Category: IST

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“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

← Back

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