs, voice husky and sweet, "just say the word."