Parlor Tricks: Baited Straight

Whitney and Zac slumped in the back room between clients, half-dressed in their massage kits, trading gossip. The door clicked open. Christie Stevens. Zac's eyes flared. He said her name like it tasted better than coffee. Whitney barked a laugh. 'Bro, she doesn't even like dudes. It's a fact.' Zac grinned, shark-wide. 'Facts get bent.' His plan spilled out in low whispers, and Whitney was yawning until he tossed in his whole paycheck on top. She took the bet, clapped once, and the trap was set. Later she guided Christie onto the table, hands slick, the room humming with lavender and candle crackle. She worked slow—shoulders, the tender dip of the lower back, then the round swell of her ass—every stroke a prayer that went a little deeper each pass. Christie's breath dragged. Muscles melted. When she sighed and melted into the oil, Whitney slid a slick hand between her thighs and pressed two steady fingers up into wet heat. Christie jerked, but didn't pull away. The door stayed shut. The light stayed low. Whitney worked like she’d just been paid to steal something, and she was already counting the cash.