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Authors: Aubrey Parker
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point did he reach below the belt — had I been wearing one.
At no point did his hand do what my hand is doing now, as my fingers flick at the elastic of my panties.
He was only giving me a massage. Touching me all over with his big, strong hands. He’d just oiled my skin and was covering me with his hot caresses. He was asking me to turn over so he could work on the fronts of my shoulders. On my chest. So he could slip those warm hands all the way down my belly until they slipped inside my panties.
And then, when he challenged me again, maybe I’d rise to his taunt. Maybe he’d say, Women who aren’t uptight let me massage them without underwear on. So maybe I’d lift my hips and dare him to slide my panties down my bare legs. And he’d work the insides of my thighs. And higher up. And if he did that, it’d be okay, because fuck that guy. He doesn’t know me at all.
My finger is on my clit. It moves lower, the tip popping into my wetness.
Jesus Christ. What’s wrong with me?
I walk to the bathroom, leaving the sheet in a pile on the floor. I strip my panties, now as bare as the women Marco said he usually massages. How does that work, anyway? I think Marco is a presumptuous, brutish asshole, but plenty of women probably find him attractive. I wonder if he gives happy endings. I wonder, if a client spreads her legs when he’s working down there, if he’ll massage it all.
I get in the shower.
Somehow the massager ends up detached from the clamp and I’m using it manually, spraying myself by hand.
Somehow, when a stream of water is focused between my legs for five minutes, I have an orgasm. It’s crippling, almost causing me to fall. I wonder at the rate of orgasm-induced shower falls. It must happen. Horny women with excellent shower heads might even wear those MedicAlert things around their necks, just in case. And when the operator picks up, they hear something like: I’ve come twice thinking of my masseur’s dick in my mouth and I can’t get up!
Yes, well, that orgasm had nothing to do with Marco. Not the real Marco, anyway. I’ve had a rough week — a difficult six months or more, if we’re being honest. Of course getting off helps. It doesn’t mean I would have been okay with some hired grunt molesting me, or that thinking of what might have happened was mental fodder for making me come.
I dry myself, but only after the shower is done and my legs are weak do I remember that I’ve left my suitcase in the front room. It’s right beside the massage table, which now appears to be mocking me.
I get fresh clothes without looking at the table.
But when I turn back to the bathroom, my eyes fall on it anyway, and I notice the now-dried wet spot, right where I’d been laying while Marco threatened all those unsaid deeds.
CHAPTER TWELVE
L UCY
T HE HONEYMOON DOESN ’ T LAST LONG . Five minutes after Kendall runs up to my room to retrieve the massage supplies herself (asking many questions that suggest she knows the massage was cut short), my phone is buzzing.
Mom texts, Where did you hide all my soup?
Then, not two minutes later: You never told me where the can opener was.
Which is absurd, because I’ve literally never known my mother to eat soup. I think she’s allergic to anything in broth form. I’m sure she’s asking me about it now because I discovered a big box of bargain club soup with Mom’s moving stuff — probably something she got years ago for a canned food drive, then forgot about until the movers tossed it onto the truck.
We’ve talked about that soup, as a joke. Not long after moving, I donated it to a food pantry. And that means she’s asking me now because it’s the only food she’s able to complain about not being able to find.
Mom texts: When people are guests in other people’s houses, they shouldn’t move around things that might be needed.
Even her texts sound like they have a stick up their butt.
I’m staring
At no point did his hand do what my hand is doing now, as my fingers flick at the elastic of my panties.
He was only giving me a massage. Touching me all over with his big, strong hands. He’d just oiled my skin and was covering me with his hot caresses. He was asking me to turn over so he could work on the fronts of my shoulders. On my chest. So he could slip those warm hands all the way down my belly until they slipped inside my panties.
And then, when he challenged me again, maybe I’d rise to his taunt. Maybe he’d say, Women who aren’t uptight let me massage them without underwear on. So maybe I’d lift my hips and dare him to slide my panties down my bare legs. And he’d work the insides of my thighs. And higher up. And if he did that, it’d be okay, because fuck that guy. He doesn’t know me at all.
My finger is on my clit. It moves lower, the tip popping into my wetness.
Jesus Christ. What’s wrong with me?
I walk to the bathroom, leaving the sheet in a pile on the floor. I strip my panties, now as bare as the women Marco said he usually massages. How does that work, anyway? I think Marco is a presumptuous, brutish asshole, but plenty of women probably find him attractive. I wonder if he gives happy endings. I wonder, if a client spreads her legs when he’s working down there, if he’ll massage it all.
I get in the shower.
Somehow the massager ends up detached from the clamp and I’m using it manually, spraying myself by hand.
Somehow, when a stream of water is focused between my legs for five minutes, I have an orgasm. It’s crippling, almost causing me to fall. I wonder at the rate of orgasm-induced shower falls. It must happen. Horny women with excellent shower heads might even wear those MedicAlert things around their necks, just in case. And when the operator picks up, they hear something like: I’ve come twice thinking of my masseur’s dick in my mouth and I can’t get up!
Yes, well, that orgasm had nothing to do with Marco. Not the real Marco, anyway. I’ve had a rough week — a difficult six months or more, if we’re being honest. Of course getting off helps. It doesn’t mean I would have been okay with some hired grunt molesting me, or that thinking of what might have happened was mental fodder for making me come.
I dry myself, but only after the shower is done and my legs are weak do I remember that I’ve left my suitcase in the front room. It’s right beside the massage table, which now appears to be mocking me.
I get fresh clothes without looking at the table.
But when I turn back to the bathroom, my eyes fall on it anyway, and I notice the now-dried wet spot, right where I’d been laying while Marco threatened all those unsaid deeds.
CHAPTER TWELVE
L UCY
T HE HONEYMOON DOESN ’ T LAST LONG . Five minutes after Kendall runs up to my room to retrieve the massage supplies herself (asking many questions that suggest she knows the massage was cut short), my phone is buzzing.
Mom texts, Where did you hide all my soup?
Then, not two minutes later: You never told me where the can opener was.
Which is absurd, because I’ve literally never known my mother to eat soup. I think she’s allergic to anything in broth form. I’m sure she’s asking me about it now because I discovered a big box of bargain club soup with Mom’s moving stuff — probably something she got years ago for a canned food drive, then forgot about until the movers tossed it onto the truck.
We’ve talked about that soup, as a joke. Not long after moving, I donated it to a food pantry. And that means she’s asking me now because it’s the only food she’s able to complain about not being able to find.
Mom texts: When people are guests in other people’s houses, they shouldn’t move around things that might be needed.
Even her texts sound like they have a stick up their butt.
I’m staring
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