One in a Million
Jenna Ortega x m!reader
word count: 15K
Today's a house-call day.
The villa sits at the end of a private drive, half-hidden behind a wall of bougainvillea that's spilling pink over white stucco. You park where the assistant told you to, grab your case from the trunk, and take a second to roll your shoulders before walking up.
Doesn't matter how many of these you've done. The fancy ones always make you check your collar twice.
You press the doorbell. It chimes somewhere deep inside the house, then nothing. You wait. You're about to press it again when you hear footsteps coming closer, bare feet on tile by the sound of it, light and quick.
The door swings open. And there she is. Jenna Ortega, wrapped in an oversized bathrobe that's clearly hers and clearly too big, the sleeves swallowing her hands so only her fingertips peek out. Her hair is damp, dark strands sticking to her neck, and her face is bare, no makeup, just those faint freckles scattered under her eyes and across the bridge of her nose. She's smaller than you expected. People always are.
"Hi," she says, looking up at you with a smile that's already halfway to something mischievous. "You're the masseur, right? Please tell me you're the masseur and not somebody selling me solar panels."
"That'd be me," you say, and you give her your name. "I'm with the spa your assistant booked through. Sorry if I'm a little early."
"No, early's perfect. Come in." She steps back and holds the door for you, which is a small thing, but you notice it. A lot of clients at this level let the door hang and expect you to manage. She doesn't. "I'm Jenna, but you probably know that. Or maybe you don't. Honestly that'd be kind of refreshing."
"I know who you are," you tell her, stepping inside. "I try not to make it weird, though."
"Good. Make it weird and I'm docking your tip."
The inside of the place is exactly as nice as the outside promised. High ceilings, big windows, light pouring in across pale wood floors. There's a half-empty mug of tea on a side table, a phone face-down next to it, a hoodie thrown over the back of a chair. Lived-in, despite the showroom bones of it. You ask her where she'd like to set up.
"Okay, so, this is going to sound bougie," she says, leading you through the main room with that quick barefoot stride. "But this place came with these massage tables? Like, they were just here. In a whole room. So I figured, why not actually use them instead of letting them collect dust."
She pushes open a door and there it is, a proper little treatment space, two padded tables and soft lighting and a stack of folded towels that look untouched. You set your case down in the corner.
"Is this your first time getting a professional massage?" you ask, already starting to lay out your oils.
She laughs, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed inside those too-long sleeves. "Don't laugh at me, but yeah. First time. I know, I know, twenty-three and I've never done this. I just never sit still long enough."
"I'm not laughing," you say. "You'd be surprised how many people wait until their body forces the issue."
"Yeah, well, the body has officially filed a complaint." She rolls one shoulder and winces, and it's genuine, not a bit. "Press tour just wrapped. Three weeks. Different city every couple days, like, four hours of sleep, sitting in chairs answering the same questions over and over while smiling like my life depends on it. My neck is basically concrete."
"We'll take care of it," you tell her. You mean it, too. There's something satisfying about untangling a body that's been through it.
You run her through the package quickly, what it covers, full body, deep tissue where she needs it, how long it'll run, that she should tell you if anything's too much. She nods along, watching your hands as you talk more than she's listening to the actual rundown, you think. When you finish, you gesture toward the table.
"Whenever you're ready, you can lie down. Face down to start. You can use a towel to cover yourself.”
She gives you a look, something light dancing in it, but she doesn't say whatever she's thinking. She just slips out of the room for a moment, comes back having ditched the robe for the towel and a pair of small underwear, and climbs up onto the table. She settles face down, arms tucked, cheek turned to the side so she can keep talking.
You warm the oil between your palms first. Then you start at her shoulders, and the second you press in you can feel exactly what she meant. Knots like marbles under the muscle.
"Oh my god," she groans into the headrest. "Okay, that already hurts in a good way."
"You're carrying a lot up here," you say, working slow circles into the tight ridge along her neck. "Have you been doing all this with your shoulders up by your ears?"
"Probably. That's just my permanent state of being." A pause, then, "So how long have you been doing this? The massage thing?"
"Years now. Long enough that I stopped counting."
"Was this, like, the dream? Little kid version of you, big plans to rub strangers' backs?" There's a tease in it, but it's warm.
You smile even though she can't see it. "Not exactly. It wasn't what I pictured for myself, no. I sort of fell into it. But honestly it's not a bad way to spend a life."
"How come?" she asks. She's relaxing under your hands now, you can feel the muscle starting to give, the stiff line of her spine easing.
"It's good work. Taking care of people. Somebody comes in wound up like a spring and they leave actually feeling like a person again. I like being the reason for that."
She's quiet for a second, and when she speaks again the teasing has softened into something more curious. "That's a really nice answer. Most people just say money or whatever."
"The money's fine. The other part's better."
"Mm." She shifts a little under your hands. "You're really good at this. Like, I keep waiting for it to stop feeling incredible and it just doesn't."
You move down to the broad muscles around her shoulder blades, leaning your weight in. "You're loosening up. You were tense everywhere when I started. This is already better."
"Don't let it go to your head." Then, a low sound slips out of her, half a moan, as you press into a particularly stubborn knot. "Oh. Okay. Right there, that's the spot, do not leave that spot."
"That one's been there a while," you say, easing into it with your thumb until you feel it finally release.
"Everything's been there a while. I'm twenty-three and I have the back of a forty-year-old." She turns her cheek the other way, getting comfortable. "What's the weirdest place somebody's made you do a massage? Like, on location."
"Once on a yacht in choppy water. The table kept sliding. I spent half of it just trying not to fall on the client."
That gets a real laugh out of her, her shoulders shaking under your palms. "Okay, that's amazing. Did you fall on them?"
