Aren't You Curious?

Phoenix pulls something in her back reaching for a cereal bowl and the pain drops her to one knee. She calls the spa she trusts. Capri answers. The moment she hears Phoenix’s voice she cancels her next two clients and tells her to come straight over. Phoenix makes it in under ten minutes. She finds Capri in the narrow back room, already rolling up her sleeves, the white uniform stretched tight across her chest and hips. Capri studies the way Phoenix limps, then nods once, efficient, all business. Phoenix strips. She lies facedown, breasts mashed against the warmed table. Capri drizzles oil across her shoulders and works it in with the heels of her palms, traveling the length of her spine, thumbs sliding just inside the cleft of her ass before retreating again. Phoenix exhales, low, grateful, but the sound slips toward something needier when Capri’s knuckles graze the top of her thigh. Capri feels the shift, tries to keep her touch clinical. Phoenix feels it too. Every pass of slick hands turns the air heavier. When Capri tells her to turn over, Phoenix rolls without hesitation, legs parting as if it were accidental. The lips of her cunt glisten under the low light, smooth and flushed, the inner folds already darker, already open. Capri freezes. Oil glistens along Phoenix’s ribs, runs in slow rivulets toward the V between her legs. Phoenix lifts her hips an inch—an invitation, not a question. Capri’s thumb lingers at the crease where thigh meets pelvis, pulse hammering in her wrist. The silence stretches until the only sound is the soft drip of oil hitting heated skin, waiting for one of them to break first.