Streatham Sensation
"Massage therapist Nneka has healing hands at her Streatham practice. When stressed CEO Marcus books the last appointment, she releases tension he didn't know he was carrying."
Marcus's body was a disaster—shoulders knotted, back screaming, months of CEO stress written in his muscles. His PA booked him with Nneka, supposedly the best in Streatham.
The practice was calming, all white walls and soft music. But Nneka herself was anything but calming.
Nigerian curves in loose linen, thick arms that promised strength, and eyes that seemed to see every tension he carried.
"You're a mess," she said after initial assessment. "How long since anyone touched you?"
"Touched me?"
"Properly. With care."
He couldn't answer. Too long. Maybe never.
The massage started professionally—deep tissue work on his shoulders, knots releasing under her skilled hands. But something shifted as she moved lower.
"You carry so much," she murmured. "Here. And here." Her hands pressed places that made him gasp. "And especially here."
"Nneka—"
"Shh. Let go. Just let go."
Her hands worked magic—releasing tension, yes, but building something else entirely.
"Turn over," she commanded.
He obeyed, acutely aware of his body's response to her touch. She must have noticed—couldn't not have noticed—but she didn't stop.
"Some tension needs different release," she said, her hands moving up his thighs. "Would you like that? Proper release?"
"Yes." The word was barely a breath.
Her linen dress fell away, revealing her thick body in all its glory. She climbed onto the massage table, straddling him.
"Then let me help you."
She rode him slowly, her hands still working his muscles even as her hips moved. The combination was overwhelming—therapeutic touch becoming pleasure, professionalism becoming passion.
"Feel everything," she breathed. "Don't hold back."
He grabbed her thick hips, pulling her down harder. She moaned approval, her pace increasing.
"Yes... there... that's it..."
She came with a shudder that rippled through her entire body, and her inner muscles pulled his release from him like she was extracting the last of his tension.
"Roll over. One more thing."
She massaged him after—properly this time, though her naked body pressed against his made focus impossible. When she finished, he felt lighter than he had in years.
"What was that?"
"Full body treatment." She kissed his shoulder. "Not on the standard menu."
"Can I book it again?"
"Weekly appointments. Non-negotiable." She lay beside him. "Your body needs regular maintenance. And I need... you."
His Streatham sensation had healed more than his muscles. And Marcus would never skip an appointment again.