"Nearly. Caught myself on the edge of the table at the last second."
"Tragic. I would've paid extra to see that." She wiggles a little, settling deeper into the cushion. "Okay your hands are actually magic, I need that on the record. Like, witnesses, the whole thing."
"Noted," you say, working your way down toward the small of her back, keeping your pressure even, your touch entirely professional. You can feel the tension draining out of her in real time, the way her breathing's gone slow and heavy. "How's the pressure? Too much anywhere?"
"No, it's perfect, you're perfect, marry me." A beat. "Kidding. Sort of. My assistant would say something but she's not here."
You let that one pass with a small huff of amusement and keep working, kneading along the muscles framing her spine. The room is warm and quiet apart from the soft sound of her breathing and the occasional hum she lets out when you hit something good. She's stopped filling every silence now, content to just lie there and let you work.
"Hey," she says after a while, lazy and half-melted into the table. "Do you do feet too? Because mine are honestly the worst part. Heels for three weeks straight. I can't feel my toes in a normal way anymore."
"I do," you say. "I'll do the whole job. Don't worry, I won't leave you half-finished."
"Good. I want my money's worth." She sighs, blissful. "God, I should've done this years ago."
You finish out her lower back, smoothing your palms in long strokes to ease off the deep work, then step back and reach for more oil.
"Alright," you say. "I'm going to have you turn over for me. On your back."
She makes a small noise of protest at having to move at all, but she does it, rolling over slow and lazy, one arm coming up to push the damp hair off her face. The towel shifts with her, and she tugs it back into place across her chest, though not quite as carefully as before. She blinks up at the ceiling, then at you, that little smile creeping back onto her mouth.
"Feet now?" she asks.
"Feet now," you confirm, and you move down to the end of the table.
You lift her right foot first, cradling the heel in your palm, and you go straight for the arch with your thumbs. She practically whimpers.
"Oh my god," she breathes, her toes curling. "That's the spot. That's exactly the spot. My feet have been trying to file for divorce from the rest of me."
"Three weeks of heels will do that," you say, pressing slow lines from her heel up toward the ball of her foot. "You've got everything bunched up in here. No wonder you couldn't feel your toes."
"They're alive again. You resurrected them." She lets her head fall back against the table, watching you through half-lidded eyes. "I bet you've worked for a ton of famous people, right? Like, I can't be the most ridiculous house you've shown up to."
"Some," you say, keeping your attention on the muscle, working the tension out of her instep. "I don't really talk about it. Discretion's kind of the whole job."
"Mm, smart. Loyal. I like that." She wiggles her toes as you press into them one by one. "Okay, can I ask you something? And you have to be honest. Like, actually honest, no professional dodge."
"Go ahead," you say, switching to her other foot and starting the same slow work on the heel.
She takes a second, and there's a little curl at the corner of her mouth before she even says it. "Have you ever gotten hard giving someone a massage?"
You don't stop your hands, but you do glance up at her. "Oh. So that's where we're going."
"I'm just curious." She's all innocence, which fools nobody. "Professional question. For research."
"No," you tell her, even and easy, going back to her arch. "It's rare. You learn to keep your head in the work."
"Rare, huh? So you're telling me, if I touched your cock right now, it'd be soft? Nothing there?"
You open your mouth to ask her why on earth she would do som- and that's when her foot slips out of your grip. It slides down, slow and unhurried, and presses flat against the front of your pants, right over you, rubbing once with the ball of her foot.
"Liar," she says, delighted, her eyes lighting up. "You're hard. I can feel it."
"That's the fabric," you say, even as you catch her ankle. "These pants bunch up, it's not what you think."
She presses again, firmer this time, her toes curling against the shape of you through the fabric. "Nope. Felt it that time. Clear as day. You're not hiding anything from me, you absolutely cannot blame the pants for that."
You exhale and ease her foot back down to the table. "Okay. That one's on you. You kept rubbing my cock with your foot. What exactly did you think was going to happen?"
"Hey, I think it's kind of flattering, honestly." She props herself up on her elbows, the towel sliding dangerously low. "If it makes you feel any better, you touching me like that has me pretty worked up too. So we're even."
"I know your type," you say, letting your hands rest on her shins. "The kind of client who books a massage with a whole other agenda already in mind."
"That's not fair," she protests, though she's grinning the entire time. "I genuinely did not plan this. My back was actually killing me. But, you know. We're both here. We're both clearly a little worked up." She tilts her head, that bratty little spark fully lit now. "So what if I asked for a special massage? Hypothetically."
You hold her gaze. "I'd charge more for that."
"Money's not a problem. You can put whatever number you want on the invoice."
"Alright," you say, and you let yourself relax into it. "It's fine. I know a bit of erotic massage. It's not really my thing, but I'm not going to pretend I don't know what I'm doing." You reach for a different bottle in your case, the warming oil, and uncap it. "I'll need you to open the towel for me."
She doesn't hesitate. She lets it fall open and away, and there she is, topless, just a pair of small panties left, her tanned skin catching the soft light. Her breasts are perfect and small, her stomach toned, and she stretches a little under your gaze like she wants to make sure you get the full picture.
"You like what you see?" she asks, that smile turned up to its full wattage.
"Yes," you say plainly, because there's no point lying about that either. "Obviously."
That answer pleases her. She settles back down, arms relaxing at her sides, and watches you pour the warm oil into your palms. You rub them together to spread it, to get the heat into it, and then you start where you always start, but with intent this time. The professional foundation is still there in your hands, the steady pressure, the patience, but now you let it wander into places the standard package never touches.
