The Healing Hands of Forbidden Skin Conversations

The sauna's heat still clings to my skin as I step into the changing area, wrapping a towel tighter around my waist. My muscles feel looser than they have in weeks. Between work stress and my regular training, I needed this more than I'd realized.

The co-ed changing room is mercifully quiet this afternoon. I prefer it this way—quick in, quick out, minimal interaction. Just me, the steam from the sauna fogging the mirrors, and the familiar scent of chlorine and cedar.

I walk to the towel stack, leaving damp footprints on the tile floor. My old towel is soaked through from the sauna. I need a dry one before heading to the showers. I reach up with one hand, keeping the other firmly on the knot at my waist.

Then it happens.

My fingers barely touch the fresh towel when I feel the one around my waist loosen. Maybe it's the residual moisture, maybe it's my grip—but suddenly there's nothing but air where fabric should be.

The towel drops to the floor.

For a split second, I'm frozen, my brain struggling to process what just happened. Then I hear them—footsteps, voices, and then a collective gasp that seems to echo off the walls.

I turn instinctively toward the sound, which is my second mistake.

Three women stand at the entrance to the changing area. I recognize Olivia, the yoga instructor—petite with her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail—flanked by two members whose faces blur in my panic. Three sets of eyes widen, then dart downward before quickly looking away.

"Oh my god," one whispers.

Blood rushes to my face so fast I feel dizzy. I fumble for the towel at my feet, nearly slipping on the wet tile. My hands are clumsy, uncoordinated, as if they belong to someone else.

"Sorry! We didn't—" Olivia starts, but doesn't finish. There's a nervous giggle from one of the others.

I finally manage to wrap the damp towel around myself again, but the damage is done. My entire body burns with humiliation. I stand there, water dripping from my hair down my back, unable to look at them.

"We should have knocked," Olivia says, her voice overly professional now. "Ladies, let's give him some privacy."

They retreat, but not before I catch a whispered comment and another stifled laugh.

I stand frozen for what feels like minutes, my heart hammering in my chest. This isn't supposed to happen. I plan. I'm careful. I'm private. And now, in this place where I come to relieve stress, I've been exposed in the most literal way possible.

I abandon the idea of a shower. All I want is to get dressed and get out. My fingers shake as I pull on my clothes, my skin still damp. I jam my feet into my shoes without bothering with socks.

As I leave, I keep my eyes down, avoiding the front desk. I can feel glances following me, though I tell myself it's paranoia. I push through the exit doors, stepping into the parking lot where the cool air hits my flushed face.

I slide into my car and sit there, hands gripping the steering wheel. Breath in, breath out. It was just an accident. People have seen naked bodies before. But knowing this does nothing to ease the knot in my stomach or the burning in my cheeks.

I start the engine. I'll skip next week's appointment. Maybe the one after that too. Long enough for this to blow over. Long enough to forget the look on their faces. Long enough to rebuild the walls I carefully maintain between myself and the rest of the world.

I was wiping down the back counter in the breakroom, trying to scrub off a stubborn coffee ring someone had left behind. The place smelled like microwave popcorn and disinfectant. My shoulders ached from a full day of deep tissue work—four clients back-to-back, including that CrossFit instructor with the knots like concrete beneath his shoulder blades. My final client had canceled, which meant I could head home early if I finished cleaning up.

The door burst open so forcefully it bounced against the wall.

"Oh my god, Sam, you will never believe what just happened." Olivia practically vibrated with excitement as she rushed in, still in her black yoga pants and fitted tank top, her hair coming loose from its ponytail.

I glanced up, barely interested. "What?"

"So I was heading to change after my hot yoga class with a couple clients, and—" She broke into a giggle, covering her mouth like a schoolgirl. "We walked into the changing room, and there was Tom."

My hand stilled on the counter. "Tom?"

"Your massage client, Tom. The quiet one with the shoulders."

"I know who Tom is," I said, resuming my scrubbing with more focus than necessary. "What about him?"

Olivia dropped her voice to a stage whisper despite us being alone. "His towel fell off. Like, completely off. Right in front of us."

I kept my eyes on the counter. "That's unfortunate."

"Unfortunate? Are you kidding me? The man is sculpted like a Greek statue." She fanned herself dramatically. "I mean, I've seen a lot of guys at this studio, but holy shit."

