Today is the day I have to be extra cautious. R comes in—earlier than usual.
Thursdays around 7 p.m. have become our unofficial date. She always shows up looking tired, sometimes carrying that quiet kind of sadness that people wear when no one's watching. I always imagine her working in one of those sleek high-rises, an office wrapped in glass, the city lights reflecting off her skin while she stares out, daydreaming of an escape.
She knows the routine by now. I leave the disposable underwear and robe on the massage table, step out, give her privacy. When I knock and ask if I can come in, she always pauses—never immediately answers—like she's gathering courage, or maybe anticipation. When she finally says, "Come in," I find her waiting in that robe. There's a tension in the air that no essential oil can hide. When she get nervous, she always eats a piece of the complimentary fruits.
I make the bed with an extra sheet, moving quickly and quietly, pretending to be all business. I ask her softly, "Shall we begin?" She nods.
When I lift the towel in front of me to give her privacy, all I see is white cotton and restraint.
Today, she took longer to undress. She moved like she had something to say but swallowed it instead. When she finally lay down and said she was ready, it felt like more than a massage—it felt like the start of a ritual. One laced with longing, respect, and something unspoken that hummed under my skin.
Maybe it was the compliment she gave me earlier about my haircut—simple, offhanded, but sincere. Maybe it was how her eyes lingered on mine a second too long. Whatever it was, it cracked something open in me. I wanted, so badly, to pull the towel away and flip her over. Lock her hips with my hands and look her straight in the eye. I wanted to trace every inch of her—the delicate slope of her nose, the curve of her jaw, the vulnerable length of her neck. Her shoulders, her fingers, her soufflés breasts moving with her breath, the secret of her navel, her thighs that always shiver at my touch.
And then—I shouldn't continue—I wanted to kneel before the dark mystery hidden by that disposable slip of fabric. My mouth watering with reverence. I could tear the panties with one pull, bury my face in her warmth. But I won't.
Not unless she tells me to.
I fantasize about using only my teeth—slowly tugging the panties down, brushing my lips across her hips, feeling her gasp beneath me. Her hips always react first. Goosebumps. A soft quiver. Like they remember me, even if she doesn't say it out loud.
But she's a client. She's R. She's... untouchable.
So I massage. I worship in silence. Every touch careful, professional—except maybe for the extra five minutes I always give her at the end. My secret indulgence. A small rebellion.
When it's time to say goodbye, my hands linger just a moment too long, already counting down the days until next Thursday.