You begin at her collarbones, smoothing the oil across them with both thumbs, working outward toward her shoulders and back in. She lets out a soft sound and her eyes flutter. You take your time there, easing the slick warmth into her skin, before you let your palms drift lower, onto the soft swell of her breasts.
"Oh," she says quietly, her chest rising into your hands. "Okay. That's a different kind of massage."
"You asked for the full job," you remind her, cupping her, kneading slowly, letting your thumbs pass over her nipples just enough to feel them stiffen under your touch. You don't rush it. You circle them, glide around the curve of her, and come back to brush across the peaks again, and her breath catches each time.
"You're doing that on purpose," she says, half accusation, half plea.
"I'm being thorough." You roll one nipple gently between your fingers and watch her stomach pull tight. "Tension lives everywhere. You'd be surprised."
"That is such a line." She laughs, but it breaks off into a groan when you press your palms flat and drag them down off her breasts, smoothing the oil down across her ribs. "God. Okay. Keep being thorough. Don't let me stop you."
Your hands travel down to her stomach, spreading the warmth across her abs, and she's clearly enjoying it now, her hips shifting just slightly, restless. You knead the soft muscle there, work your thumbs in slow lines down toward her navel, then fan out across her hips. Every pass of your hands is unhurried and certain, the same patient rhythm you'd use anywhere on the body, except now the route is taking you exactly where she's been steering you this whole time.
"You're really good at this," she murmurs, watching your hands move over her. "Like, genuinely. I don't know why you say it's not your thing."
"Because it usually isn't." You press into the soft hollow beside her hipbone and her breath goes ragged. "But I'll admit, you're making it hard to remember that."
"Hard. Cute." She bites her lip, looking up at you. "I can feel how warm everything is. Whatever that oil is, it's doing something."
"It's supposed to," you say. "Heats the skin. Opens everything up." You spread it down across her lower belly, just above the waistband of her panties, and her hips lift a fraction toward your hands without her seeming to decide to do it.
You move down, away from where she clearly wants you, to her thighs, and you hear the small frustrated sound she makes when you skip past the obvious. You take one thigh in both hands and start working the oil into it from the knee up, slow and firm, your thumbs pressing into the inside where the muscle is soft and sensitive. Her legs part for you, easy and willing, giving you room.
"You're a tease," she says, her head rolling to the side as she watches you. "You're going the wrong way on purpose."
"I'm being methodical." You drag your hands up the inside of her thigh, getting closer, the heel of your palm sliding along that tender stretch of skin until you're so near to where she's aching that you can feel the heat of her against your fingers. "You don't rush the good part. You earn it."
"Oh my god," she groans, her hips chasing your hands. "You're going to kill me. You know that, right? You're actually going to kill me."
You smooth your thumbs up the last inch of her inner thigh, oil-slick and warm, your fingertips just barely grazing the edge of the fabric still between her legs, and you stop right there.
You stay right where you are, your thumbs parked at the soft crease of her inner thigh, oil-slick and warm against her skin, and you let the moment stretch out longer than is fair. You smooth your palms back down toward her knees and then up again, tracing the same patient lines, skirting the heat of her every single time, watching the way her hips chase after your hands and never quite catch them. Her stomach is rising and falling faster now, the muscles pulling tight each time you get close, and there's a flush spreading across her chest that has nothing to do with the warming oil and everything to do with the fact that you've been keeping her on the edge of this for what has to feel like an eternity.
"Okay," she finally says, propping herself up on her elbows again so she can glare at you, though there's no real heat in it, just desperation barely held together. "I need you to stop pretending you don't know exactly what you're doing. You've been an inch away for like five minutes. You're going to touch my pussy. Right now. I'm not asking anymore."
"You sure about that?" you ask, and you let one thumb drag right up to the edge of where she wants you, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off her. "Because the second I touch your pussy, this officially stops being a massage. There's no walking that back."
She lets out a breathless little laugh, her head dropping back for a second before she lifts it again to look at you. "Are you serious right now? This stopped being a massage a long, long time ago. I think it stopped being a massage the second you put your hands on my tits and looked at me like that. So let's not pretend we're still being professional here."
"Okay… Yeah, fair enough," you say, and you can't quite keep the amusement out of it.
You hook your fingers into the waistband of her panties and she lifts her hips for you without being asked, eager, helping you peel the small scrap of fabric down her thighs and off her ankles. The crotch of them is soaked through, a dark wet patch against the light cotton, and you make sure she sees you notice it before you set them aside. She bites her lip, watching you, and she's got that bratty little spark in her eyes even now, even spread out and bare and dripping on a massage table in a rented villa.
"That's a lot of mess for someone who claims she didn't plan this," you say.
"Shut up," she fires back, but she's grinning.
You don't go for her right away. You start at the soft crease where her thigh meets her body, working the warm oil into the skin there, your thumbs pressing slow circles into the tender spots just beside her lips without yet touching them. She makes a high, frustrated sound and her thighs fall open wider, an invitation that couldn't be clearer. You massage the whole area around her pussy, the smooth skin above it, the sensitive insides of her thighs, everything but the place that's aching for you, and you watch her come apart by degrees.
"You feel so good," she breathes, her hips rolling up into nothing. "Oh my god. I've never, I swear I have never been this turned on in my entire life. This is insane. You're being so mean and it's working."
"Now," you say, finally letting your fingertips slide to her center, "it really starts."
You part her with one finger, slow and careful, opening her up and finding her slick and hot and ready. She gasps at the first real contact, her whole body going taut, and you take your time getting to know her, dragging your fingertip up through her folds and back down, learning the shape of her, the places that make her breath stutter. You find her entrance and you sink one finger into her, slow, in to the knuckle, and her back arches off the table.
