Feeling Her Way

Kenna nearly trips on her own sandals when Zariah struts in. The trans influencer has the kind of ass that makes Kenna’s brain short-circuit, and the nose-ring glints like it knows every dirty secret Kenna’s ever kept. She swallows, slaps on her professional smile, and mumbles something about warm towels while her thighs tingle. Glasses off. Gone. Kenna hears the tiny clink, feels them vanish under the massage table somewhere south of her kneecaps. Everything turns into cream-blurred shapes. No backup pair, no time to fish them out without looking like a total goober. She shrugs, wipes her palms on her shorts, and tells herself she’s done harder things on zero caffeine. Hands meet skin anyway. Kenna starts on Zariah’s shoulders and forgets the exact placement of her pinky finger. It skates across a nipple and Zariah lets out a surprised little “whoa.” Kenna’s face burns red, yet she keeps rubbing like the brush-off is part of the program. Next pass, her wrist bumps Zariah’s half-hard cock—soft-cool at first, then thicker under the sheet—and Kenna swears she hears the table squeak when both of them twitch at once. “Sorry—blind as a bat here,” she mumbles, though the heat in her ears says she’s anything but apologetic. She adjusts, tries to be clinical, but finds herself cupping an ass cheek for “leverage.” Zariah lifts slightly, offers a tiny encouraging roll of hips, and suddenly Kenna’s fingers glide lower, parting slick folds, brushing the soft ridge of skin between cunt and shaft that she definitely wasn’t licensed to touch. Zariah moans through a laugh. The room smells like lavender oil and mutual trouble. Kenna keeps going, no glasses, no plan, just muscle memory and the kind of reckless curiosity that turns accidental strokes into deliberate circles around Zariah’s clit. When fingers finally curl inside and her palm presses the hardening cock above it, both women exhale like they’ve been waiting for exactly this slip-up all afternoon.