Masseuse In The Making

Stevie Moon and Lysagna DelRay just walked in from the job fair buzzing like two soda cans somebody shook up. Lysagna had grinned through every booth, but Stevie? She looked like the fish who’d just learned water wasn’t free. “I still got nothing,” Stevie sighed, flopping on the bed like her brain had short-circuited. Lysagna tapped her chin, then her eyes lit. “You love touching stuff. How about massage work?” Stevie snorted, then grinned. “Worth a shot.” No second thought—they kicked off shoes, stripped shirts and pants until the room felt warmer than it should, and Lysagna flopped onto her stomach wearing only plain white panties. Stevie straddled her hips, palms sliding across bare shoulders, digging into knots. Every slow press sent a zip of heat up both their spines. Lysagna’s breathing hitched; Stevie’s fingertips dipped lower, tracing the dip of her waist. Heat pooled low in Stevie’s belly, slick starting to soak through cotton, and Lysagna felt it too—nipples tightening, a slow throb echoing between her legs. Stevie’s hands trembled but didn’t stop. She kneaded the sides of Lysagna’s hips, thumbs brushing dangerously close to the waistband. Lysagna pushed back into the touch. “Keep going,” she whispered. Stevie slid the panties down just enough to cup bare cheeks, slick fingers grazing the crease, and both girls moaned like the test had turned into a dare.