"There you go," you murmur, working that single finger in and out of her in an unhurried rhythm, curling it just slightly on the way in. "Relax for me. We've got all the time in the world."
"That's the problem," she manages, her hands gripping the edges of the table. "You're going to take all that time, aren't you? You're not going to rush a single second of this."
"Not a chance," you say, and you add a second finger.
She moans low at the stretch, her hips canting up to take more of you, and you start a deeper rhythm now, two fingers sliding into her with a slow drag that has her panting. Your free hand leaves her thigh and travels back up her oiled body, over the soft plane of her stomach, up to her breast, where you take one stiff nipple between your fingers and roll it in time with the work of your other hand. The double sensation makes her gasp and squirm, her body caught between the two points of contact, not knowing which way to push.
"Oh, that's not fair," she groans, her chest heaving up into your palm. "That's two hands. You're using two hands on me. Who taught you this? Who taught you to do this with your hands?"
You find that spot inside her, the soft swollen ridge along her front wall, and you start working it with the pads of your fingers, a slow firm stroke that has her hips jerking. "Lots of practice," you say.
"I bet." Her eyes are squeezed shut, her mouth open, and she's still trying to talk through it because of course she is. "I bet every single girl you've ever been with was completely ruined for everyone else. I bet they still think about your hands. This is- oh god- this is out of this world, what you do with your hands should honestly be illegal."
"Keep talking," you tell her, picking up the pace just slightly, "and I'm going to make you forget your own name."
You feel her clench around your fingers at that, and you smile. You keep going, that steady rhythm inside her while your thumb finds her clit and starts circling it, light at first, then with more pressure as you read what makes her thighs shake. You strum her with a precision you've earned over years, hitting that swollen front wall on every stroke in and brushing her clit on every pull out, your other hand still kneading her breast, rolling her nipple, and she's losing the thread of her own sentences now, the smart remarks dissolving into broken moans.
"I'm going to make you come like this," you say, watching her face. "With my hand. Just like this."
"I don't doubt it," she gasps out, one hand flying up to grab your forearm, not to stop you, just to hold on. "God, I don't doubt it for a second. Go ahead. Do the honors. I want to see if you're as good as you think you are."
That's all the permission you need. You set your mind to it now, fully, every bit of focus going into her body and the signals it's giving you. You curl your fingers to nail that spot on every stroke, faster now, your thumb pressing tight circles against her clit, and her bratty composure crumbles entirely. Her thighs are trembling against your sides, her hips rocking up to meet your hand, and the sounds coming out of her have gone high and helpless and completely genuine.
"Oh fuck, oh my god," she pants, her grip on your forearm tightening, her nails biting in. "Okay, that's, that's the spot, you found the spot, please do not stop, do not you dare stop now."
"I've got you," you say, your hand never breaking rhythm. "I'm not going anywhere."
You work her relentlessly, reading every twitch and clench, adjusting your angle when her breath catches sharper, keeping that perfect pressure on her clit while your fingers drive into her over and over. She's writhing now, her whole body a string pulled tight, her head thrown back against the table and her dark hair stuck to her flushed neck. The flush has spread all the way up to her cheeks and she can barely keep her eyes open.
"It's close," she chokes out, her thighs starting to clamp around your hand. "Oh god, it's so close, it's right there, I can feel it."
"I know," you tell her, calm and certain, and you press in harder, faster, that swollen spot under your fingertips and her clit under your thumb, both at once, refusing her any room to back off. "Let it happen. Don't fight it."
She breaks. Her back bows clean off the table and a strangled cry tears out of her, her cunt clenching down around your fingers in hard fluttering waves as the orgasm slams through her. Her thighs lock around your hand and her hips grind up against your palm, riding it out, and you keep your rhythm steady through all of it, drawing it out, working her through every last shudder until she's gasping and twitching and finally collapsing back down onto the table, boneless and shaking, her chest heaving.
You slow your hand gradually, easing her down, your fingers stilling inside her and then sliding out slick and warm. You smooth your palm over her hip, gentle now, while she catches her breath. Her eyes are glassy and half-lidded and there's a dazed little smile spreading across her flushed face.
"Holy shit," she breathes, one arm flung over her forehead. "Okay. Okay, that was… I don't even have a comment. You broke my brain. I had a whole thing I was going to say and it's just gone."
"Take your time," you say, wiping your hand on the towel beside her.
She lies there a moment longer, the rise and fall of her chest gradually slowing, and then she turns her head to look at you with those dark eyes, the bratty spark already crawling back into them even in her wrecked state. She crooks a finger at you.
"Come here," she says.
You lean over her, and she reaches up, fists her hand in the front of your shirt, and pulls you down into a kiss. It's slow and deep and unhurried, her lips parting against yours. She kisses you like she's making a point, and when she finally pulls back, she keeps her hand twisted in your collar so you can't go far.
"Okay," she says, looking up at you, her thumb dragging along your jaw. "So now I know exactly what your hands can do. That part's settled. No notes. Genuinely incredible." She bites her lip, and her eyes drop down your body and back up to your face. "But that just raises a whole new question, doesn't it? Because now I really, really need to know what your cock can do."
She pushes herself up slowly, swinging her legs off the side of the table, still a little unsteady on them as she stands, and she presses her bare body against your front, looking up at you through her lashes.
"Come on," she says, tugging you by the shirt toward the door. "Forget the table. We're going to my room.”
You let her lead you out of the treatment room and down the hall, her small hand fisted in your shirt, her bare feet quick and sure against the cool tile. Her bedroom is big and bright with a bed that's far too large for one person, white linens half-rumpled where she's clearly been sleeping diagonally across the middle of it. She lets go of you long enough to spin around and walk backward toward the bed, watching you with that look on her face, and you start working the buttons of your shirt, shrugging it off your shoulders and tossing it onto a chair.
