Masseuse Of Honour

Gal fidgets at the vanity. She can hardly draw breath for the panic crawling her chest. Maddie steps behind her, her palms already warm, the scent of warm almond oil rising between them. Long fingers press into the tight ropes of Gal’s shoulders, pulling the knots free one by one until her skin sings. A sigh escapes, loud and grateful, followed by a smaller sound she tries to bite down. Maddie doesn’t pause. She lowers her to the chaise, smoothing the silk sheath past her hips. She works the bare feet, heels cupped, thumbs stroking upward until toes curl against knuckles. Each slow drag of her knuckles up the calves pulls heat higher, tighter. Gal’s gaze tracks her, pupils wide. “This shouldn’t feel—” Gal starts, then finishes, clearly, “I want more.” Maddie pauses above the lace edge of the thigh-highs. She looks once at the clock, once at the closed door, then nods. She eases the stockings down until only smooth skin remains. Their hands meet, breath matching, as the white hem rises and the space between them narrows. The ceremony can wait.