Deep Tissue
"Weekly appointments for his back pain. She's always professional. But when he books a late session and she's the only one left in the spa, her hands wander somewhere new."
The first time I saw Marlene, I couldn't get on the table.
Not because I didn't want the massage—my lower back had been screaming for weeks, and my doctor had written the referral with a look that said this is the last thing I'm trying before surgery. It was because of her.
She'd walked into the room and I'd forgotten how to breathe.
Marlene is not a small woman. She's maybe five-six, but she takes up space in a way that has nothing to do with height. Wide hips that sway when she moves. Breasts that strain against her spa uniform—white cotton, professional, but unable to hide the sheer volume of her. A belly that curves out soft and round, visible even under the loose fabric.
She has to be two-sixty. Two-seventy. All of it soft, all of it warm, all of it making my mouth go dry.
"Mr. Callahan?" She'd smiled. Gentle. Professional. "I'm Marlene. I'll be your massage therapist today."
I'd mumbled something. Got on the table face-down. Spent the next hour trying not to get hard while her hands worked miracles on my spine.
I failed.
That was eight months ago.
Now I come every Thursday. Six o'clock, without fail. Same room. Same table. Same woman.
My back is better. Has been for months. The pain that sent me here is a memory, occasional twinges that I could manage with a foam roller if I tried.
I don't try. I keep coming back.
Because Marlene.
Because her hands on my skin. Because the way she hums while she works—low, absent-minded, almost too quiet to hear. Because the lavender oil she uses and the way it smells on her fingers. Because the accidental brushes—her belly against my arm when she reaches across the table, her breast grazing my shoulder when she leans in to work a knot.
Professional. Always professional. Never more than an accident.
But I live for those accidents.
"Last appointment of the night."
Marlene closes the door behind her. The spa is quiet—it's 8 PM on a Thursday, and everyone else has gone home. I'd requested the late slot when her regular evening opened up, told myself it was because of my work schedule.
That was a lie.
"How's the back?" She moves to the table where I'm already lying face-down, sheet draped across my hips. The lights are dim. Candles flicker on the shelf. Soft music plays from somewhere I can't see.
"Tight," I say. "Long week."
"Mmm." Her hands find my shoulders. Warm. Slick with oil. "I can feel it. You're carrying tension everywhere tonight."
She starts to work. Thumbs digging into the muscles along my spine, fingers spreading across my back. I groan, and she laughs—soft, low.
"That's it. Let it out."
I let it out. I let everything out on this table. Every stress, every worry, every inappropriate thought about the woman whose hands are slowly taking me apart.
"You've been coming here for a while now." Her voice is conversational. Her hands never stop. "Eight months?"
"Something like that."
"Your back was fixed months ago." Her thumbs find a knot near my shoulder blade and press. I gasp. "We both know that."
"I—"
"Shh." She leans in. I feel the warmth of her body, the soft press of her belly against my side. "I'm not complaining. I like seeing you."
Her hands work lower.
Usually she stops at my lower back. Works the muscles there, maybe the top of my glutes if they're particularly tight. Professional. Appropriate.
Tonight, her hands slide under the sheet.
I go rigid. "Marlene—"
"Shh." Her thumbs dig into my glutes, kneading deep. "You're tense here too. Probably all that sitting."
It's a lie. We both know it's a lie. But her hands are on my ass, squeezing and pressing, and I can't think straight enough to call her on it.
"Is this okay?"
"Yes." The word comes out strangled. I'm hard—have been since she walked in, but now I'm aching, pressing into the table. "God, yes."
"Good."
She works lower. My thighs. The backs of my knees. Then up again, and this time her fingers brush the inside of my thighs, skating dangerously close to—
"Turn over."
I hesitate. "Marlene, I'm—"
"I know." Her voice is warm. Amused. "I've known for eight months. Turn over."
I turn over.
The sheet tents obscenely. There's no hiding it, no pretending. I'm hard enough to cut glass, and Marlene is looking right at it.
She's smiling.
"There you are." She moves to the head of the table, and suddenly her face is above mine, upside-down. Her breasts hang heavy, straining against her uniform. I can see down the V of her neckline—deep cleavage, the shadow of a dark bra. "You've been so patient."
"Patient?"
"Mmm." She leans down. Her lips brush my forehead. "Eight months of lying on this table, pretending you're not thinking about me. Eight months of accidental touches that weren't accidents." Her lips move to my ear. "Eight months of me going home and touching myself, thinking about what I'd do if I wasn't professional."
"Jesus."
"I'm not feeling very professional tonight." She straightens up. Reaches for the buttons of her uniform. "Lock's on the door. Everyone's gone. It's just us."
The uniform opens. Falls to the floor.
She's wearing a black bra—industrial, sturdy, built for support rather than seduction. Her belly spills over the waistband of her pants, soft and round and pale. She's bigger without the uniform to disguise it, broader, more.