You're still working at your belt when she drops to her knees in front of you, just like that, no hesitation, and takes over. She pops the button and pulls the zipper down and tugs your pants and underwear off your hips in one motion, letting them fall down to bunch around your thighs, and your cock springs free right in front of her face. She makes a low pleased sound at the sight of it, her dark eyes going wide and hungry. She wraps one small hand around the base and gives it a slow stroke, tilting her head as she studies it.
"Mm. Okay. Hello." She licks her lips and looks up at you through her lashes, that bratty grin curling across her mouth. "So... You're about to get a blowjob from Jenna Ortega. How does that feel? Be honest. Bucket list moment, right? You're going to remember this forever."
"Honestly?" you say, looking down at her with a calm you know is going to drive her crazy. "I'm pretty chill about it. Go ahead, though. Don't let me stop you."
Her jaw drops in mock outrage and she smacks your thigh with her free hand. "Oh, fuck off. Chill? You're chill?!" She narrows her eyes up at you, still slowly stroking you the whole time. "You're a fan of mine, don't even lie to me. You knew exactly who I was when I opened that door."
"I know who you are," you tell her with a shrug. "Doesn't mean I'm a fan. You were great in X, even though slashers aren't really my thing. But I don't follow your career or anything."
She stares at you for a moment, clearly caught off guard, before breaking into a bright laugh and shaking her head.
"Wow. Okay. The disrespect. You're unbelievable." She leans in close, her breath warm against the head of your cock, and her eyes flick back up to yours. "Fine. You know what? You will be a fan after this. Guaranteed. By the time I'm done you're going to be streaming my entire filmography."
And then she gets to work. She drags her tongue flat up the underside of you from base to tip, slow and warm, and then wraps her lips around the head and sinks down, taking you into the wet heat of her mouth. She knows exactly what she's doing, that much is immediately obvious. She works you with a hand and her mouth together, twisting her wrist on the upstroke, hollowing her cheeks on the way down, her tongue pressing along the underside on every pass. She takes you deeper each time, her nose nearly brushing your stomach, and the sounds she's making are filthy and wet and completely shameless, little hums of enjoyment vibrating through your cock.
At one point she pulls off you with a slick pop, a string of spit connecting her bottom lip to the head of your cock, and she looks up at you while she catches her breath, still stroking you with her slick hand.
"By the way," she says, grinning up at you, "I'm just messing with you. With the whole celebrity thing. I'm not that kind of girl, I swear. It's totally fine that you're not a fan. I actually kind of love it. It's refreshing." She gives the head a little kiss. "Most guys would've passed out by now."
"I know you're messing with me," you say, your hand coming up to brush her damp hair back off her face so you can see her better. "Now keep going. You were doing really well. Maybe I'll actually become a fan of yours after this."
That gets a smirk out of her, slow and satisfied, and she takes that as the challenge you meant it to be. She goes back down on you with renewed purpose, both hands now, working you with her mouth and her fists in tandem, her tongue swirling around the head every time she comes up before plunging back down. She gets you sloppy and wet, spit running down over her fingers and onto the floor, her saliva coating every inch of you until you're slick and gleaming and aching. She bobs on you with a steady rhythm, her cheeks hollowed, her eyes watering just slightly, completely committed to the task, and the obscene wet sounds of it fill the room. She keeps it up until you're soaked and twitching against her tongue, until she's clearly proven whatever point she set out to prove.
She pulls off you again, breathing hard, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and rocks back on her heels with a satisfied look. "Okay. I'm ready. You're definitely ready." She rises to her feet, a little wobbly, and climbs up onto the bed.
You finally kick off the pants and underwear still bunched around your thighs, stepping out of them and leaving them on the floor, and when you straighten up she's already positioning herself in the middle of that big white bed, getting up onto her hands and knees and presenting herself to you. Her petite body looks even smaller out there on the wide expanse of the mattress, her tanned skin a warm contrast against the pale sheets, and she arches her back and looks at you over her shoulder, her perky ass tipped up in the air for you.
"Damn," you say, climbing up onto the bed behind her and putting both hands on her, palming the full round cheeks of her. "Your ass is actually pretty big for someone this small. Where are you hiding all this?"
"Years of squats and good genetics," she says, glancing back at you with a smug little grin, and she gives her hips a slow wiggle, shaking her ass at you, taunting. "You like it? Come on. Stop staring at it and do something about it."
You squeeze a handful of her, watching the way the flesh gives under your fingers, and then you take yourself in hand and line up against her. She's still soaking wet from earlier, slick and ready, and you drag the head of your cock through her folds a couple of times, coating yourself, teasing her entrance until she pushes her hips back at you impatiently. Then you start to press in, slow and steady, feeding yourself into her tight heat inch by inch, and she gasps and drops her head between her shoulders as her body stretches to take you.
"Oh my god," she breathes, her fingers twisting into the sheets. "Okay, you're- oh, that's a lot. Go slow, go slow, fuck. There. Like that."
"You okay?" you ask, holding still once you're seated all the way inside her, your hips flush against the soft cushion of her ass.
"I'm great. I'm so great. Don't you dare stop." She pushes back against you, taking that last bit, a long shaky breath leaving her. "Just give me a second. You're really packing, you know that? Like, criminally."