"Olivia—"

"I'm talking perfect. His thighs? Like tree trunks. And he's got this V-cut that points right down to—"

"That's completely inappropriate," I said sharply, though my heart was suddenly pounding harder. "He's a client."

"Oh please." She rolled her eyes. "Like you haven't wondered. You've had your hands all over those muscles for what, six months now?"

I tossed the rag into the sink with more force than intended. "It's professional. I don't think about clients that way."

"Well, you should make an exception for this one." She leaned against the counter, her voice dropping even lower. "Because let me tell you, whatever you're imagining? It's better."

I turned away, busying myself with rinsing the rag. "He was probably mortified."

"Oh, he definitely was. Turned bright red. Almost fell trying to grab his towel." She laughed. "But seriously, Sam. It was like... impressive. Like, I've been with my share of guys, but this was..." She held her hands apart in a way that made my cheeks flush.

"Whatever you're about to say, please don't," I muttered, but I couldn't help picturing it. I'd felt the firmness of his body under my hands so many times, traced the contours of his back, shoulders, legs—always maintaining that professional barrier, that mental separation. But now...

"Fine, fine. Be all professional." Olivia straightened up, still grinning. "But if he shows up next week looking like he wants to die of embarrassment, you'll know why. And just between us—" she winked "—lucky you."

She grabbed her water bottle and sauntered out, leaving me alone with the damp countertop and thoughts I absolutely should not be having.

I realized I was gripping the edge of the sink, my knuckles white. I forced myself to relax my fingers, to breathe. It was just workplace gossip. Inappropriate, invasive gossip that I should ignore.

But as I finished cleaning, all I could think about was Tom on my table tomorrow. How I would look at him, knowing what I now knew. How my hands would feel against his skin. The professional detachment I'd cultivated through years of practice suddenly felt paper-thin, ready to tear at the slightest touch.

I switched off the breakroom light and grabbed my bag, telling myself I would forget this conversation by morning. But Olivia's descriptions had already taken root, merging with my own tactile knowledge of his body, creating an image that felt forbidden and all too vivid.

I tossed and turned in my bed, tangling myself further in the sheets with each frustrated movement. The digital clock glowed 1:17 AM. I had work in less than seven hours, and my first appointment was—of course—Tom.

I punched my pillow and flipped it to the cool side. It didn't help. Olivia's words kept echoing, painting pictures I couldn't erase. "Like a Greek statue... perfect thighs like tree trunks... that V-cut..."

My hands knew those thighs, had traced that V-cut during our sessions—always professionally, always with clinical detachment. But now, lying alone in my darkened bedroom, that detachment had completely dissolved.

I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling, acutely aware of the heat building between my legs. My nipples were hard against my thin sleep tank, and I felt a restless pressure low in my abdomen. I hadn't felt this kind of urgent arousal in years—maybe not since my twenties. It was almost foreign, this deep, demanding ache.

"This is ridiculous," I whispered into the darkness. "He's a client. Sixteen years younger."

But my body didn't care about professional boundaries or age gaps. I slid my hand down my stomach, hesitating at the waistband of my cotton shorts. This felt like crossing a line, acknowledging the desire I'd been suppressing.

I slipped my hand beneath the elastic, letting my fingers drift lower until they met the slick heat between my thighs. I was already so wet it shocked me. Just from thinking about him. Just from imagining.

My eyes closed as I circled my clit, slowly at first, then with increasing pressure. In my mind, it wasn't the detached, professional Tom on my massage table but the Tom that Olivia had described—naked, exposed, magnificent. I imagined his broad shoulders, the way his back tapered to his narrow waist, the curve of his ass that I'd glimpsed under the sheet whenever he shifted on my table.

"Fuck," I whispered, my fingers picking up speed. I dipped two fingers inside myself, then dragged the wetness back up to my clit. Behind my closed eyes, I saw Tom standing before me, fully nude, his cock hard and thick in a way I had no right to be visualizing.

But I couldn't stop. In my fantasy, he approached my table—not as the client but as the masseur. His strong hands replaced mine, sliding up my thighs, parting them. I bit my lip as my fingers moved faster, my hips rising to meet my own touch.

