Author: Akiko

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I sat up, took her face in both hands and kissed her.

She made a sound against my mouth like she’d been punched. Then she kissed me back, hard, fingers digging into my oiled shoulders, tongue pushing into my mouth like she was trying to climb inside me. Eleven years of it came out in one kiss.

The towel was gone. My cock was pressed against her stomach through her scrubs and she ground into it, gasping.

“Fuck,” she breathed, breaking away. “Fuck, fuck, fuck. We can’t.”

“We are.”

“Helen.”

“I know.”

She kissed me again anyway. My hands found her waist, slid up under her top, and she shivered as my oily palms ran over her ribs. She wasn’t wearing much underneath, just a thin cotton bra. I felt her nipples harden under my thumbs.

“Mark.” She was panting now, forehead against mine. “Mark, listen to me. I want you so fucking badly my knees are shaking. But Kelly’s next door and the walls are paper and I’m at work.”

I could feel her heart pounding through her chest. She was trembling all over, still pressed against my cock, rocking against it without meaning to.

“So what do you want?” I asked.

She looked down at where my hands were, under her top, cupping her tits. Then up at me. She licked her lips.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “Tell me what you want.”

→ I ask her to take her top off and let me see her

→ I pull her up onto the table with me

← Back

“Claire,” I said, very quietly. “I’ve wanted your hands on me for years.”

Her hands froze on my thigh.

I kept going, because I couldn’t stop now. “Every Christmas. Every time you hug me goodbye. I know it’s wrong. I know it’s Helen. But I’m not going to lie here and pretend this is just a massage.”

The silence went on so long I thought she’d walked out. Then I felt her forehead rest against my back, between my shoulder blades. Her breath shuddered against my skin.

“You absolute bastard,” she whispered. “Do you know how long I’ve waited for you to say that?”

“How long?”

“Since I was twenty-one. Since before the wedding.” She laughed, wet and shaky. “I used to fake headaches so I didn’t have to sit next to you.”

She lifted her head. Her hands started moving again, not like a masseuse at all now. Greedy. Trembling. She ran them up my back, over my shoulders, into my hair. She pulled the towel away and grabbed my arse with both hands and squeezed, hard, like she’d been dying to.

“Turn over,” she said.

I did. My cock sprang up, hard and leaking, and she stared at it, then at me. Her eyes were wet. Her cheeks were flushed. She looked absolutely terrified and absolutely starving.

“I don’t know what to do now,” she admitted.

→ I ask her to kiss me

→ I sit up and kiss her myself

← Back

I said nothing. I just breathed, and let her work.

Silence was worse. Or better. Without words, every stroke got louder. The slick sound of oil, the creak of the table, her breath catching every time her fingers slid up the inside of my thigh and brushed the towel.

She folded the towel higher. Then higher. Then she just took it away altogether and draped it over the stool.

I felt the cool air on my bare arse and didn’t move.

Claire made a small noise in her throat. Then her hands were on my glutes, both of them, kneading slow and deep, spreading me a little with each circle. Her thumbs slid down the crease where my arse met my thighs. She leaned over me, and this time her breasts pressed down on my back and stayed there, heavy and warm, her nipples dragging hard lines through the oil as she moved.

She was grinding against my hip. Barely, but she was. I could feel the heat of her through her scrubs.

My cock was pinned beneath me, leaking a puddle onto the sheet, throbbing every time she breathed.

“Mark,” she whispered, right by my ear. That was all. Just my name, breathless, like she was telling me a secret.

Her hand slid down between my thighs from behind, and her fingertips stroked my balls. Lightly. Once. Twice.

I was right on the edge, and she’d barely touched me.

→ I moan her name and push back into her hand

→ I roll over to face her

← Back

I grabbed the towel and bunched it in my lap as I rolled, a crumpled tent over an obvious pole.

“Don’t mind him,” I said. “He’s just here for moral support.”

Claire burst out laughing. A real laugh, the honking one Helen always teases her about. She clapped a hand over her mouth and had to turn away.

“Oh my God. Moral support.”

“He’s very supportive.”

“I can see that.” She wiped her eyes, still giggling, and the tension in the room cracked open like an egg. “Right. Okay. Lie still, you idiot.”

