Riley

Riley felt a pang of sadness the moment she stepped out of Green Massage.

She hadn't managed to draw out more about Michael—nothing meaningful, anyway. She wondered why he always gave her extra time at the end of each session. Was it simple courtesy, something he did for every client?

Or was it just for her?

She craved an answer, yet feared the truth—that she wasn't special after all.

Next week, she'd be leaving town. A close colleague—now more of a friend—was getting married, and with a business trip already booked, she wouldn't be back for another two weeks at least. She couldn't bring herself to tell Michael any of this.

Back at her apartment, she shut the door behind her and collapsed onto the couch. She didn't want to shower—didn't want the water to wash away the traces of oil still clinging to her skin.

She closed her eyes.

And remembered.

She pictured the massage table, the crisp white sheet beneath her, the dim light, the scent of lemon grass and lavender in the air. Lying face down, surrendering every inch of her to Michael's quiet, deliberate touch.

One of her favorite moments—one that returned to her again and again—was when he took both ends of the towel in his hands. Slowly, he would draw it across her back, letting the fabric glide in a languid rhythm: pausing at her waist, tracing the gentle dip of her hips, then continuing down her thighs and calves. Each motion deliberate. Each pause electrifying.

She often had to remind herself to breathe.

And then, with quiet precision, he would drape the towel over her hips and legs again, covering her in warmth. That's when he would begin his real work—her bare back, his canvas.

If she really focused, Riley could still feel Michael's touch lingering along her spine. The way he pressed down with firm, warm hands—it made her feel safe, like everything was quietly under control. When he found a knot in her back, he'd slow down, soften his palms, and add just a little more oil. That extra care—so attentive, almost intimate—made her feel seen in a way that had nothing to do with words.

Sometimes, when he paused to get more oil, she felt this ridiculous, aching vulnerability—as if she'd been left alone in a cold room, like a kid who'd lost her parent at the store. But then his hands would return—sliding, kneading, calming—and the world made sense again.

She always got a little fluttery when he worked his way lower, brushing the curve of her lower back, hovering near the top of her hips. Sometimes she got so excited, she had to consciously remember to breathe. When he tugged her underwear down just a little, nearly half of her soft, round butt ended up peeking out into the air—like a shy secret accidentally revealed. Then, with a kind of quiet tenderness that always made her heart skip, he tucked the edge of the towel into the waistband. The towel was meant to keep her warm. In that moment, she always imagined the towel as a tiny guardian, shielding her modesty just enough, while whispering to Michael: "You can look... but only a little." It was such a silly, sweet gesture—and yet it made her feel like a princess being carefully unwrapped by someone who knew exactly how much was too much, and how much was just enough to make her imagination go wild.

Michael never hesitated with her butt. He massaged it like it was just another part of her body—no shame, no smirk. But that made her wonder even more: Did he think her butt was sexy? Did he maybe squeeze just a little harder than necessary, just to tease her?

And later, when she masturbated in her bed or in the bathtub, it was that moment she returned to. The fantasy where he didn't stop at half-undressing her, didn't leave her panties just hanging there like a tease. She imagined him taking them all the way off—slowly, purposefully—and her lying there, nearly naked, skin glowing under warm light, alone with a man she wanted. A scene too hot for daylight. Something straight out of her own X-rated daydreams.