I imagined his cock pushing into me, stretching me, filling me completely. The thought sent a sharp spike of pleasure through me. I was close already, embarrassingly close, my pussy clenching around my fingers as I thrust them deeper.

"Tom," I whispered, the name falling from my lips before I could stop it. I added a third finger, fucking myself harder as I pictured him above me, his muscular body tense with exertion, his cock driving into me with relentless force.

My orgasm hit without warning, a sudden, violent wave that arched my back off the mattress. I had to bury my face in my pillow to muffle my cry as pleasure ripped through me, my inner walls pulsing around my fingers. For a moment, stars exploded behind my eyelids, and my entire body trembled.

As the waves subsided, I withdrew my hand and lay there panting, sweat cooling on my skin. The fantasy dissolved, leaving me alone in my bedroom with the harsh reality of what I'd just done.

I'd masturbated to a client—a younger man who trusted me as a professional. A man who would be lying on my table tomorrow, unaware that I now possessed this secret knowledge of his body, that I'd created this explicit fantasy around it.

But instead of guilt, I felt a surprising sense of liberation. Something had awakened in me—something hungry and demanding that had been dormant for too long.

I rolled onto my side, my body still tingling with aftershocks, and fell into a deep, satisfied sleep.

I slept better that night than I had in weeks. My morning session with Tom had been... professional. I'd kept my eyes trained on his problem areas, avoided lingering touches, and maintained a clipped, efficient tone. If he noticed anything different about me, he didn't mention it.

Now, twenty-four hours later, I lay in bed, my tablet propped against my knees. The day's tensions were slowly unwinding. I scrolled mindlessly through Instagram, liking a few posts from old college friends and a handful of massage therapy accounts I followed for technique tips.

A circle at the top of my feed caught my eye—Tom's profile picture outlined in the pink-orange gradient of an active story. I paused. I'd added him months ago in that perfunctory way people do with regular clients, but he rarely posted anything.

I hesitated for only a second before tapping his icon.

The screen went dark. For a moment, I thought it was just loading, but then I realized what I was seeing. A dimly lit bedroom. The camera angle was low, seemingly propped on a nightstand or desk. And in frame was Tom, sitting naked on the edge of his bed.

My breath caught. I quickly looked at the timestamp. Posted three minutes ago.

"Jesus Christ," I whispered, my finger hovering over the screen to exit. I should stop watching. I should absolutely stop watching right now.

But I didn't.

Tom's hand moved to his cock, which was already half-hard. He gripped it at the base, giving it a slow, deliberate stroke. The muscles in his forearm flexed with the motion. Even in the poor lighting, I could see the definition of his abs, the V-line of his hips that I'd felt under my fingertips just that morning.

I turned the volume up a notch, then froze as a low groan filled my bedroom. His voice, unfiltered by professional restraint, was deep and raw.

"What are you doing?" I whispered at the screen. Did he mean to post this publicly? It had to be a mistake. But the realization that I was watching something so intensely private, so clearly not meant for my eyes, sent a rush of heat between my legs.

On screen, Tom's pace quickened. His cock was fully erect now, thick and straining in his grip. Pre-cum glistened at the tip as he squeezed upward, his thumb circling the head before sliding back down. His breathing became more audible—short, staccato pants that made my own breath quicken in response.

I slid my hand beneath my sleep shorts, finding myself already slick. I circled my clit slowly as I watched, matching my rhythm to his.

"Fuck," he muttered on screen, and the single word sent a jolt through me. I'd never heard him curse before. His professional demeanor had always been so controlled, so reserved. This unguarded version of him was intoxicating.

Tom leaned back slightly, his free hand moving to cup his balls, massaging them as his other hand continued its relentless stroking. His cock was magnificent—thicker than I had imagined in my fantasy the night before, with a slight upward curve.

I slipped two fingers inside myself, shocked at how wet I was already. My pussy clenched around them, hungry for more as I watched Tom's hand pump faster, his hips now lifting slightly to meet each stroke.

His head fell back, exposing the strong column of his throat. I knew that throat, had worked the tension from it countless times. But I'd never seen it like this—stretched taut as pleasure built within him.

His breathing grew ragged, and I could tell he was close. My own orgasm was building, pressure mounting as I curved my fingers to hit that spot inside me that made my toes curl.

