A wound-tight corporate litigator orders an after-hours massage to her glass corner office, and the calm, unhurried therapist who arrives refuses to take a single instruction until she has taken her completely apart.
At 9:40 on a Thursday night, $name1 was still at her desk on the thirty-second floor, rewriting a cross-examination outline for the fourth time.
She was forty-one, a partner in litigation, and had not taken a full day off in two years. She was thin in the way that came from forgetting to eat. Sharp cheekbones, sharp bob, sharp grey suit. Her jaw ached from clenching it. Her neck had a knot in it the size of a walnut.
Her assistant had booked the massage that morning without asking.
“Corporate wellness,” Priya had said, sliding the confirmation across her desk. “Mobile therapist. She’ll come to you at ten. You’re going to snap otherwise, and I am not dealing with you snapping on the day of the hearing.”
$name1 had meant to cancel. She hadn’t got round to it.
At ten exactly, there was a knock on the glass.
The woman in the doorway was about thirty-five, broad-shouldered and solid, with close-cropped dark hair and forearms like a rower. She wore black joggers and a plain black T-shirt and carried a folded massage table under one arm and a canvas bag over the other.
“Jo,” she said. “From Unwind. You’re $name1?”
“Yes. Look, I’m sorry, I’m actually in the middle of something. Can we do this in half an hour, maybe forty –”
“No,” Jo said pleasantly, and walked in.
$name1 blinked. Nobody said no to her. Opposing counsel didn’t say no to her.
Jo snapped the table open in the middle of the office, between the desk and the floor-to-ceiling window. The city glittered below them, the river black, the towers lit up. She shook out a sheet, set a bottle of oil on the edge of the desk, and dimmed the lights with the wall panel by the door like she owned the place.
“Laptop closed,” Jo said. “Phone face down. Jacket, blouse, bra off. Skirt too, if you like. Face down on the table.”
“I’ll keep the skirt on.”
“Fine.”
$name1 stood there for a moment, absurdly flustered. Then she closed the laptop.
She undressed with her back to Jo, folding her jacket over her chair, unbuttoning her silk blouse with fingers that were weirdly unsteady. She unhooked her bra. Her breasts were small and pale, her nipples tight in the air conditioning. She lay face down on the table in just her skirt and stockings, staring at the carpet through the face cradle.
“Right,” she said briskly. “My neck is the main issue, left side, and my lower back. I’d like firm pressure, not too much on the –”
“$name1,” Jo said.
“What?”
“Stop talking.”
Something in her voice, calm and low and completely certain, made $name1 shut her mouth.
The oil was unscented and warm. Jo’s hands were big and dry and patient. She didn’t start with the neck. She laid both palms flat on $name1’s back and just left them there, breathing slowly, until $name1 realised she was breathing in time with her.
Then she began.
She worked like she had all the time in the world. Long, heavy strokes from the base of the spine to the shoulders. Thumbs pressing slowly into the muscles on either side of the vertebrae, one by one. When she reached the knot in $name1’s neck she didn’t attack it. She pressed into it and held, and held, and held, until it gave way and $name1 heard herself let out a sound she had never made in this building.
“There you go,” Jo said quietly.
She worked down $name1’s arms, into the tight forearms of someone who typed fourteen hours a day, then her hands. She pressed her thumbs into $name1’s palms and stroked each finger. It was almost unbearably intimate.
She moved to the lower back and the waistband of the skirt.
“This is in the way,” Jo said.
“Then take it off,” $name1 heard herself say.
Jo unzipped it and drew it down over her narrow hips and off, leaving her in black stockings and a lace thong. She didn’t comment. She just poured more oil onto the small of $name1’s back and kept going, down over the thin curve of her arse, kneading it slowly, working her thumbs into the tight muscles at the top of her thighs.
Her fingers slid up the inside of $name1’s thigh, over the lace top of her stocking, onto bare skin.
And stayed there.
$name1’s whole body went tight again, but not with stress. She was wet. Completely, embarrassingly wet, and Jo’s hand was close enough to feel the heat of it.
“You’re tensing,” Jo observed.
“I’m aware.”
“Do you want me to move my hand?”
A long silence. Below them, a siren wailed somewhere on the embankment.
“No,” $name1 said.
“Tell me what you do want.”
$name1 turned her face out of the cradle and looked back at her. Jo’s dark eyes were steady, a little amused, completely unafraid.
“I want you to touch my pussy,” $name1 said.
Jo smiled for the first time.