She did my arms and chest, laughing every so often under her breath. It was easier now. Lighter. We talked about Helen’s fortieth, about her ex, about the time I fell off the pontoon in Corfu. She rubbed oil into my stomach in slow circles, and every so often her eyes drifted down to the tented towel and she bit her lip.

The laughing stopped somewhere along the way. Her hands got slower. Her circles got lower, fingers grazing the top edge of the towel, the coarse hair just above my cock.

“He’s still supporting,” she murmured.

“He’s very committed.”

She smiled, but it was different now. Softer. She looked at the clock. Twenty minutes left.

Her hand rested flat on my stomach, right above the towel, heavy and warm. I could feel her pulse in her palm. Or maybe it was mine.

Neither of us said anything for a long moment.

→ I ask her if she still thinks about the wedding

→ I close my eyes and say nothing at all

← Back

I turned over slowly, and I didn’t reach for the towel.

My cock stood straight up off my belly, thick and dark and wet at the tip, twitching in the warm air. I didn’t apologise for it. I just lay back, put my hands behind my head and looked at her.

Claire stood there holding the towel like a matador’s cape. Her eyes went straight down. Stayed there.

“Well,” she said, her voice cracking. “That’s… a lot of tension.”

“Occupational hazard. You did that.”

“I did.” She didn’t sound sorry. She draped the towel over my thighs, below my cock, leaving it standing there between us like a question. Then she poured fresh oil into her palm and started on my chest.

She took her time. Her hands slid over my pecs, down my stomach, circling lower each pass. Her eyes flicked between my face and my cock. Her lips were parted. Her nipples were standing out like bullets through her scrubs.

On the next pass, her little finger brushed the base of my shaft. My whole body jerked.

She stopped. She looked at me, cheeks burning, and I could see the war going on behind her eyes. Helen. Christmas. Eleven years of wanting.

“Mark,” she whispered. “Do you want me to stop?”

My hands ached to reach for her. To pull those scrubs over her head and bury my face in her tits. It took everything I had to keep them behind my head.

→ I reach up and pull her down to me

→ I tell her it’s her call and I won’t touch her unless she says so

← Back

“Sorry,” I said into the cradle. “That was out of line. Forget I said anything.”

Her hands went still. Then, after a long moment, they started again, but different. Brisk. Professional. She tugged the towel back up over my arse and tucked it in firmly, like she was making a bed.

“Already forgotten,” she said.

The rest of my back got a perfectly competent massage. The kind you’d give a stranger. My cock slowly lost interest and I lay there feeling like the biggest idiot in the county.

When she moved to my shoulders, though, she paused. Her thumbs pressed into the muscle at the base of my neck, and she leaned down close, close enough that her lips almost touched my ear.

“You know what’s annoying?” she said quietly.

“What?”

“You bring it up, I finally get a chance to say something, and then you take it back.” Her thumbs dug in, almost painful. “Did you mean it or not?”

I swallowed. “Does it matter?”

“It matters to me.” Her breath was warm on my neck. “I’m not going to embarrass myself twice, Mark. If you’re going to back out the second it gets real, then let’s just finish this, you tip me, and we see each other at Christmas like nothing happened.”

She straightened up and waited. I could hear the clock ticking on the wall. Thirty minutes left on the session.

My cock was very interested again.

→ I tell her it was a mistake and get up to leave

→ I tell her I meant every word

← Back

I didn’t answer. I just rolled over.

The towel went with me for about half a second and then gave up, sliding off my hip onto the floor. My cock slapped up against my stomach, fully hard, flushed dark and shiny at the tip where I’d been leaking against the sheet.

Claire’s hand flew to her mouth.

“Jesus Christ, Mark.”

“You asked.”

“I didn’t ask to see it!” But she didn’t look away. Her eyes were locked on my cock like it had hypnotised her, and her chest was rising and falling fast under the scrubs. “That’s… it’s bigger than Helen made it sound.”

“Helen talks about it?”

“Sisters talk.” She swallowed. “Fuck. Fuck. Put the towel back.”

She didn’t pick it up. Neither did I.

Instead she stepped closer, oil still glistening on her palms. Slowly, like she was reaching for something that might bite, she rested one hand flat on my thigh. Then she slid it up. Her fingertips traced the crease of my hip, the base of my shaft, and then she wrapped her slick fingers around me and squeezed.

I groaned so loud she shushed me.

“Thin walls,” she hissed. “Kelly’s next door.”