"This is what you've been thinking about, isn't it?" She reaches behind her back. The bra opens, slides off. Her breasts are massive—heavy, pendulous, dark nipples pointing down toward her belly. "Eight months of imagining."
"Yes." I can barely speak. "God, yes."
"Touch me."
I sit up on the table.
She steps forward, between my legs. I reach out, and my hands find her waist—soft, yielding, warm from the candles. I slide up her sides, feeling the thickness of her, the sheer presence of her body.
My hands reach her breasts.
Heavy. So heavy. I lift them, feeling their weight, and she moans—a soft, surprised sound, like she didn't expect that.
"They're sensitive," she breathes. "No one's touched them in... a while."
I lean forward. Take one nipple in my mouth.
She grabs my head, holding me there. Her skin tastes like lavender oil and salt and her. I suck, flicking my tongue, and she shudders against me.
"Eight months." She's pulling at my shirt now, tugging it over my head. "Eight months of being professional. Of keeping my hands where they belong." Her fingers find my chest, tracing down. "I've memorized your body. Every muscle. Every inch. I know you better than anyone."
"Marlene—"
"I want you to know me too." She steps back. Unzips her pants. Slides them down.
No underwear.
She's bare beneath—thick thighs, wide hips, a belly that hangs soft and low. Her mound is dark, trimmed short, glistening in the candlelight.
"Get on your back," she says. "Let me work."
I lie back on the massage table.
She climbs up, and I feel the weight of her—the table creaks, adjusting. She straddles my thighs, her wetness leaving a trail on my skin.
"I've thought about this." Her hands find my chest, pressing down. Massaging, but different now—possessive. Claiming. "Thought about what it would be like to have you under me. Not as a client. As a man."
She reaches down. Wraps her hand around my cock.
I groan, hips jerking up. Her grip is firm, slick with oil—of course it is, her hands are always slick—and she strokes me with the same steady rhythm she uses on my back.
"That's it." Her voice is the same low hum. Professional. Soothing. Filthy. "Let me take care of you."
"I want—"
"I know what you want." She positions herself. I feel her heat against my tip. "Same thing I want."
She sinks down.
I've never felt anything like her.
She's hot and tight and everywhere. Her weight settles on my hips, pinning me to the table. Her belly presses against mine. Her breasts hang heavy, swaying as she adjusts.
"God." Her eyes flutter closed. "I've imagined this so many times. You feel better than I thought."
She starts to move.
It's not fast. Not frantic. It's the same slow, deliberate rhythm she uses in every massage—methodical, thorough, designed to work every inch. She rises and falls, grinding on the downstroke, clenching on the up.
"You're carrying tension here too." She's smiling now, wicked. Her hands press on my chest, keeping me down. "Let me work it out."
"Marlene—"
"Shh." She increases her pace. Just slightly. "Let go. I've got you."
I let go.
My hands find her hips, her thighs, her belly. I touch everything I've been imagining for eight months. She's softer than I dreamed, warmer, more real. Her body moves like water, like the music still playing softly in the background.
"Touch me," she breathes. "Where it counts."
I slide my hand between us. Find her clit. Press.
She gasps, rhythm faltering. "Yes—there—there—"
I rub in circles. The same steady pressure she taught me without meaning to—consistent, unrelenting. She's riding me faster now, her professional composure cracking.
"I'm close." Her voice is strained. "I'm—oh God—"
"Let go." I throw her words back at her. "I've got you."
She comes with a cry that echoes off the walls.
Her body clenches around me, squeezing, pulsing. Her head falls back, exposing her throat. Her breasts heave with her breathing. She's beautiful—wrecked and beautiful and mine, at least for this moment.
"Inside me." She's still shaking. "I want to feel you."
I thrust up. Once, twice—the table creaking with our movement—and then I'm coming too, spilling into her while she moans my name.
We collapse together. Her weight on my chest. Her heart pounding against mine. The candles flicker. The music plays on.
"Best session yet," I manage.
She laughs. Breathless. "I'll have to update your treatment plan."
"What does that look like?"
She lifts her head. Kisses me—soft, lingering, tasting like the tea she drinks between clients.
"Same time next week. Same room." Her hand slides down my stomach. "But I'm thinking we extend the session. Work on some... different muscle groups."
"I don't think my insurance covers that."
"This one's on me." She grins. "Professional courtesy."
I get dressed slowly. She watches from the table, still naked, still glowing.
"Thursday," she says. "Eight o'clock."
"I'll be here."
"I know." She stretches, and I watch her body move—soft, beautiful, everything I've been dreaming about. "You've been reliable from the start. That's what I like about you."
"Just that?"
She laughs. Stands. Walks toward me, every inch of her on display.
"No." She cups my face. Kisses me again. "Not just that."
She opens the door. The hallway is dark, everyone long gone.
"Same time next week, Mr. Callahan." Her voice is professional again. Neutral. Like nothing happened. "We'll continue your treatment."
But her eyes are warm. Her smile is wicked.
And I know Thursday can't come fast enough.