With a strangled groan, Tom came. Thick ropes of cum shot across his stomach and chest, some landing as high as his collarbone. His hand kept moving, slower now, drawing out every last pulse as his cock twitched in his grip.

The sight pushed me over the edge. I bit down hard on my lip to keep from crying out as an intense orgasm ripped through me, my pussy spasming around my fingers.

On screen, Tom's chest heaved as he caught his breath. Then, abruptly, his hand reached toward the camera, and the video ended.

I lay there, my hand still in my shorts, my heart hammering against my ribs. The story moved to the next item—a photo of a protein shake from earlier in the day. The mundane image was so incongruous with what I'd just witnessed that I almost laughed.

I pulled my hand free and wiped my fingers on the sheet, my mind racing. That video had to be a mistake. Tom would never intentionally post something so intimate to his public story. Which meant he had no idea that I—or anyone else who followed him—had just watched him in his most private moment.

My phone chimed with a text. It was from Olivia. "OMG DID YOU SEE TOM'S STORY??!!"

So I wasn't the only one who had seen it. I felt a strange, possessive twinge at the thought of Olivia—of anyone else—watching what I'd just watched. I left her text unanswered and set my phone aside.

Tomorrow, I would have to face Tom again. Would he know what had happened? Would he have realized his mistake by then? The thought of looking into his eyes, touching his body, with this new secret knowledge between us made my stomach flip.

The professional boundary I'd worked so hard to maintain that morning had just been completely obliterated. And the most disturbing part was how little I cared.

I sat in my car, hands gripping the steering wheel even though the engine was off. Through the windshield, I could see the front entrance of Tranquil Balance. My first client would arrive in twenty minutes, but I couldn't make myself move.

My phone buzzed again. Another text from Olivia: "He deleted it!!! Did you see it before it disappeared???"

I put the phone face-down on the passenger seat. Yes, I had seen it. I'd watched it three more times before falling asleep. I'd woken up at 3 AM and watched it again, my hand between my legs. And now the evidence was gone, but I couldn't unsee what I'd seen. I couldn't unfeel what I'd felt.

The morning air inside my car felt stale and too warm. I cracked a window and took a deep breath.

Tom's appointment wasn't until 11:30. I had hours to prepare, to pull myself together.

"This is ridiculous," I muttered, catching my reflection in the rearview mirror. My cheeks were flushed, my pupils dilated.

I forced myself to analyze the situation logically. First, Olivia's story about Tom in the changing room. Then my own private fantasy. Now the video—that raw, unfiltered glimpse into his sexuality. Each revelation building on the last, creating a version of Tom in my mind that was probably nothing like the real man.

And yet.

I'd seen him. Really seen him. Not just his body, which I touched professionally every week, but his desire. His pleasure. The way his throat worked when he swallowed. The tight furrow of his brow as he approached climax. The unguarded sound of his voice when he came.

I knew things about him that he had no idea I knew. Things he never intended to share with me.

The realization made me dizzy. I was no longer just his massage therapist. I was the keeper of his secrets. The witness to his intimate self.

My phone buzzed again. Olivia calling this time. I silenced it without answering.

A rap on my window made me jump. It was Marcus, one of the yoga instructors, peering in with concern.

"You coming in?" he mouthed through the glass.

I nodded, forcing a smile. "Just a minute!"

He gave me a thumbs up and continued to the entrance.

I looked at myself in the mirror again, trying to compose my features into something professional. Neutral. But all I could think about was Tom's face. His hands. His cock.

God, I was wet just sitting here thinking about it.

I'd spent most of my adult life being the good girl. The accommodating one. The one who waited to be chosen, to be wanted. Even in bed, I was passive—happy to receive pleasure but rarely the one to initiate, to take.

But something was cracking open inside me. Something demanding and impatient. I wanted Tom. Not as a fantasy, but in reality. I wanted to touch him without the professional pretense. I wanted to taste his skin. I wanted to feel the weight of him on top of me, inside me.

The intensity of my desire frightened me. It was unlike anything I'd felt before—raw and urgent and completely inappropriate.

I pressed my thighs together, trying to ease the persistent ache between them. This couldn't happen. He was my client. He was sixteen years younger than me. He had no idea I'd seen him in that vulnerable state.

