Thursday afternoons always dragged. Three clients back to back, and by the time four o’clock rolled around, my hands ached, and my shoulders burned from the repetitive work. But Thursdays also meant Nancy. My last appointment. The one I spent all week thinking about.
I smoothed the fresh sheet over the massage table for the third time, adjusted the bolster, and checked the oil warmer. The apartment was quiet except for the soft hum of the white noise machine I kept near the window to drown out street traffic. A diffuser in the corner pushed lavender into the air.
My stomach tightened when I caught myself fussing with my bun in the mirror. Tucking stray hairs. Pinching my cheeks for color.
At fifty-three, I should have known better. But here I was, caught in a whirlwind of desire I hadn't felt since my twenties, when I'd first pressed my face into the hollow of a lover’s neck after a college party, dizzy with the scent of sun-warmed skin and perfume. Back then, everything was new and urgent: the thrill of sneaking kisses behind locked doors, the shock of how perfectly a woman's body fit against mine, and the aching, newfound hunger for the taste of a woman. There had been Beth, with the crooked smile and gentle hands, teaching me how slow and sweet tenderness could feel, and later, Marissa, who loved me with a boldness that terrified and electrified me in equal measure. But the years that followed were nothing like my bright, early loves. My marriage fizzled into resignation; passion gave way to silence and routine. Every time I tried to chase sparks elsewhere, disappointment settled heavier in my bones. Lovers slipped away before anything real could take root, and I stopped believing I was meant to be wanted in that way. Each letdown carved away at my hope a little more, until intimacy became something distant, almost unreachable. I’d resigned myself to lonely nights with just my fingers and imagination for company, convinced that the bloom of longing I once knew had withered forever. That was before Nancy.
Yet Nancy awakened something primal in me. Every brush of my hands against her skin sent electricity coursing through me. Strong but yielding, confident yet gentle—she was everything I craved but hadn't dared hope for. Watching her undress each week had become an exquisite torment; her casual nudity stirring fantasies that left my panties soaked and my professional resolve fraying.
I should have known better. But no amount of experience could armor me against the way her knowing glances stripped me bare far more effectively than any disrobing ever could.
I didn’t know much about her—whether she was drawn to men, women, or both. Her fingers were bare of wedding rings, and she never mentioned a partner. Still, there were hints: the way her eyes lingered on my hands as I worked, the slow smile she offered when I adjusted the sheet across her back, and that moment last week, when she paused before lying down and said, almost too casually, “You always make this feel... special."
Sometimes when our eyes met as she climbed onto the table, I caught something flicker in her gaze—something that made my breath catch, something I wanted to believe meant more. Once or twice, her face softened with a kind of longing, her expression distant as if she was remembering another time or wanting something she could not quite voice. Even the way she sometimes hesitated before speaking, as if she were weighing her words or fighting the urge to admit something, set my nerves on edge. I wondered what chased across her mind in those quiet pauses—whether desire lingered behind her reserved smiles. None of that mattered, though. What mattered was the boundary between us, the line I had to force myself not to cross.
Every week, I wrestled with it. The way her body felt beneath my hands, the way her breath hitched when I worked out a stubborn knot in her shoulders—it was intoxicating. But she was my client. Someone who trusted me to guide her into relaxation, not to let my fingers linger too long, or my thoughts wander too far.
And yet, they did. They wandered to places they had no business being. Places like her soft skin, her heavy breasts, the curve of her hips. I’d imagine what it would feel like to kiss her, to taste her, to hear her moan my name. Then, like clockwork, I’d snap myself back to reality. This was my job. My livelihood. I couldn’t let want ruin that.
But God, how I wanted to.
Pathetic, Leticia.
The buzzer rang at 4:52. Eight minutes early. She was always early.
I pressed the intercom. “Come on up.”
My heart thumped against my ribs as I waited by the door. Footsteps in the hallway. Then Nancy.
She filled the doorway like she always did, all five-foot-ten of her, towering over my tiny frame. Today, she wore a loose linen dress the color of rust, and her dark reddish-brown hair was pulled back in a low ponytail. The kind you could undo with one tug.
“Leticia.” She smiled, and the corners of her pale blue eyes crinkled. “I’ve been looking forward to this all week.”
“Long week?” I managed.
“You have no idea.” She stepped inside, and the door clicked shut behind her.