You give her the second, both of your hands gripping her hips, and then you start to move. You pull back slow and slide back into her just as slow, an easy unhurried rhythm to let her get used to the size of you, savoring the way her tight little cunt grips you on every stroke. She moans low and drops onto her forearms, changing the angle, her ass tipped even higher, and you take advantage of it, your pace picking up by degrees. Each thrust drives a little gasp out of her, and you watch your cock disappear into her over and over, slick and shining, her ass jiggling against your hips every time you bottom out.
"There you go," she pants, rocking back to meet you now, her hips snapping to match your rhythm. "Oh, fuck, that's so good. You feel so good. I knew it, I fucking knew your cock would be as good as your hands."
"You talk a lot for someone getting fucked from behind," you say, and you punctuate it with a harder thrust that makes her whole body jolt forward.
"Get used to it," she shoots back over her shoulder, breathless and grinning even now. "I'm a multitasker. I can run my mouth and take your cock at the- oh- oh god- okay, do that again, do exactly that again."
You do it again, snapping your hips into her with more force, and her smart remark dissolves into a long moan. You build the pace steadily now, your hands holding her in place by the hips while you drive into her, the smack of your body against her ass filling the room along with her gasps. You reach forward and grab a fistful of her dark hair, not pulling hard, just gathering it up and using it for leverage, and the sound she makes at that is something needy and wrecked. You fuck her like that, her back arched, her hair wrapped around your fist, her tight cunt swallowing every thrust, and you can feel her starting to clench around you, her thighs beginning to tremble.
"You getting close?" you ask, never breaking your rhythm, slamming into her with steady purpose.
"Yeah, yeah, oh god, I'm close, I'm so close, please don't stop, I swear if you stop I'll kill you." Her words are coming apart now, breaking up between thrusts, all the bratty composure gone. "Right there, that spot, you're hitting it, oh fuck, keep hitting it just like that."
You keep hitting it, exactly like that, driving into the same spot over and over while she falls apart underneath you. Her moans climb higher and her whole body goes rigid, her cunt squeezing down around your cock so tight you have to grit your teeth, and then she shatters. She cries out into the mattress, her back bowing, her pussy fluttering and clenching around you in waves as she comes hard on your cock, her arms giving out so her face presses into the sheets while her ass stays up in the air, riding it out against you. You fuck her through every pulse of it, slowing only when she starts to twitch and whimper from the overstimulation.
She collapses fully then, sliding off your cock as she goes flat onto her stomach against the bed, and a breathless laugh bubbles out of her, muffled by the sheets. She rolls onto her side to look up at you, her hair a mess across her flushed face, that dazed grin spreading wide.
"Okay," she gasps, still catching her breath, one hand pressed to her own chest. "That was really, really good. Holy shit. Role reversal: I'm the fan now. Officially. Card-carrying."
"It's not over yet," you tell her.
Before she can ask what you mean, you reach down and scoop her up off the bed entirely, one arm under her thighs and one around her back, hauling her petite body up into the air against your chest. She lets out a sharp surprised gasp, her arms flying around your neck and her legs scrambling to wrap around your waist, clinging to you as her feet leave the mattress and the whole world tilts.
You pull her closer, one arm locked under the swell of her ass, the other pressed flat against the small of her back, and you kiss her. She kisses you back immediately, no hesitation, her arms tightening around your neck as her mouth opens against yours. It starts hungry and gets hungrier. Her tongue slides against yours and you suck on it, tasting her, and she tilts her head and licks into your mouth and it goes from a kiss to something messier, something wetter, spit slicking between your lips as you devour each other. She breaks away just long enough to breathe and comes right back, biting at your bottom lip and tugging before sealing her mouth to yours again. Her fingers dig into the back of your neck and her legs squeeze around your waist and you can feel the heat of her slick cunt grinding against your stomach, leaving a wet streak across your skin as she rolls her hips without even seeming to realize she's doing it.
You adjust your grip on her, hitching her higher against your body, and her weight shifts in your arms. She's so light it's almost nothing. You reach between your bodies, angle yourself, and press the head of your cock against her entrance. She pulls back from the kiss with a gasp, her forehead resting against yours, and you start lowering her body down onto you. Slow. Gravity does most of the work. Her cunt stretches around you again and she whimpers, her mouth hanging open an inch from yours, her breath hot and shaky against your lips.
"Oh fuck," she whispers, her nails biting into your shoulders as you fill her. "Oh, that's deep. That's so deep like this. I can feel every inch of you."
You bottom out with her fully seated in your arms, her weight pinning her down onto the whole length of you, and for a second neither of you moves. You just stand there, holding her up, buried to the hilt inside the tight clench of her, and she looks at you with those glazed dark eyes and her swollen wet mouth, and she says exactly what you need to hear.
"Use me like this," she breathes, her fingers threading into the hair at the back of your head. "Just lift me up and drop me on your cock. Fuck me like I'm your little fleshlight. I want you to wreck me."
You pull her up and bring her back down. Hard. Her entire body jolts in your arms and the sound that tears out of her is raw and broken and loud in the quiet room. You do it again, and again, finding a brutal rhythm with nothing but the strength of your arms, lifting her off your cock until just the tip stays inside and then slamming her back down so her ass smacks against your thighs. She bounces on you, helpless in your grip, her breasts pressing against your chest and her legs locked tight around your waist and her head thrown back, completely given over to it.
"God, you're strong," she gasps, her fingers pulling at your hair. "You're just throwing me around- fuck! Look at you, I'm nothing to you, you're picking me up and fucking me like I weigh nothing."
"You barely do," you tell her, your arms burning in the best way, and you snap her down onto you hard enough to punch the breath out of her. Her cunt is so wet around you that every stroke makes an obscene sound, slick and loud, and her body clenches down on you each time she bottoms out.
