I booked a massage to fix my back and found my wife’s younger sister waiting with the oil.
How it works: read, then choose what you do. Only the right choices earn the happy ending.
I’m Mark, I’m thirty-eight, and I have been married to Helen for eleven years. My lower back has been killing me for a month, so I finally booked a ninety-minute deep tissue session at a quiet little spa across town. Nobody I know goes there. That was half the appeal.
I stripped, lay face down under the towel, and listened to the door open behind me.
“Hi, I’m your therapist today, I’ll just… oh. Oh my God. Mark?”
I knew that voice. I twisted round and there she was in black scrubs, hair scraped back, oil bottle in hand: Claire. Helen’s little sister. Thirty-one years old, sharp tongue, sharper eyes, and the one person on earth I have spent a decade very carefully not looking at for too long.
“I didn’t know you worked here,” I said, which was stupid, because obviously.
“I didn’t know you had a back,” she said, which was worse.
There’s history. Nothing happened, not really. But at our wedding she danced with me too close, said something in my ear I’ve never repeated, and we’ve both been pretending ever since. Every Christmas. Every barbecue. Every time she hugs me a second too long.
Now I’m naked under a thin white towel and she’s staring at my shoulders like they owe her money.
“I can get someone else,” she said quietly. “If it’s weird.”
It was absolutely weird. My cock didn’t seem to think so.
→ I tell her we’re both adults, it’s fine, and settle back onto the table