This was the moment. The one where I was supposed to say, “Go ahead and undress in the other room, I’ll give you a moment.” I’d said it the first few times, months ago. She’d waved me off then, and I’d never offered again.
Now I just stood there, my back pressed against the door, as Nancy reached behind her neck and unclasped the dress. It fell into a rust-colored puddle at her feet.
She wasn’t wearing a bra.
Her breasts swung free, heavy and full, the pale skin traced with faint blue veins. Her nipples were wide and pink, the color of ballet slippers, and they tightened as the air hit them. I made myself look away. Or tried to. My gaze snagged on the curve of her belly, the soft padding that had settled over years of good meals and less exercise, and then lower, to the smooth, shaven expanse of her pussy. Her thick pink lips hung low, parted ever so slightly, glistening with a faint dampness that made my mouth water. They seemed to beckon, an unspoken invitation to dive in and taste the sweetness I’d only dared imagine.
“You okay?” Nancy asked.
“Fine. Just tired.” I gestured toward the table. “Face down. You know the drill.”
She laughed, low and easy. “I do.”
The table creaked as she settled her weight onto it. Her body spread against the white sheet, and I watched the way her back muscles shifted beneath the skin. Strong. She’d been an athlete once, and you could still see it in the breadth of her shoulders, the definition in her thighs.
I pumped oil into my palm and rubbed my hands together to warm it.
“You’re quiet today,” she murmured into the face cradle.
“Long day.”
“You said that already.”
I didn’t answer. Just laid my hands on her upper back and pressed.
The first contact always sent something electric through me. The heat of her skin. The way her muscles yielded, then resisted. I worked the oil into her shoulders, finding the knots, the tight cords that spoke of stress, desk work, and a life that demanded too much.
“God, right there.” Her voice came out muffled. “You have magic fucking hands, Leticia.”
Magic fucking hands.
The words settled low in my belly. I imagined saying something back. Something filthy. You should feel my tongue.
Instead, I dug my thumbs deeper into the muscle and felt it release.
I moved down her spine, vertebra by vertebra, tracing the architecture of her. The slight dip at her lower back. The flare of her hips. My fingers pressed into the meat of her glutes, working through the thin sheet, and I felt her exhale.
My panties were wet. They had been since she dropped the dress.
I kept working. Professional. Methodical. But my mind had already slipped its leash.
I pictured peeling the sheet back. Baring the full curve of her ass. I pictured my mouth following the path my hands had made, down her spine, into the small of her back, and then lower. Spreading her thighs. Finding her cunt, shaved smooth, those thick pink lips glistening with creamy arousal, parted just enough to welcome my tongue. Tasting her.
My hands faltered.
“Everything okay?” Nancy’s voice again.
“Just adjusting my grip.” The lie came out steady.
I moved to her legs. Her calves were tight, and I used my elbows to work the knots loose. Her thighs were thick and warm beneath my palms. I avoided the inner seams, stayed professional, stayed within the boundaries I’d drawn for myself months ago when I realized this wasn’t just a client anymore.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About climbing onto the table. About positioning myself between those thighs. About dragging my tongue through her plump folds until she gripped my hair and pulled me harder against her pussy.
“Turn over,” I said, and my voice cracked.
Nancy shifted, rolling onto her back. The sheet bunched at her waist, and her breasts settled against her ribcage, nipples still tight. Her eyes found mine. Pale blue. Unreadable.
“Arms at your sides,” I managed.
She obeyed.
I worked her shoulders from the front, avoiding her breasts, though my knuckles brushed the side of one, and the contact made my breath stutter. Her skin was silk. Sun-warmed silk. I wanted to put my mouth on every inch of it.
“You’re blushing,” Nancy said.
“Am I?” I didn’t look at her.
“The lovely little Filipina with the magic hands and the pink cheeks.” There was something in her tone. Something teasing. Heavy.
I swallowed. “Close your eyes. Helps with relaxation.”
She closed them.
I finished the massage in a haze. Neck. Scalp. Temples. By the time I stepped back and said, “All done,” my underwear was soaked through.
Nancy sat up slowly, stretching her arms overhead. The movement lifted her breasts, and I watched a bead of oil trace a path down her sternum. She didn’t rush to cover herself. She never did.
“Same time next week?” she asked, sliding off the table.
“I’ll check my book.”
She dressed in front of me. The dress went back over her head, and she shimmied it down her hips. No underwear. She never wore any to these appointments.