But I knew. And I couldn't unknow it.

I checked the time. Ten minutes until my first appointment. With a deep breath, I grabbed my bag and stepped out of the car. The cool morning air hit my flushed skin, a momentary relief.

I walked toward the entrance on unsteady legs, feeling as if I were moving toward something inevitable. Something that would change everything.

Tom's appointment was at 11:30. Four hours from now.

Four hours to decide what kind of woman I was going to be.

I stayed late at the studio Friday night, catching up on paperwork. Everyone else had gone home, the building quiet except for the soft hum of the ventilation system. I was about to leave when I heard it—a muffled thump from the direction of my massage room.

My first thought was that someone had broken in. But why target a massage therapist's office? I grabbed my phone, ready to call security, when I heard another sound. A voice. A woman's voice.

I tiptoed down the hallway toward my room. The door wasn't completely closed; a thin strip of light spilled out from a gap about an inch wide. I moved closer, my curiosity overriding my better judgment.

When I peered through the crack, my breath caught in my throat.

Tom was there, his broad back to me, completely naked. His muscles flexed with each movement as he bent over a woman spread out on my massage table. My massage table.

The woman—I recognized her as Ava, a regular client who came in for facials—was completely nude, her legs wrapped around Tom's waist, her high-heeled shoes still on her feet. Her head was thrown back, mouth open in a silent scream.

I should have left. I should have backed away, gone to my office, and pretended I'd seen nothing. But I couldn't move. I was transfixed.

Tom was deliberate in his movements. Almost methodical. He wasn't just fucking her; he was studying her responses, adjusting his rhythm, his angle, his pressure based on her reactions. He reached between them, his fingers finding her clit with practiced precision.

"There," she gasped. "Right there."

He obeyed, maintaining the exact motion that had triggered her response. Her body began to tremble, her back arching off the table.

"I'm going to come," she whimpered. "Oh god, Tom, I'm going to come."

He didn't speed up or slow down. He kept the same steady pace, watching her face with intense concentration. His own pleasure seemed secondary to hers—a means to an end rather than the end itself.

I pressed my thighs together, aware of my own mounting arousal. My hand moved to my breast without conscious thought, squeezing gently through my blouse.

When Ava came, her entire body convulsed. She bit her lip to stifle her cries, her fingernails digging into Tom's shoulders. Only then did he allow himself to increase his pace, driving into her harder, faster, until he too stiffened and groaned, his hips jerking against hers.

I should have slipped away then, but I remained frozen, watching as he gently withdrew from her, disposed of the condom in my wastebasket, and began helping her off the table.

"Same time next week?" Ava asked, her voice languid with satisfaction as she pulled on her clothes.

"If you want." Tom's voice was flat, almost disinterested now that the act was over.

"I'll text you." She kissed his cheek, slipped on her coat, and headed for the door.

I panicked, backing away and pressing myself against the wall of the hallway, hoping the shadows would hide me. Ava emerged, straightening her skirt, and walked past without noticing me. I heard the click of her heels on the tile floor, then the distant sound of the front door opening and closing.

I should have left with her. But I didn't.

The door to my massage room opened wider, and Tom stepped out, now wearing jeans but still shirtless. He turned to pull the door shut behind him and saw me.

The blood drained from his face. We stared at each other in the dim hallway, the silence stretching between us like a physical thing.

"Samantha," he finally managed. "I can explain."

But I didn't want an explanation. Four days of fantasies, of imagining, of wanting, had crystallized into a single, clear impulse. I stepped forward until we were inches apart. I could smell the sex on his skin, see the faint scratch marks Ava had left on his shoulders.

"I have to be honest," I whispered, my voice steadier than I felt. "That was incredibly hot to watch."

His eyes widened. Whatever response he'd been bracing for, it wasn't this.

I moved past him, into my massage room. He followed, as I knew he would, closing the door behind him.

The room smelled of sex and Ava's perfume. The sheet on my table was rumpled, still warm from their bodies. I turned to face Tom, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"I've been thinking about you," I said. "Ever since I saw that video in your Instagram story."

His face, already pale, went almost gray. "You saw that?"

"I did." I moved closer to him. "And I haven't been able to think about anything else since."

