Grace would never admit it out loud, but she always prayed for a cute one. Around Zen Massage, she supposed, most of her coworkers did too.
She had been through all of the requisite classes and lectures and orientations, of course. She'd passed her exams and gotten licensed as a professional massage therapist, and she knew all about the hard science of massage therapy--the beautiful intricacy of interlocking muscle tissue, the complexity of nerve clusters and pressure points, and the way it all came together in the daily struggle of exercise. Before she was even offered her first part-time job as a massage therapist, she must have heard at least three lectures on the limits of acceptable touch; even a flirtatious comment could get her a stern talking-to from the owner, if she didn't dismiss her on the spot. The therapists of Zen Massage were professionals, and their clients--most of them, anyway--came to them with an earnest desire to stay healthy and feel good.
"There's nothing sexual about this job,"
Grace's boss had told her on her first day.
"Always remember that, and stay professional."
Still, though... Nobody could fault a girl for daydreaming in her idle moments.
She was in her third year of art classes at Piper University at the center of town. Between her twice-weekly classes in figure drawing (her specialty), her side courses on graphic design (which she hated, but hoped would pay the bills someday), and her part-time job at Zen Massage, she seldom had time for daydreaming--but when she did, she took her time and enjoyed it.
When hanging out with friends in her off-hours, she often joked about how much time she spent around naked people. She always told people that it lost its luster after a while, once it became routine. During her regular figure-drawing sessions at the Art Department with live models--who always posed nude, naturally--she was usually too preoccupied with the stress of knocking out a competent drawing in ninety minutes to ogle them. During hour-long regimens of deep-tissue massage with her clients--who also chose to go naked under the towel, more often than not--she was usually too focused on working out the knots and kinks in their muscles and joints.
Every once in a while, though, it could still give her a little thrill. And in her quiet moments, when she mentally replayed all of her old fantasies, she found that they nearly always began in the studios of the Art Department or the tranquil air-conditioned rooms of Zen Massage. Naughtier still: when her mind conjured up imaginary lovers to keep her company, they nearly
always
looked like either her life models or her clients.
Her massage fantasy always started the same way:
On a quiet evening, she'd creep her way into a room fragrant with incense and scented oil, the lights dim and the halls empty. She always recognized Zen Massage's distinctive wallpaper patterned with lotus blossoms--but in her fantasies, she and her lovers had the place to themselves.
The last time she'd dreamt of the massage room, her lover was a broad-chested sophomore with soft blue eyes and smoke-dark hair; she'd forgotten his name, but she'd sketched him half a dozen times, and she knew every curve of his slim and agile body. In the dream, she'd found him waiting for her alone, lying nude atop the padded massage table, his body covered only by a folded linen towel laid across his waist. With the scent of sandalwood and cherry blossoms heavy in the air, she approached him with soft footsteps and caressed his muscular shoulders with gentle touches. Then, as he stared up at her from the massage table with eyes full of apprehension, she reached down and slowly pulled the towel off of his lap--leaving him naked and vulnerable, unprotected from her lascivious gaze.
The dream didn't end there. She still remembered the thrill of anticipation that made her heart jump in her chest when she knelt down over her lover's naked body, silencing him with a finger to his lips as she twisted the towel into a short rope and tied it around his wrists, pulling it just tight enough to keep his hands securely bound beneath the massage table. Smiling mischievously, she reached down under her loose-fitting white skirt and plucked off her panties, then bent her knees and straddled his muscular body in one easy motion, teasing his cock with nimble fingers. She savored every ounce of friction as she nestled his erect penis in the tight space between her ample buttocks, playfully wiggling her hips and gently bouncing atop his prone body as she ground her soft bottom against the throbbing firmness of his rock-hard member. He futilely strained against the twisted towel as she pinched and twisted his nipples, letting the minutes melt away until she finally guided his cock toward the moist opening of her vulva.
When she awoke, her memories of the dream lingered in her mind all week. In idle moments, she still saw her imaginary lover's face, and still recalled the thrill of watching him squirm on the massage table with his wrists bound together. With her hands slick with almond-scented massage oil, she'd fingered her clit under her tangled bedsheets while the memory of the dream was still fresh, and didn't get up from her mattress until she'd coaxed herself to a shuddering orgasm.
Today, she remembered the dream again as she reviewed her notes on her newest client. And, like so many days before, she silently prayed that he'd turn out to be cute.
His name was Max Grayson. According to his paperwork, he was 26 years old, and he'd scheduled a deep-tissue session. Felicia, her manager, had handled his intake forms, and scribbled a few brief notes in the blank spaces at the bottom. His occupation was listed as
"Graduate Student"
--but according to one of Felicia's handwritten notes, he was also a long-distance runner. In his first session, he'd requested deep-tissue work on his legs, thighs, lower back and glutes, all of the areas that felt the effects of his running the most.
His session was set to begin in five minutes. After taking a moment to review her client's paperwork, she set down his intake form and filed it away in the records cabinet under
"G"
for
"Grayson."
As she prepared to make her way downstairs to meet him in the waiting room, she looked herself over in the floor-length mirror that hung on the wall on the far side of the breakroom.
As busy as she was in the average semester, she still managed to look her best. Her soft blue eyes were slightly weary, betraying the mark of her many late nights at the drawing table--but her cherubic face was creased by an easy smile, and her dimpled cheeks were kissed with Autumn sunlight. Her nose, slightly upturned, always gave her a slightly impish appearance, and her cheeks were patterned with a light smattering of freckles. Her hair, styled in a short bob cut, was the color of a ray of sunlight glimpsed through a glass of red wine.
Like most of the therapists at Zen Massage, she came to work dressed in all-black. Today, she wore a snug-fitting tank top and skin-tight black leggings. As the clock ticked toward 10 o'clock, she turned sideways and admired her profile in the mirror. Her clothing was modest, but her leggings were stretched tightly over her wide hips and her round backside.
Grace didn't always love her distinctly bottom-heavy physique. At just a few scant inches over five feet tall, sometimes she wished she could trade her thick thighs for longer legs. Other days, she half-wished that she could exchange a smaller size of pants for a bigger bra. Today, though, she allowed herself a brief smile of contentment as she turned around and looked back over her shoulder to admire herself in the mirror. Feeling just a twinge of naughtiness, she reached back and rested one hand on the small of her back, admiring the ample curve of her plump butt.
The face of the clock read
9:58.