She pulls your face to hers and kisses you again mid-thrust, sloppy and uncoordinated, more tongue and teeth and shared breath than anything that could be called a proper kiss. Your mouths slide together wet and messy while you keep fucking up into her, and she moans directly against your tongue, the vibration of it traveling down your throat. She breaks the kiss to gasp and you chase her lips and catch them again, biting down on her bottom lip and then licking into her open mouth, tasting the sounds she's making. Spit connects your mouths when you pull apart and she licks it off her own lips and grins at you like a feral little thing.
"You're so filthy," she pants, rocking her hips to meet your thrusts even from this angle. "I can't believe you walked in here all professional and polite and this whole time you had this in you. This is what you were hiding."
"You're the one who kept pushing," you remind her, driving into her deep and holding there for a second, grinding against her, and she whines and squirms in your arms.
"Best decision I ever made." She tightens her legs around you and rolls her body, taking you at a new angle that makes her whole face screw up in pleasure. "Fuck- right there, I can feel you so deep, you're in my stomach, I swear I can feel you everywhere."
You fuck her like that, standing in the middle of her bedroom, your arms wrapped around her small body and your cock buried inside her, her weight bouncing on you with every thrust. The pace stays relentless. You can feel the sweat building where your skin meets hers, can feel her thighs trembling where they grip your sides, and her cunt is getting tighter around you with every passing minute, that telltale flutter starting to build. She's babbling now, her face buried in your neck, her teeth grazing your shoulder between broken fragments of sentences.
"You're going to make me come again," she mumbles against your skin, her breath hot and fast. "You already made me come twice and you're going to do it again, I can't believe you, I can't believe my body right now, you ruined me, you completely ruined me."
"Come on my cock again," you tell her, bouncing her faster, harder, your hands gripping the meat of her ass and spreading her so you can thrust even deeper. "I want to feel it. Give me another one."
"Oh god- oh fuck- it's building," she gasps, pulling back to look at you, and her eyes are glassy and wet and completely undone. "Keep going, please, don't change anything, you're hitting the spot, you're right there, I'm gonna- oh fuck I'm gonna cum so hard."
You slam her down onto your cock and hold her there, grinding up into her, and it crashes through her hard. Her whole body seizes, every muscle locking up at once, her cunt clamping down around you in rhythmic pulses so tight it's almost painful, and she buries her face in your shoulder and cries out against your skin, shaking and clutching and spasming around you. You hold her through it, still buried inside her, rocking gently to wring out every last tremor until she goes limp and heavy in your arms, panting and twitching.
You carry her the few steps to the bed and set her down on the mattress, sliding out of her as you lower her onto the rumpled sheets. She sprawls back, boneless, her chest heaving, her skin flushed pink and gleaming with sweat, and she stares up at the ceiling looking thoroughly destroyed.
"Come here," she says after a moment, breathless and hoarse, reaching for you.
You lean down toward her and she grabs you, both hands on your chest, and with surprising strength she pushes and maneuvers you until you're lying on your back beside her, and then she's crawling over you, straddling your hips. Her thighs settle on either side of you and she plants both hands on your chest, looking down at you with her tangled hair falling around her face and that bratty spark flickering back to life behind the fucked-out haze in her eyes.
"You've been showing off," she says, pressing her palms flat against your pecs, her nails dragging lightly. "Making me come over and over again, with your hands, with your cock, while carrying me around the room. Very impressive. You've made your point. I get it." She sits up straighter, rolling her shoulders back. "But you haven't come yet. Not once. So now it's my turn. I'm going to show you that I can do the same thing you've been doing to me. I'm going to ride you until you lose your mind."
She reaches behind herself, her small hand wrapping around your cock, still slick and hard and aching from being inside her. She lifts her hips and positions you right at her entrance, the swollen head pressing against her folds, and she looks down at you with that knowing little smile curling the corner of her mouth.
"Wow," you say, looking up at her perched on top of you with your cock in her hand. "Jenna Ortega. Hollywood actress and professional rider. Is there anything you can't do?"
"Shut up," she says, flicking your chest with her free hand. "Stop being cute and just lie there and enjoy yourself. You've done enough work tonight. Let me handle this."
She lowers herself onto you, one slow, excruciating inch at a time. Her eyes flutter and her lips part and her thighs tense on either side of your hips as she sinks down, taking the full length of you into her for the fourth time tonight, and by now her body knows yours well enough that she slides all the way to the base without stopping. She sits there for a moment, fully seated, her palms flat on your chest, adjusting to the stretch with her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Then she starts to move.
Slow, at first. Long, rolling motions of her hips, lifting up until you're almost out and gliding back down, grinding on you when she reaches the bottom. She finds a rhythm quickly, her body undulating on top of you with a fluid grace that tells you she wasn't bluffing when she said it was her turn to show off. Her hands slide up your chest and she arches her back, changing the angle, and the new position has her riding you with her whole body, stomach rolling, hips circling, her perky tits swaying with each motion. She looks down at you and catches you staring, and that smug little grin spreads across her face.
"You're watching me like you can't believe what you're seeing," she says, rolling her hips in a slow figure eight that sends a jolt straight through your spine.
"I'm just admitting that you actually know what you're doing up there," you tell her, your hands resting on her thighs, feeling the muscles flex and release under her tanned skin. "You said you were going to show me something and you're delivering."
"Damn right I am." She picks up the pace, bouncing on you now with more purpose, her ass slapping softly against your thighs on every downstroke, and she throws her head back and lets her hair tumble down her spine. The view from below is obscene. This tiny girl, a hundred pounds of toned Latina body, riding your cock with the confidence of someone who knows exactly how good she looks doing it. Her stomach pulls tight with every roll and her freckled face is flushed and gorgeous and completely lost in the pleasure of it.
