Once A Masseuse, Always A Masseuse

Laney Grey tells Octavia Red to keep her eyes closed. She presses folded towels into her girlfriend's hands. When Octavia opens them, she frowns, puzzled by the familiar linens. Then her gaze lands on Laney, dressed in a tighter, far more revealing version of a masseuse uniform—blonde hair spilling loose, shirt cut low over small natural breasts. Laney smiles and confesses she noticed how tense Octavia has seemed lately. Once upon a time she gave real massages, she says, and though she quit, her hands still remember how to work away stress. Octavia softens, moved. Laney peels the clothes from her slowly, piece by piece, until Octavia stands bare and shaved, skin warm. Oil glistens as Laney's palms glide over her shoulders, down her back, along the soft curve of each breast. The strokes grow longer, bolder. Soon the table is forgotten. They sink together, mouths meeting, hands exploring, each worshiping the other's body until every last knot melts away.