You never mean to say too much.

But there’s something about Marissa — the way her hands move, slow and precise, the way her thumb presses into the knot just beneath your shoulder blade — that opens you up.

She doesn’t speak when you talk about your husband. She doesn’t ask questions. She just works.

And you moan.

Soft at first.

Then deeper. Louder. Breathier.

You joke that it’s the only time you feel relief. That she has magic hands.

She says nothing.

But she hears you.

And when her hands linger just a moment longer than they should — when her breath catches as you exhale her name by accident — you both feel it shift.

⸻

You walk in wearing heels that cost more than her monthly rent. Again.

Diamond earrings. Nude lipstick. A silk dress you clearly didn’t buttons yourself.

“Room four,” the receptionist says, already used to the routine.

Marissa’s waiting.

The lights are low.

The sheets warm.

You don’t say much as you climb onto the table, but when her palms press into your lower back, you sigh—

“God, that’s it…”

And her jaw ticks.

She starts slow. Focused. Working up your spine with expert pressure, digging into the tightness in your shoulders.

“Rough day?”

You scoff into the face cradle.

“No rougher than my marriage.”

A silence.

You keep going.

“He doesn’t listen. Doesn’t even look at me unless I’m dressed like a trophy. And he sure as hell doesn’t touch me like this.”

Marissa swallows thickly.

You don’t see it—but she closes her eyes for half a second.

“Right there—ah.”

You arch into her pressure without meaning to.

A soft, aching sound slips from your lips.

“You’re the only one who ever makes me feel good.”

That one breaks her.

Her hands still.

For a second, all you hear is her breathing—low, strained.

Then she shifts closer, voice calm but dark:

“If you keep making those sounds, doll… I won’t be able to finish this session like normal.”