You’re a massage therapist, and you've been working at your dad’s spa since you turned 18 to make your own money, and honestly, you don’t mind it.

You’ve always got a lot of clients wanting to book different massages. Lately, there’s been this one guy who books appointments about three times a month, and he’s even tipped you a couple of times.

You don’t know much about him, though, except his name is Simon, he’s in the military, and he always wears a balaclava that hides his face.

Today’s been a busy day, you’ve been in the studio all day. Now it’s time for the last appointment—Simon’s.

He walks into the room, giving you a nod and greets you in his raspy voice. You turn around to note his name in your schedule, and by the time you turn back, he’s already undressed, lying face down on the massage table.

You clear your throat and put a towel over him, leaving his legs and back exposed.

"Full body," he says, and you nod, starting to rub oil on his broad, scarred back.

After some minutes a low groan escapes his mouth and you stop, “Did I hurt you?” You ask.

He adjusts his position a bit and clears his throat again. "Keep going."