Author: Akiko

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“One more song,” I said, already fumbling for my wallet. “Right now. Please.”

Scarlett laughed, surprised, and took the twenty. “Greedy. I like it.”

She didn’t take my hand off her waist. She climbed back on, faced me, and this time she didn’t hold anything back. She pushed my head back against the couch and ground down on me in long, hard strokes, the soft heat between her legs dragging up and down the length of my trapped cock.

“Is this what you needed?” she whispered. “After your terrible week?”

“Yes. Fuck, yes.”

She arched back, tits bouncing, and rolled her hips faster. My balls drew up tight. I knew what was happening and I couldn’t stop it. She knew too. She saw it in my face and leaned in close, lips brushing mine without kissing.

“Go on,” she breathed. “I won’t tell.”

I came in my jeans. Right there, thrusting up against her, groaning into her hair, pulsing hot and helpless inside my boxers while she rode me through every twitch.

She slowed. Stopped. Kissed my cheek.

“That’s a first for this booth,” she said. “Well. Not really. But it’s a first for tonight.”

The buzzer went. She hooked her bra back on, patted my chest and was gone, off to her next customer, before I could even think of asking her name.

I sat there in a cooling wet patch for five minutes, then walked very carefully out to the car park, holding my jacket in front of me. At the car I stopped, keys in hand, and looked back at the neon lips over the door. I still didn’t know her name.

→ I wait by my car until closing time

→ I give up, drive home and put my jeans in the wash

← Back

I counted out another hundred and pressed it into her hand. “That’s for being lovely. And if you want, I’ll stay until close.”

She looked at the money, then at me. “And then what?”

“Then whatever you want. Or nothing.”

I stayed. Two more hours of watching her on the stage, her eyes finding mine every time. At two the lights came up, Dez herded everyone out, and Scarlett caught my sleeve at the door.

“Dez,” she called. “He’s with me. Ten minutes.”

Dez sighed and locked the front door behind us.

She led me back through the curtain to the same booth, the club empty and silent now. She was still in her lace, her makeup a little smudged, and she pulled my shirt over my head before I could say anything.

“Now you can touch,” she said.

I touched everything. I kissed her mouth, her freckled throat, her small hard nipples. She shoved my jeans down and wrapped her hand round my cock, stroking it, gasping at how hard it was. I peeled her knickers down and found her soaking.

She pushed me back on the velvet, took a condom from her garter, rolled it on me and sank down slow, every inch, moaning.

She rode me hard, hands on my chest. I grabbed her hips at last and fucked up into her, her tits bouncing, the couch thumping the wall. She came grinding on me, shaking, and I came seconds later, buried deep.

“Bryony,” she whispered against my neck. “My real name. Come for breakfast.”

→ I say yes to breakfast

→ I play it cool and tell her I’ll text her

← Back

I pushed up on my elbows. “Honestly, I’ll get dressed. I’ll rebook with someone else. No harm done.”

Something flickered across her face. Disappointment, maybe. Then she folded her arms.

“Don’t be silly. You’ve paid, you’re here, and Jenna’s fully booked. I’m a professional, Mark. I do this eight times a day.”

“Right. Of course.”

“So lie down.” She clicked the oil bottle open. “Ground rules. This is a massage. You keep the towel on, I keep my hands where they belong, and we never, ever mention it at Sunday lunch.”

“Deal.”

I lay back down. She started at my shoulders, and the first long stroke was so good I groaned into the face cradle. She went quiet for a second, then kept working.

Professional. Absolutely professional. Except her breathing was a little too careful, and every time she leaned over me I could smell her shampoo, the same one she’d used since she was twenty-two.

She worked down my back, slow and thorough. Her thumbs found the knot I’d been complaining about for a month and dug in until I hissed.

“Sorry,” she murmured.

“Don’t be. That’s the spot.”

“I know where your spots are.” She stopped. “That came out wrong.”

“Did it?”

Silence. Her hands didn’t move for a long beat. I could feel the heat of her palms through the oil, resting low on my back, right at the edge of the towel.

