Massage Me Everywhere

Kylie could’ve kissed Aften the moment she walked through the door. Boyfriend’s bullshit had her strung tighter than piano wire and she needed hands that knew what they were doing. Aften smiled like she got it. Kylie peeled off her clothes, lay belly-down, and draped the towel across her ass. Aften’s palms dug in—slow, deep, certain—and every knot cracked open under her thumbs. Breathing got easier. Shoulders dropped. Then Aften’s fingertips hovered at the edge of the towel. “Want me to take it off?” she asked. Kylie gave the smallest nod. Fabric slid away, cool air kissed bare skin, and Aften kept working—up the backs of Kylie’s thighs, over the swell of her cheeks, down the dip of her spine. Words spilled out. Kylie muttered that her boyfriend made her feel nothing, that every woman she knew touched her gentler, laughed softer, actually listened. She wondered out loud if she liked girls. Aften’s breath brushed her ear. “Only one way to know.” She turned Kylie over, claimed her mouth, and the massage turned into something hotter, wetter, louder. Aften’s tongue traced Kylie’s nipples, slipped lower, licked the proof that stress had turned into slick, urgent need. Kylie’s hips rolled against Aften’s face, her fingers knotted in blonde hair, every moan scraping the truth out of her throat. Aften climbed up, straddled her, rode the thigh Kylie pressed between her legs until they both came—hard, shaking, names lost in each other’s mouths. No boyfriend. No questions. Just sweat cooling on skin and the quiet certainty that she’d choose this again.