She gave me one slow stroke, root to tip, oil squelching filthily in the quiet room. Her thumb rolled over the head and smeared the precum around. She was biting her lip, staring at her own hand like it belonged to someone else.

“This is so wrong,” she breathed. And stroked again.

→ I lie back, grip the table and beg her to keep going

→ I pull her down on top of me to kiss her

← Back

“Show me the steam room,” I said.

She led me through a back door, me in just the towel, her glancing up and down the corridor. The steam room was small, tiled, thick with eucalyptus fog. She locked the door behind us and turned around.

Then she stripped.

Scrubs, bra, knickers, all of it, dropped on the bench. She stood there in the steam, naked, full tits glistening, a neat dark strip between her thighs.

“Your turn,” she said.

I dropped the towel. We sat on opposite benches, three feet apart, sweating, staring.

“Rules,” she said, breathless. “No touching each other. If we touch, it’s real.”

“Then what?”

She spread her knees and slid her hand between her legs. “Then this.”

I wrapped my hand around my cock and stroked, slow, watching her fingers sink into her pussy. She was soaking. I could hear it over the hiss of the steam. She rubbed her clit in quick circles, other hand squeezing her tit, eyes fixed on my fist.

“Faster,” she gasped. “Let me see you.”

We raced each other. Her hips lifted off the tiles. My balls drew up tight. She came first, crying out, legs shaking, and watching her pushed me over. I shot across the wet tiles at her feet.

We sat there, panting in the fog.

“Technically,” she said, “nobody touched anybody.”

“Technically,” I agreed. We both started laughing.

Ending 16 of 16: The Steam Room. Go back and try a different choice for the full happy ending.

Start again from the beginning

← Back

“Have dinner with me,” I said. “Not here. Not like this. Properly.”

Claire stared at me. “Dinner.”

“Somewhere with tablecloths. Where I’m wearing trousers.”

She laughed, then stopped laughing, and looked at me for a long time. “You’re serious.”

“I’m serious. If this is going to happen, I don’t want it to be twenty-five minutes in a spa room with your colleague next door. I want to do it right. Which probably means I need to have a very hard conversation with Helen first.”

Her eyes filled up. She blinked hard.

“You’d do that?”

“I think it’s been coming for a long time. With or without you.”

She leaned in and kissed me. Softly. Just once. Her hand rested on my chest, over my heart, and she smiled against my lips.

Then she pulled back and let her hand drift down, over my stomach, to the towel in my lap. She pressed her palm flat against my cock through the cotton and squeezed, firmly, just once. I groaned.

“That’s a promise,” she said. “For after the tablecloths.”

“You’re killing me.”

“Good.” She stood up, wiped her eyes, and handed me my shirt. “Go home. Be honest. Call me when it’s done.”

I left the spa with an aching cock, a lighter back and a very heavy heart.

It was the best massage of my life, and the happy ending was still a way off.

Ending 15 of 16: The Long Game. Go back and try a different choice for the full happy ending.

Start again from the beginning

← Back

I hooked my arm around her waist and pulled her up onto the table with me.

She squealed, then laughed, then landed straddling my thigh with her scrubs riding up. The table creaked ominously. Neither of us cared. She kissed me, filthy and wet, and started to grind.

She rode my thigh like she’d been dreaming about it. Her hips rocked in hard, rhythmic circles, her pussy hot and damp through thin cotton, pressing down on my oiled leg. My cock was trapped against her hip, and every time she moved, it dragged against her.

“Oh God, oh God, Mark…”

I got her top up and her bra pushed down and sucked one nipple into my mouth. She gasped and ground harder, clutching my head to her tits.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, I’m…”

She came on my leg. Shaking, biting my shoulder to keep quiet, her thighs clamped around mine, a long, shuddering orgasm that went on and on while I held her.

Then she collapsed on my chest, panting.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Eleven years. That was worth it.”

I was throbbing against her hip, desperate. “Claire…”

She lifted her head, looked down at my cock, and climbed off the table.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, laughing, fixing her clothes. “My three o’clock’s here. I’ll owe you.”

“You’ll owe me?”

She kissed me once more, quick and sweet, and left me lying there, harder than I’ve ever been.

Ending 14 of 16: Her Turn. Go back and try a different choice for the full happy ending.

Start again from the beginning