Lonely Nights To Come

Blake Blossom books a full-body massage before her deployment. In the back room, she opens up to Leana Lovings, the masseuse. The soldier admits she's excited to return to her all-male platoon but knows no one will be getting her off for months. Leana listens, nods, then lets her towel drop. She tells Blake to lie face down and calls it insurance, something to jerk off to when the nights turn cold and cruel. Leana's slick palms work lower, spread her open, slide deep. Every slow thrust of her fingers drags a moan from Blake's throat until the room smells like sweat and sex and the massage table creaks under them both. Leana never stops until Blake comes shaking, legs locked around her wrist, a filthy souvenir sealed tight in muscle memory.