“Ask nicely.”
$name1’s mouth fell open. Then, to her own astonishment, she said, “Please.”
Jo slid two fingers under the lace of her thong and drew them slowly through her soaking slit.
$name1 moaned into the face cradle.
“Oh, look at that,” Jo said. “All that control, and you’re dripping.” She circled $name1’s clit, lightly, maddeningly. “When was the last time anyone touched you?”
“I don’t… I don’t know. A year. More.”
“That’s a crime.” Jo pushed one finger slowly inside her, then a second. $name1 was tight and Jo went slow, sliding in to the knuckles, curling her fingers. “You’d know all about crimes.”
$name1 laughed, and then gasped as Jo began to fuck her with those thick fingers, slow, deep strokes, the heel of her hand grinding against her.
Jo hooked the thong down her legs and off. Then she took $name1 by the hips.
“Up. Off the table. Hands on your desk.”
$name1 climbed off on shaking legs. Naked but for her stockings, she walked to her own enormous desk and put her palms flat on the walnut, bent over between the case files and the closed laptop, facing the black glass window and the whole lit-up city.
Anyone in the tower opposite with a pair of binoculars could have seen her.
“Spread your legs,” Jo said.
She did.
Jo reached into the canvas bag. $name1 heard a click and a low electric hum, and then something round and buzzing pressed between her legs, right against her clit.
A wand. A big, powerful wand vibrator.
$name1 nearly collapsed onto the desk.
“Oh — fuck — Jesus –”
Jo held it there with one hand and slid two fingers of the other back inside her, fucking her hard now, fast, while the wand buzzed against her clit. $name1’s thin legs shook. Her hands slid across the desk, scattering paper. She could see herself reflected in the window, mouth open, small tits swinging, a big strong woman behind her working her like an instrument.
“Don’t you dare come yet,” Jo said.
“I can’t — I can’t stop it –”
Jo pulled the wand away.
$name1 actually sobbed with frustration.
“You’ve been giving orders all day,” Jo said, low, right at her ear. Her body pressed against $name1’s back, the cotton of her T-shirt against bare skin. “Tonight you take them. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
$name1 swallowed. “Yes, Jo.”
“Good girl.”
Jo put the wand back. Lower this time, teasing just above her clit, then on it, then off. She did it again and again, bringing $name1 to the edge and pulling her back, until $name1 was babbling, begging, sweat running down her spine, her pussy dripping onto the carpet.
Then Jo pulled her wet fingers out of her pussy, slid them up, and pressed one fingertip slowly against $name1’s arsehole.
“Ever?”
“No.”
“Want to?”
“… Yes.”
Jo pushed. Slowly, slickly, just to the first knuckle, then further. $name1 groaned at the strange full stretch of it. Jo held the wand hard against her clit and slid her thumb deep into her pussy at the same time, finger in her arse, thumb in her cunt, the vibrator humming against her.
“Now,” Jo said. “Come for me. Right here on your desk.”
$name1 came so hard she screamed.
She came with her face pressed against a witness statement, her whole body convulsing, her pussy and arse clenching around Jo’s fingers, her legs buckling so that Jo had to hold her up with an arm around her waist. It went on and on. Jo kept the wand on her until she was shaking and twitching and pushing it away.
When she could stand again, Jo turned her round and kissed her. A deep, slow, wet kiss. Her mouth was soft, which surprised $name1.
Then Jo sat down in $name1’s big leather partner’s chair and pushed her joggers down.
“On your knees,” she said.
$name1 knelt on the carpet of her own office, between Jo’s thick thighs, and buried her face in her pussy.
Jo was hairy and hot and soaking wet, and she tasted wonderful. $name1 licked her clumsily at first, then better as Jo guided her with a hand fisted in her sharp bob, pulling her where she wanted her.
“Suck it. Use your fingers. Yes. Just like that.”
$name1 slid two fingers into her and sucked her clit and Jo ground her face into her, the leather chair creaking. When Jo came she did it quietly, a deep growl, thighs tightening around $name1’s head, a rush of wet over her chin.
They stayed like that for a while, $name1 on her knees with her cheek on Jo’s thigh, the city glittering beyond the glass.
At 11:30 Jo folded up the table and packed the wand back into the canvas bag.
“Same time next Thursday?” she said at the door.
$name1, still naked, sprawled in her own chair, her outline scattered across the floor, laughed.
“I’ll have Priya make it a standing appointment,” she said. “Bill it to wellness.”