She was nervous. Claire, who is never nervous about anything.

→ I promise her I’ll behave and let her work

→ I ask her quietly why she’s so nervous

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“We’re adults,” I said. “It’s a massage. Do your worst.”

“Careful what you ask for.” She warmed the oil between her palms, and the first stroke down my spine made me exhale like I’d been holding my breath for eleven years.

She was good. Really good. Strong thumbs along the muscles either side of my spine, heels of her hands sinking into the knots. Every so often she leaned her weight in and I felt her hip brush the edge of the table, right by my arm.

“You’re carrying a lot of tension,” she said.

“Long month.”

“Long decade?” A pause. “Sorry. Professional voice. Ignore me.”

We talked about nothing. Her flat, Helen’s new job, their mum’s knee. Normal family chatter, except her hands kept sliding lower, working the dip of my back, fingertips grazing the edge of the towel where it sat across my arse.

Then she folded the towel down an inch. Then another. Her palms pressed into the top of my glutes, slow, firm circles, oil running warm into places that were definitely not my lower back.

“Is this pressure okay?”

“It’s… yeah. It’s fine.”

It was not fine. My cock was crushed hard against the table and I was very glad to be face down.

She laughed softly, like she knew exactly what was happening. The air in that little room had gone thick and sweet with oil and something else.

I could feel the wedding hanging between us, unspoken, the way it always was.

→ I bring up the wedding and what she whispered to me that night

→ I tell her she has incredible hands and let her lead

← Back

“Why are you so nervous, Claire?”

She laughed, too loud. “I’m not nervous.”

“Your hands are shaking.”

They were. Just slightly, on my lower back. She pulled them away and I heard her set the oil down on the counter.

“Because it’s you,” she said finally. “Because I’ve had a stupid thing about you since I was twenty, and I’ve spent eleven years making sure I was never alone in a room with you, and now I’m alone in a room with you and you’re naked.”

I turned my head to look at her. She was pink to the ears, arms crossed under her breasts, pushing them up against the scrubs.

“The wedding,” I said.

“The wedding,” she agreed. “I meant every word. I’ve been mortified about it ever since.”

“I’ve thought about it every single time I’ve seen you.”

Her lips parted. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true.”

She came back to the table. She put her hands on my shoulders and started working again, but it wasn’t a massage anymore. Her fingers moved slow and greedy over my skin, down my sides, along my ribs, like she was memorising me. When she leaned over to reach my far shoulder, her breasts dragged across my back, soft and heavy, nipples hard through the cotton.

She didn’t pull away. She stayed there, pressed against me, breathing hard.

“Tell me to stop,” she whispered.

→ I sit up, take her face in my hands and kiss her

→ I tell her we should talk about this first

← Back

I settled into the cradle. “I’ll behave. Promise. Pretend I’m any other client.”

“Any other client,” she said. “Sure.”

She kept her word, and so did I. For a while. She worked my back and shoulders with deep, deliberate strokes, and I kept my breathing even and my mind on spreadsheets, traffic, anything.

Then she moved to my legs.

She folded the towel up over one thigh, tucking it tight against my hip, and started at my calf. Long, oiled strokes up toward my knee. Then past it. Her palms swept up the back of my thigh, fingers spread wide, and stopped an inch from where the towel was tucked. Then back down. Then up again, a little higher.

Spreadsheets. Traffic.

“You’re tense here,” she murmured, and her thumb pressed into the inside of my thigh, right up high. My cock jumped against the table so hard I swear she felt it through my leg.

She didn’t say anything. She just kept doing it.

By the second leg I was shaking. She was leaning over me now, her body close, her breath warm on the back of my thigh as she worked. Her fingertips kept brushing the edge of the towel and lingering there, like she was testing a stove to see if it was hot.

“Still behaving?” she asked softly.

“Trying.”

“Good boy.” She stopped. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Say it again,” I nearly said. I didn’t. I bit the inside of my cheek and gripped the table.