I turned away from him and bent over the massage table, my ass deliberately angled toward him. I looked back over my shoulder, meeting his eyes.

"Now," I said, my voice a low command, "it's my turn. Fuck me."

For a moment, he didn't move. I could see the struggle in his face—desire warring with shock, with the sudden inversion of our professional dynamic.

Then he was behind me, his hands on my hips. He pulled my skirt up around my waist and hooked his fingers into the waistband of my underwear, dragging them down my legs. I stepped out of them, spreading my legs wider, offering myself to him.

His fingers found me first, exploring my wet folds. I was soaking, had been since I first spotted him with Ava. He groaned when he felt it.

"Jesus, Samantha," he murmured, sliding two fingers inside me while his thumb circled my clit.

I pushed back against his hand, impatient. "I don't want your fingers," I said. "I want your cock."

I heard the clink of his belt, the rasp of his zipper. Then the head of his cock was pressing against my entrance, thick and hot.

He pushed into me slowly, stretching me open. I gasped, gripping the edges of the table. He was bigger than I'd expected, filling me completely.

"Fuck," I hissed. "Yes."

He began to move, his thrusts measured and precise, just as they had been with Ava. But I didn't want gentle. I didn't want calculated.

"Harder," I demanded. "I'm not going to break."

His hands tightened on my hips, and he drove into me with renewed force. The massage table creaked beneath us, sliding slightly across the floor with each thrust.

I reached between my legs, finding my clit, rubbing it in tight circles as he fucked me. The dual sensation was overwhelming. My inner walls clenched around his cock, drawing him deeper.

"I've wanted this since I first saw you," I admitted, my words broken by my ragged breathing. "On this table. Every time I touched you."

He bent over me, his chest pressed against my back, his breath hot on my neck. "I've thought about it too," he confessed. "Your hands on me. Your mouth."

His thrusts became harder, faster, less controlled. I could feel my orgasm building, a white-hot pressure at my core.

"I'm close," I gasped. "Don't stop."

He reached around me, his fingers replacing mine on my clit, circling it with firm, quick strokes. The additional stimulation pushed me over the edge. My pussy spasmed around his cock as I came, wave after wave of pleasure crashing through me.

"Fuck, Samantha," he groaned, his rhythm faltering. "I'm going to come."

"Inside me," I urged. "I want to feel it."

He thrust once more, burying himself to the hilt, and I felt his cock pulse inside me, filling me with his hot cum.

We stayed like that for a moment, both of us panting, my body still trembling with aftershocks. Then he slowly withdrew, his cum trickling down my thigh.

I straightened up, turned to face him. His chest was flushed, his hair damp with sweat. He looked younger in the dim light, vulnerable in a way I hadn't seen before.

"I need to clean up," I said, gesturing to the private bathroom attached to the massage room. "And then we should probably talk."

He nodded, tucking himself back into his jeans. "Yeah. We should."

I stepped into the bathroom, closing the door behind me. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—my lips swollen, my cheeks flushed, my eyes bright. I barely recognized the woman staring back at me.

But I liked her. I liked her a lot.

Three nights after what happened on my massage table, I found myself working late again, methodically folding fresh towels in the changing room. The studio was empty, silent except for the soft hum of the air conditioning. I'd just finished stacking the last towel when I heard the door open behind me.

I knew it was Tom before I turned around.

He stood in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted against the hallway light. He wore a simple white t-shirt and jeans, his hair still damp from a shower. We hadn't spoken since that night. I'd texted him my schedule, nothing else, and he'd replied with a single word: "Tonight."

Neither of us spoke now. We didn't need to. The air between us crackled with anticipation, with understanding.

I walked directly to him, my steps purposeful, confident. Gone was the passive, self-denying woman who had spent years hiding behind professionalism. When I reached him, I placed both hands on his chest and pushed him back against the lockers. The metal rattled at the impact.

His eyes widened, pupils dilating. I rose on my tiptoes and kissed him hard, my tongue demanding entrance to his mouth. He yielded immediately, his hands coming to rest hesitantly on my hips.

I broke the kiss, my breath already coming faster. "On your knees," I instructed.

Tom sank down obediently, kneeling on the cold tile floor. I stepped back just enough to hike my skirt up around my waist, revealing that I wasn't wearing underwear. His sharp intake of breath made me smile.

