The Massage
"Her back has been killing her for weeks. Her stepson worked as a massage therapist one summer. She just needs relief. That's all this is."
"You used to be a massage therapist?"
I look up from my laptop. Linda is in the doorway, arms crossed, looking at me like I'm holding something she needs.
"One summer. In college. Why?"
"My back is killing me." She reaches behind herself, rubs at her lower spine. Winces. "Your father's been promising to take me to a spa for months. It never happens."
"So go yourself."
"The good places are booked solid until February." She steps into my room. "I was thinking maybe you could help."
I stare at her.
Linda is forty-four, Latina, and the most frustrating woman I've ever met. She married my father two years ago, and I've spent every day since trying not to notice her. Her thick thighs in those yoga pants. Her heavy breasts straining against her shirts. The way her ass sways when she walks past my door.
She wants me to put my hands on her.
"I don't know if that's—"
"Please." She actually says please. Linda never says please. "I can barely sleep. I can't exercise. I can't function. Fifteen minutes. That's all I'm asking."
Fifteen minutes with my hands on my stepmother's body.
"Fine," I say, because apparently I hate myself. "Living room. Half an hour."
She's lying face-down on the couch when I come downstairs.
She's wearing a robe. Just a robe. It's white, thin, and currently the only thing between my hands and her skin.
"I brought oil," I say. "Lavender. Helps with relaxation."
"Great." Her voice is muffled by the cushion. "Just... fix me."
I pour oil into my palms. Warm it between my hands. And then I reach for the collar of her robe and pull it down to her waist.
Her back is bare. Smooth and brown, curving down to where the robe bunches at her hips. I can see the side-swell of her breasts pressed against the couch. I can see everything.
"Just the back," she says. "That's where it hurts."
"Got it."
I put my hands on her.
She moans within thirty seconds.
Not a sex moan—a relief moan. My thumbs dig into the knots along her spine and she melts into the couch.
"Oh God," she breathes. "That's... yes..."
"You're tense as hell. When's the last time someone worked on you?"
"Years. Maybe never." She sighs as I knead her lower back. "Your father doesn't... he's not physical."
I don't say anything to that. I just work—up her spine, across her shoulders, down to the curve above her ass. Every knot I find makes her gasp. Every release makes her moan.
"Lower," she says after fifteen minutes. "Right above my tailbone. That's where it's worst."
I hesitate. The robe is bunched at her hips. Any lower and I'll be on dangerous territory.
"Are you sure?"
"Please."
I slide my hands down. Find the spot she's talking about—a cluster of tension right above the swell of her ass. I press in, and she whimpers.
"Right there. Fuck. Right there."
I work the spot. She squirms beneath me, her hips shifting, her moans getting louder. The robe slips. An inch. Another inch.
I can see the top of her ass now. Round and full and—
"Don't stop," she gasps. "It's working. It's finally working."
I don't stop. I work lower, my thumbs sliding down, finding new tension in the muscles of her glutes. The robe slips further. She's practically naked now, just a scrap of white fabric covering her most intimate parts.
"Marcus." Her voice has changed. Deeper. Breathier. "Can you... can you go lower?"
"Lower?"
She reaches back. Pushes the robe off completely.
She's naked beneath me.
Her ass is magnificent—two round, full globes, brown and smooth and begging to be touched. And between her thighs, I can see wetness glistening.
"Please," she whispers. "I need it."
I should stop.
I should apologize. Put the robe back on her. Walk away and never speak of this again.
I pour more oil into my hands.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," I say.
"I won't."
I start with her ass. Kneading the flesh, working the muscles, watching her cheeks ripple under my fingers. She moans—a different kind of moan now, needier—and her legs fall open.
"Yes. Yes. Just like that—"
I work lower. Her inner thighs. The sensitive spot where leg meets ass. Every touch makes her gasp, makes her hips rock, makes her wetter.
"Touch me," she begs. "Please. I need—"
My thumb slides between her thighs. Finds her slit. She's soaked—dripping—and hot enough to burn.
"Fuck," she hisses. "More. Give me more—"
I give her more. I push two fingers inside her, and she nearly levitates off the couch. Her cunt clenches around me, tight and desperate, and her moans fill the room.
"I haven't been touched in so long," she pants. "Your father—he doesn't—oh God—"
I don't want to hear about my father. I curl my fingers, find the spot that makes her scream, and work it until she's shaking.
"I'm gonna come—fuck—I'm gonna—"
She comes. Hard. Her whole body convulses, her cunt squeezing my fingers, her voice breaking on sounds that aren't words.
Before she can recover, I'm pulling off my pants. Positioning myself behind her. She looks back over her shoulder, sees what I'm doing, and her eyes go wide.
"Yes," she breathes. "Do it. I need to feel—"
I push into her.
She's tighter than I imagined.
Wet and hot and gripping me like she's been starving for this. I grab her hips—thick, soft, made for holding—and start to thrust.
"Oh God—you're so big—fuck—"
I fuck her over the couch where my father watches TV. Where he sits every night, oblivious, while his wife dreams of this. I fuck her hard and deep, watching her ass ripple with every impact, listening to her moans echo off the walls.
"Harder. Please. I can take it—"
I go harder. She buries her face in the cushion to muffle her screams. I reach forward, grab a fistful of her hair, and pull.
"Don't you dare be quiet," I tell her. "I want to hear you."
She stops being quiet.
She screams my name. Screams yes and more and fuck me. She comes again, her body shaking, and I don't slow down. I fuck her through it, through the aftershocks, through her begging me to stop and then begging me to never stop.
"Inside," she gasps. "Come inside me. I want to feel it—"
I bury myself to the hilt and let go.
Afterward, she lies boneless on the couch. I'm still inside her. Neither of us moves.
"That was..." She laughs, breathless. "Not what I expected from a massage."
"Sorry."
"Don't you dare apologize." She clenches around me—I'm already getting hard again. "That was the best my back has felt in years."
"Your back?"
She looks over her shoulder. Grins.
"Among other things." She wiggles her hips. "Same time next week?"
"What about Dad?"
"What about him?" She pushes back, takes more of me inside. "He had his chance to take care of me. Now it's your turn."
I can't argue with that logic.
By the time my father comes home, she's fully dressed and making dinner.
"How's your back?" he asks.
"So much better," she says, smiling at me across the kitchen. "Marcus has magic hands."
He pats my shoulder. "Good man."
If only he knew what those hands had done.