I never meant for it to happen. I booked the massage online after a brutal week at the construction site, my back knotted from hauling lumber and my shoulders screaming. The place was new, a quiet studio tucked behind the old movie theater, and they offered late-night slots with dim lighting and no questions asked. I showed up sore and half-asleep, stripped to a towel, and lay face-down on the heated table like I always did. The room smelled of eucalyptus and warm oil. Soft music played. I closed my eyes and waited for the usual anonymous hands.
Those hands started at my calves, firm and sure, working the oil in slow circles. They felt familiar in a way I couldn’t place at first, the pressure just right, thumbs digging into the tight spots behind my knees. I groaned into the face cradle. The masseuse didn’t speak, which suited me fine. Most of them didn’t. She moved up my thighs, strong fingers kneading the muscle, and when she reached the edge of the towel I lifted my hips a little so she could slide it lower. That was normal too. The towel always ended up on the floor by the end.
Her palms swept over my ass, spreading the oil, and I felt myself start to harden against the table. It happened sometimes during deep work. Nothing new. But then her fingers slipped lower, brushing the crease, and instead of pulling away she lingered, one slick fingertip tracing a slow line that made my cock twitch hard. I stayed quiet, breathing through it, letting her decide how far this would go. She kept going, oil-slick hands cupping and stroking until I was fully hard and aching, hips rocking just enough to show I wanted more.
When she finally had me turn over, the room was dark except for a single low lamp in the corner. I kept my eyes half-closed, lazy with heat. Her silhouette was curvy, hair loose around her shoulders, body wrapped in a thin black tank and shorts. She poured more oil across my chest and abs, working downward until both hands wrapped around my cock at once. The stroke was confident, twisting at the head, and I let out a low curse. She pumped me steadily, one hand sliding lower to cup my balls, and I felt the first bead of pre-cum mix with the oil.
I reached for her without thinking, hooking two fingers in the waistband of her shorts. She didn’t stop me. She stepped closer, letting me tug them down. No panties underneath. I sat up, pulled her tank top off, and her tits spilled free, full and soft, nipples already tight. I sucked one into my mouth while she kept stroking me, and the taste of her skin mixed with the oil on my tongue. She climbed onto the table, straddling my hips, and sank down onto my cock in one smooth motion. She was wet and tight, gripping me all the way to the root. We both moaned at the same time.
She rode me slow at first, rolling her hips, hands braced on my chest. The oil made everything slippery, skin sliding against skin.
I grabbed her ass, spreading her wider, thrusting up to meet her. The table creaked under us. Her breath came in short gasps against my ear. I flipped us so she was on her back, legs hooked over my shoulders, and drove into her harder, watching her tits bounce with every thrust. She came first, clenching around me, nails digging into my forearms. I followed right after, burying myself deep and pulsing inside her.
Only when we both lay panting did the lamp catch her face clearly. The same small scar above her left eyebrow. The same birthmark on her collarbone. My sister. Not a cousin or some distant relative. My actual sister, the one who’d moved two states away five years ago after a fight with our parents. She’d taken massage classes. I’d never asked where she worked.
We stared at each other in the low light, her legs still wrapped around my waist, my cock still twitching inside her. Neither of us moved. The air felt thick. Then she rocked her hips once, experimentally, and I was still hard enough that it sent a jolt through both of us. She whispered my name like a question. I answered by leaning down and kissing her, deep and messy, tasting the same salt and oil on her tongue. We didn’t talk about it. We just started moving again, slower this time, bodies learning each other in the dark. Her hands mapped the new muscles on my back. Mine traced the familiar curve of her waist. When she came again it was quieter, face buried in my neck, and I followed, spilling into her a second time with a groan that sounded too much like relief.
Afterward she stayed on the table with me, skin cooling under the fan. We didn’t say we’d stop or that it was wrong. We just lay there breathing, oil drying in sticky patches, the towel long forgotten on the floor. Outside the studio the city kept moving, but inside that room the only thing that mattered was the way her fingers kept tracing lazy circles on my chest, like she was already planning the next time the lights would be low and the door would be locked.