"Make me come with your mouth," I said, leaning back against the lockers for support.

He leaned forward, his hands sliding up the backs of my thighs until they cupped my ass. He pulled me toward him, and then his mouth was on me, his tongue parting my folds with a deliberate, exploratory lick.

I gasped, my head falling back against the metal lockers with a soft thud. His tongue circled my clit with the same focused precision I'd witnessed when he was with Ava—methodical, attentive, responding to each twitch and gasp.

"God, yes," I breathed, threading my fingers through his hair, holding him against me.

He alternated between broad, flat strokes and pointed flicks of his tongue. When he slid two fingers inside me, curling them to find that spot deep within, I nearly collapsed.

"Fuck, Tom," I groaned. "Right there."

He hummed against my flesh, the vibration adding another layer of sensation. His fingers pumped steadily while his tongue worked my clit with unwavering dedication. I looked down, mesmerized by the sight of him on his knees before me, his eyes closed in concentration, his face wet with my arousal.

The orgasm built swiftly, a gathering storm. My thighs began to tremble. My grip on his hair tightened.

"I'm going to come," I warned, my voice a breathless rasp.

He doubled his efforts, his fingers thrusting faster, his tongue flicking harder. The pressure crested and broke. I cried out as waves of pleasure rolled through me, my pussy clenching around his fingers, my hips bucking against his mouth. He didn't stop, didn't slow, drawing out my orgasm until the sensation edged toward overstimulation.

"Enough," I finally gasped, pushing him away gently.

He sat back on his heels, his face glistening, his lips swollen. Even in the dim light, I could see the substantial bulge straining against his jeans.

I moved past him to the wooden bench that ran along the center of the room. I positioned myself on my hands and knees, my ass toward him, my skirt still bunched around my waist.

"Now," I said, looking back at him over my shoulder, "fuck me."

He rose fluidly to his feet, unzipping his jeans and pushing them down just enough to free his cock. He was already fully hard, the head glistening with pre-cum. He stroked himself once, twice, then positioned himself behind me.

The head of his cock nudged against my entrance, teasing. I pushed back impatiently, and he sank into me with one smooth thrust, filling me completely.

"Christ," he muttered, his hands gripping my hips.

He began to move, his thrusts deep and measured. The bench creaked beneath us, a rhythmic counterpoint to our harsh breathing. Each thrust sent a jolt of pleasure through me, the angle allowing him to hit spots that made my vision blur.

"Harder," I demanded, bracing myself against the bench. "I want to feel you tomorrow."

He complied, his grip tightening, his pace increasing. The slap of skin against skin echoed in the empty room, punctuated by my moans and his grunts. He leaned over me, one hand sliding around to find my clit, still sensitive from his earlier attention.

"You're so fucking wet," he growled, his fingers sliding easily through my slickness. "So tight around my cock."

The crude words from his usually reserved mouth sent a fresh wave of arousal through me. I clenched around him deliberately, eliciting a deep groan.

"You like that?" I asked, doing it again. "You like how my pussy feels?"

"Yes," he hissed, his hips stuttering before resuming their relentless pace. "Fuck, yes."

His fingers circled my clit, applying just enough pressure to build the tension again. I hadn't expected to come a second time, but the familiar heat was pooling low in my belly, sparks shooting up my spine.

"Don't stop," I urged, pushing back to meet his thrusts. "I'm close again."

He increased his pace, his breathing ragged in my ear. "Come for me," he said, his voice strained. "I want to feel you come on my cock."

The command, so at odds with his usual submissive stance, pushed me over the edge. My second orgasm crashed through me, more intense than the first. My inner walls spasmed around him, drawing him deeper.

"Fuck," he groaned, his rhythm faltering. "Samantha, I'm going to—"

"Inside me," I urged, echoing my words from the massage table. "I want to feel you come inside me."

With a final, deep thrust, he stiffened behind me, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself. I felt the warm rush of his cum, felt his body tremble against mine as the pleasure overwhelmed him.

For a long moment, we stayed frozen in that tableau, connected, panting. Then he slowly withdrew, his softening cock sliding free. I felt his cum trickling down my thigh as I straightened up, turning to face him.