“You’re a lifesaver,” she said, pulling cash from her purse. Always cash. Always a tip that was far too generous. “Truly. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“You’d manage.”
The door handle clicked under Nancy’s fingers, but she paused before opening it. My pulse jumped as her hand lifted—not toward the exit, but toward me. Her fingertips brushed my bare arm, featherlight yet scorching, tracing a slow path from wrist to elbow.
"Same time next Thursday?" Her voice was lower now, roughened around the edges.
I could only nod, swallowing hard as her touch lingered. Every nerve beneath her fingers ignited, screaming for more contact, more friction—more of her. Then, all too soon, her hand withdrew, leaving behind a tremble I couldn’t control.
Nancy hesitated, just for a heartbeat. Her lips parted as if to say something—something that might have shattered us both—before she stepped into the hallway without another word.
Then she was gone.
The door clicked shut.
I made it three steps to the couch before my knees gave out.
My hands fumbled with the button on my linen pants. I shoved them down, panties and all, and my fingers found my cunt before I’d even settled against the cushions. Slick. Swollen. The ache was unbearable.
“Nancy,” I breathed.
My fingers dove into the thick, dark tangle of hair between my thighs, the wiry strands clinging to my skin, soaked with the slickness of my desire. The sound was obscene—a wet, sticky squelch as I parted my folds, the scent of my arousal flooding my senses. My pubic hair was a wild, untamed bush, matted and tangled, but it only heightened the sensations as my fingers worked through it.
I gasped as I curled them deeper, the slickness coating my fingertips, the heat of my cunt pulsing in rhythm with my racing heart. I could hear it—the sticky glide of my fingers moving through the wetness, the soft slap of skin against skin as I pressed harder, desperate for release. My clit throbbed beneath my touch, swollen and needy, and I imagined Nancy’s pale thighs parting for me, her pink nipples tight and begging for my mouth, her cunt glistening and open, ready for my tongue.
The ache in my core intensified, and I moaned, my hips jerking upward, chasing the pressure of my own fingers. I was lost in the fantasy, in the slick, sticky reality of my want, and I didn’t care if anyone could hear me through the thin wall of my apartment. I just needed to feel. To imagine. To taste her.
I circled my clit and imagined circling her clit with my tongue. Imagined her taste. Salt and skin and something darker. Imagined her hands fisting in my hair, holding me there, using my mouth.
“Fuck,” I whispered. “I want to eat your pretty pussy, Nancy. I want to fucking taste you.”
My hips rocked against my hand, the pressure building relentlessly. I was close—so close—teetering on the edge of something that would shatter me completely. My breath came in ragged gasps, my fingers slick and desperate, when I suddenly felt the weight of a presence in the room.
My eyes flew open, and there she was.
Nancy stood over me, her pale blue eyes locked on mine, a smirk playing on her lips. I hadn’t heard her come back in, hadn’t heard the door click or the soft pad of her footsteps. She simply appeared, towering above me, her dress hanging loosely around her frame, her breasts swaying slightly with the movement of her breath.
“Well, aren’t you the naughty girl,” she purred, her voice low and husky. Her gaze drifted down to where my fingers were buried in my slick folds, and I froze, too stunned to move. “I see those fingers are truly magic…” She crouched down, her face inches from mine now, her breath hot against my skin. Her hand reached out, her fingers brushing against my trembling thigh. “But what I’m wondering, Leticia…” Her voice dropped to a whisper, dripping with temptation, “Do you have the magic tongue to match?”
My heart pounded in my chest, my body trembling with anticipation. Her words sent a jolt of heat through me, and I could barely believe this was really happening. This wasn’t a fantasy anymore.
"Yes," I gasped, the word torn from my throat with desperate need.
Nancy’s lips curled into a wicked smile as her fingers found the hem of her dress. She lifted it slowly, teasingly, letting the fabric whisper against her thighs before pulling it over her head in one fluid motion. The sight of her naked body—those heavy breasts swaying, those gumdrop pink nipples already tight with arousal—sent a fresh wave of heat between my legs.
Then she was on me.
Her powerful thighs straddled my face, the scent of her musky arousal flooding my senses before I even had time to breathe. One hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back, while the other pinned my wrist down, keeping my fingers trapped against my wet cunt.
"Prove it," she growled, and then she was pulling me forward, forcing my mouth towards her slick, meaty folds.
“Show me,” she said, and guided my mouth between her legs.
