Housewife Needing Bolstering

Savannah Bond strolls into the massage parlor with one goal—get the usual knots pummeled out of her back. Only problem: her regular guy is on vacation. In steps Scarlett Sage, clipboard in hand, all smiles and zero clue. Savannah explains her back’s staging a revolt and the old routine only buys her a couple pain-free hours before the ache slaps back like an overeager fan. Scarlett’s eyebrows hop. “Ever tried a bolster massage?” she asks. “Puts you belly-down over a pillow wedge so I can really get in there.” Savannah shrugs and follows her. Stretched out, hips propped high, Savannah’s feeling exposed in the best worst way. Scarlett digs fingertips along her spine, then launches into casual interrogation like they’re old pals at brunch. “What do you do all day?” she asks between strokes. Savannah mumbles something about being a housewife and not lifting anything heavier than grocery bags. “So… emotional stress maybe?” Scarlett presses. The silence stretches a beat too long. Finally Savannah sighs into the sheet and admits her marriage feels like somebody else’s idea. Dig a little deeper and the real confession tumbles out: she’s been quietly, agonizingly questioning whether she even likes men. Scarlett pauses, wipes oil off her palms. “Okay, hear me out—this might sound nuts.” She leans in, voice dropped to conspiratorial. “Quick round of lesbian sex might loosen whatever you’ve bottled up.” Savannah’s head jerks halfway up. Scarlett keeps the patter light, swears the post-climax glow beats any analgesic on the shelf. Savannah stares at the floor tiles, cheeks burning, then gives a shaky nod. Two seconds later, hands stop pretending they’re professional and start exploring for real.