The Kickboxer

India walked in from kick-boxing like she wanted round two. Jessa started the pitch, but India cut her off every time. When Jessa dropped her robe, the silence that followed had teeth. India leaned back half an inch—half amused, half wondering what the hell she'd paid for. Jessa smiled the way sharks do and slid closer, voice low, saying she'd already taken the money and what harm could a slip of skin between them cause. One oily slide and India stopped asking questions. The second turned her breaths ragged. By the third, the trainer had gone soft in the hands of a pro, every protest melted into a moan that built until it cracked. When Jessa finally slipped a slick finger inside her, India was already moving to meet it, eyes half-lidded, hips rolling like a woman who’d forgotten why she’d walked in tense. The massage turned into a slow grind, oil and breath and quiet laughter when each new spot made India shudder. She left an hour later with shaky legs, wet hair, and a smirk that promised she’d be back after every single workout.