→ I stay silent and just let her keep going

→ I tell her I’ve wanted her hands on me for years

← Back

I let out a long breath. “Claire, you have incredible hands. I mean it. Do whatever you think I need.”

“Whatever I think you need,” she repeated, amused. “Dangerous thing to say to a masseuse.”

But I felt her relax. The tightness went out of her shoulders, and her strokes got longer, more confident. She worked the backs of my thighs, thumbs gliding up from my knees, higher each time, until her fingertips were brushing the crease under my arse and stopping, just there, again and again.

The towel slid. She didn’t fix it.

“You’ve got a nice back,” she said casually. “Helen never mentioned.”

“Helen doesn’t talk about my back much.”

“No. She doesn’t talk about you much at all lately.” A pause. “Sorry. Not my business.”

Her hand slid up the inside of my thigh, slow, slick with oil, close enough that her knuckle grazed my balls where they were pressed against the table. It could have been an accident. It wasn’t. I bit down on a groan.

“Pressure okay?”

“Perfect,” I managed.

She did it again. Slower.

My cock was a steel bar trapped under me, and I was fairly sure I’d left a wet spot on the sheet. My heart was hammering.

Then she stepped back and lifted the towel by its corners, holding it up like a curtain.

“Okay,” she said, and her voice wasn’t quite steady. “Time to turn over.”

→ I turn over slowly and don’t try to hide my erection

→ I bunch the towel over my lap and crack a joke

← Back

“Do you remember what you said to me at the wedding?”

Her hands stopped dead on my arse.

“Mark.”

“You said, ‘If she ever gets bored of you, I won’t.'” I kept my face in the cradle. Easier that way. “I’ve thought about it more than I should have.”

For a long moment there was nothing but the hum of the heater and the soft whale music she’d put on. Then she let out a shaky breath.

“I was drunk.”

“Were you?”

“Not that drunk.” Her hands started moving again, slower now, firmer, kneading my glutes in deep circles that pulled the towel lower with each pass. “That’s not fair, bringing it up while you’ve got me with my hands on your arse.”

“You put them there.”

“It’s a glute release. It’s legitimate.” Her thumb slid down the crease where my thigh met my arse, oiled and slow, and my hips twitched against the table. “Mostly legitimate.”

My cock was throbbing, trapped and leaking against the sheet. She leaned over me, and I felt her breasts press soft and heavy against my shoulder blade for one long second before she straightened.

“This is a terrible idea,” she whispered.

“I know.”

“Helen is my sister.”

“I know.”

“So why are you so fucking hard right now? Don’t lie. I can see you grinding.”

I was. I hadn’t even noticed. Her voice had gone low and rough, nothing professional left in it at all.

→ I roll over and let her see exactly what she’s doing to me

→ I apologise and tell her to forget I said anything

← Back

“Wait,” I said, and sat up, holding the towel in my lap. “Claire. We should talk about this first.”

She blinked at me, breathless, cheeks pink. “Talk?”

“I don’t want this to be something we both regret at Christmas.”

For a second I thought she’d be angry. Then her face crumpled into something softer, and she sat down on the stool beside the table.

“God, you’re so annoyingly decent,” she said. “That’s half the problem. You know that?”

We talked. Really talked, for the first time in eleven years. About the wedding. About how she’d cried in the toilets afterwards. About Helen and me, how we’ve been more like flatmates for two years, separate hobbies, separate bedtimes. About her last boyfriend, who she dumped because he wasn’t, quote, “enough like you, which is fucked up, I know.”

Her hand found my knee while she talked. Mine found hers. Our fingers laced together.

“So what do we do?” she asked finally.

“I don’t know.”

She looked at the clock. Twenty-five minutes left on the session. Then she looked at the towel in my lap, which was doing nothing at all to hide that I was still rock hard.

She gave a slow, wicked little smile.

“Well,” she said. “You’ve got twenty-five minutes paid for. And I’ve got a steam room out back that’s closed for cleaning till four.”

My throat went dry.

→ I ask her out to dinner instead, properly

→ I tell her to show me the steam room