Massage

She wrote one line: «Story or fantasy?». I never imagined that question would end with her naked on my massage table, waiting for me to prove it.

At six, her friend's message came with three kisses, and Amparo knew before answering that this call would not end like all the others.

I'd spent weeks inventing excuses to see her. That August afternoon by the pool, she took off her top and made it clear the excuses were over.

I spilled the oil on purpose, dialed his number, and waited. At my age, I had learned that opportunities aren’t waited for: they’re made.

Marcos asked me not to judge or ask questions when his friend came over. That same night, from the next room, I learned what kind of Friday visitors they had.

She had the seriousness of someone who knew the effect she caused and chose to administer it drop by drop. That night, on the massage table, I stopped pretending I’d only come for my back.

All her life they’d looked at her like an object. That afternoon, in the stone house at the end of the street, she decided to look first.

Marina hadn’t slept from excitement. What none of the three of us imagined was that that hidden cove would strip us of a lot more than our clothes.

My husband was away again, and my back couldn’t take any more. My neighbor’s message said, “The first massage is free.” I never imagined how far it would go.

She had been beside me, watching as I lost myself in the painting. When she finally spoke, I knew we both wanted exactly the same thing.

She gave me a hundred euros in tip for a three-kilometer ride. It took me two days to understand the money was only the beginning of what she wanted.

I’d spent years making sure no one looked at her too long. That afternoon, hidden among the tall weeds, I couldn’t stop looking myself.

We asked for the massage together so we wouldn’t be separated. What we didn’t know was that those four extra hands planned to stay until dawn.

When I asked what really turned her on, she straddled me and began telling me about a night she’d never confessed to anyone.

No one had ever given me a massage focused only on my breasts, much less with my four friends watching from the pool edge, waiting their turn.

In the car, the only light came from a distant streetlamp and a stranger who grabbed my ass the second I closed the door. The night had barely begun.

There were five of us and only one of him, but none of us left that house without screaming his name at least twice that hot weekend.

I never thought a woman’s hands could touch me like that. When my boss offered me a massage, I had no idea she was opening a door I would never want to close.

When she started crying on my shoulder and confessed that her husband no longer touched her, I knew that afternoon’s massage was going to end very differently.

Every month I crossed the street for a wax, never imagining the girl with the soft hands was waiting for the same signal I was.