Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 414(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
The house is silent, insulated by the storm windows and the thick walls. Occasionally, I hear the furnace whir to life, or the creak of the oak stairs settling under their own weight. I close my eyes, listening for her footfalls, and when the sound finally comes—soft, measured, approaching from the hallway—I feel my entire body tighten.
The knock is barely audible, more a feather-touch than a request for entry. I open my eyes and stand, careful to move slowly, to preserve the illusion of control. My erection strains as I walk to the door, and I imagine for a second that she’ll see it and recoil, or laugh, or say nothing at all and let it haunt the air.
I open the door. Mary Kate stands on the threshold, a shadow of uncertainty around her, but she holds herself upright, shoulders squared. She wears a simple heathered tee and faded jeans, the kind that ride low on her hips, and her feet are bare, toenails painted a dusty rose. Her hair is loose and golden, falling in soft waves to the middle of her back. She’s not wearing makeup, or if she is, it’s invisible, and her skin is fresh and a little pink from the cold.
Her eyes find my face, linger a half-second longer than necessary, then dart away—toward the table, the rug, the closed bottle of oil. I notice her hands, fingers curled tight around the phone in her palm, knuckles pale. For a second, her lower lip catches between her teeth, as if she’s biting back a question, and then she releases it, exhaling slow.
“Hi Kent,” she says.
“Hi,” I say, my voice rougher than usual.
I step aside, gesture her in with a flick of my head. She walks past me, her body heat trailing in her wake, and the scent of her shampoo—something sweet, clean, not childish but not quite adult—floods the room. I close the door, locking us in.
She stops a few feet from the table, arms folded across her chest. She isn’t wearing a bra; I can tell from the way her large breasts shift under the cotton, the faint shadow of a nipple catching in the lamp light. The sight is so distracting I have to look away, fix my gaze on the oil bottles, the clock, anything but her.
I clear my throat, voice even and measured, the way I speak to nervous patients before a procedure. “You came.”
Mary Kate laughs, a brittle sound. “I said I would.”
I nod, say nothing, and let the silence do its work. After a moment, I cross to the massage table and adjust the towel, squaring it along the vinyl pad.
“I thought we’d start with basic technique,” I say. “It’s easier than it sounds, but you have to be precise. It’s uncomfortable if you’re not.”
She watches my hands as I speak, her eyes wide and blue, pupils dilated. I sense her heartbeat, her breath, the micro-movements of her fingers against her ribcage. She’s terrified, but she’s also present—fully here, not running or deflecting, just waiting to see what happens next.
I explain the basics, as I would to a medical student: “It’s a matter of pressure. The stones collect along the epididymis, sometimes in the cord. You need to break them up, but not bruise the tissue. Most people use too much force, but it’s actually about sustained, rolling motion. Like kneading dough.”
She nods, lips parted, the tip of her tongue flicking over her lower lip in a nervous gesture.
I hesitate, then: “Do you want to practice a little first? Or should we just—?”
She cuts me off, voice small. “No, there isn’t really any way to practice. Let’s just do it.”
I breathe out, surprised by the rush of relief that fills my lungs. I let the sweatpants drop around my ankles, the henley following in a single, practiced motion, and step out of the pile. I do it with the same detachment I use in the exam room, but the stakes are much higher here, the audience infinitely more important. My cock is fully hard now, the head purpled, a vein running the length of the shaft. I catch her staring at the glimmering tip, but she doesn’t look away.
I climb onto the table, lie back, and fold my arms at my sides. The table is firm, the vinyl cold against my bare skin, and the towel crinkles under my back. My erection stands straight up, almost obscene, but I let it. There’s no point in pretending.
“Start with the oil,” I say, gesturing to the bottles. “Use more than you think. It reduces friction.”
She nods, steps closer, and selects the sandalwood. Her hands tremble as she pours a small pool into her palm, then rubs her hands together, warming it to body temperature. The smell is immediate, heavy and sweet, overlaying the chill of the room.