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Maddie Wren leaned into Ivy Ireland’s oiled back, thumbs pressing deep along her spine. The massage table creaked quietly under slow, deliberate pressure. “I’m moving next month,” Maddie said. “New town, new clients.” Ivy made a soft sound, half acknowledgment, half pleasure, as Maddie’s palms slid lower and rounded the tops of her cheeks. The door swung open. Lyla, a coworker, stepped in with an armful of fresh towels. Maddie didn’t miss a beat. “Stay. We were just catching up.” Lyla nodded, set the towels on a nearby shelf, and dropped into the armchair beside the table like this happened every Tuesday. Conversation turned casual. Maddie spoke of rent prices and traffic while her hands slipped between Ivy’s thighs and stayed there, parting her with steady, practiced strokes. Ivy’s hips lifted an inch to meet the touch, yet her voice stayed even as she asked Lyla about her kid’s soccer schedule. Fingers slicked, circled, pushed in. Ivy’s breath hitched once, then resumed its normal rhythm. Lyla kept chatting—summer camps, flu shots, nothing urgent. Maddie curled two fingers deep, found the spot that made Ivy’s legs tremble, and kept talking leases and moving boxes as if nothing had changed. When Maddie withdrew, glistening, she didn’t pause. She simply climbed onto the table, straddled Ivy’s hips, and pressed forward until their cunts met. The motion was smooth, unhurried, like sliding into warm water. Ivy sighed, rolled her pelvis, and the two women found a rolling grind that filled the room with wet, steady sounds. Lyla glanced over once, politely, then returned to scrolling her phone while the table rocked beneath her. Neither Maddie nor Ivy quickened. They just moved, tight and slow, their voices threading through the conversation like ordinary steam rising from tea.