"Look at you," you murmur, your thumbs tracing circles on her hipbones. "You look incredible up there. You're putting on a whole show for me."
"You earned a show," she says breathlessly, planting her hands on your chest again and leaning into her rhythm, riding you harder. "After what you did to me tonight? Three orgasms? You earned front row seats." She clenches around you on a downstroke, tight and intentional, and grins when your jaw tightens. "Oh, you liked that. I felt you twitch. I can do that whenever I want, by the way. Just squeeze you whenever I feel like it."
"You're dangerous," you tell her.
"You have no idea." She does it again, bearing down on you and squeezing, and you grip her thighs harder. She laughs, breathless and pleased with herself, and then she changes her approach entirely, leaning forward until her chest presses against yours and her face hovers above your face, close enough that her damp hair brushes your forehead. She rolls her hips in tight, grinding circles, keeping you buried deep, and she looks into your eyes and kisses you.
It's slower than the kisses before. Her lips part against yours and her tongue slides into your mouth lazy and thorough, tasting you while she rocks on your cock, and the combination of her mouth and the tight wet grip of her pussy has you gripping the sheets on either side of your body. She kisses you deep and messy, pulling back to lick across your bottom lip and then diving back in, swallowing the groan you didn't mean to let out. She hums against your mouth, satisfied, and keeps riding, never breaking rhythm, rolling her body against yours while her tongue tangles with yours.
You can't take it anymore. Your hands come up and lock around her waist, fingers digging into her soft skin, and you plant your feet flat on the mattress and start thrusting up into her from below. She breaks the kiss with a sharp gasp, her eyes going wide, and you don't give her time to recover. You fuck up into her hard and fast, using your grip on her waist to pull her down to meet every thrust, and the sound of your hips smacking against her ass fills the room. Her whole body bounces on top of you, her tits pressed against your chest, her mouth open and panting next to your ear.
"Oh my god," she chokes out, her nails digging into your shoulders. "Oh fuck, there you go, now you're the one showing off, you can't just let me have my moment, can you?"
"You had your moment," you grunt, snapping your hips up into her. "Now take it."
"I'm taking it, I'm taking it, god you feel so good," she gasps, burying her face in your neck. "You're so deep, I can feel you in my guts, you're splitting me open."
You pound up into her relentlessly, holding her in place while you fuck her from below, and her body tightens around you with every stroke, that familiar flutter of her walls gripping and releasing. You can feel the heat building at the base of your spine, that coiling tension, and you know you're getting close. After a night of watching this girl come apart for you three separate times without letting yourself go once, your body is finally demanding its turn.
"I'm close," you tell her. "Jenna, I'm gonna cum."
"My face," she says immediately, no hesitation, already pulling herself off your cock with a slick sound. "Give it to me on my face. I already got the massage, now it's time for skincare."
She slides off the bed and drops to her knees on the floor between your legs, looking up at you with her messy hair and her flushed cheeks and her swollen lips, and she grabs your cock with both hands. It's soaked, glistening with her wetness from base to tip, and she starts stroking you with quick, practiced twists of her wrist. Every few strokes she leans in and wraps her lips around the head, sucking firmly, her tongue laving over the sensitive underside before she pulls off and goes back to her hands.
"Come on," she murmurs, looking up at you while she works you, her small fists pumping your slick shaft. "Give me a facial. I want to feel it all over my face. Cover me." She dips down and sucks the head into her mouth again, cheeks hollowing, and the sight of her on her knees with her big dark eyes staring up at you while her lips stretch around your cock is what finally tips you over.
You come hard. Your hand grips the edge of the mattress and your hips jerk and the first thick rope hits her across the cheek and the bridge of her nose, painting over those faint freckles. She pulls back and aims you with her hand, milking you through it, and the second streak lands across her lips and chin. She keeps stroking, squeezing every last drop out of you, catching it on her skin until her pretty face is glazed and dripping, white streaks across her cheekbone, her nose, her mouth and her jaw.
She looks absolutely filthy. She looks up at you through the mess on her face with those big brown eyes and she's never looked better. She raises one hand and drags her finger through the cum on her cheek, collecting a thick glob of it on her fingertip, and she puts it in her mouth and sucks it clean, her tongue curling around her finger.
"Mm," she says, pulling her finger out with a little noise. "Salty. Not bad." She grins up at you, still on her knees, still covered. "That was really fun. I feel so much more relaxed now. You should put that on your business card. Full body tension relief, guaranteed."
You laugh, dropping back onto the mattress for a second before sitting up and reaching for your clothes on the floor. You pull your underwear on and step into your pants, and she watches you dress from her spot on the carpet, still looking thoroughly debauched.
"So," she says, finally rising to her feet and stretching, completely unconcerned about being naked and cum-covered. "How much do I owe you for the special treatment? What's the upcharge on that? Because it felt pretty premium."
You snort as you pull your shirt on, working the buttons. "You don't owe me anything extra. I was kidding about that. It's just whatever you paid when you booked. Seriously, don't worry about it."
"Really?" She raises her eyebrows. "That's very generous. You could've squeezed me for a fortune and I would've paid it."
"I'm sure you would've," you say, tucking your shirt in. "Consider the special treatment complimentary."
"Well, thank you then," she says. "That was an amazing experience. I mean it. My first massage ever, and I don't think anything will ever top it. You ruined massages for me. Every masseuse from now on is going to be a disappointment."
"Happy to help," you say, gathering your case from the treatment room. When you come back through, she's grabbed a handful of tissues from the nightstand and is wiping her face clean, casual as anything. She catches your eye and grins through the tissue.
She follows you through the house still completely naked, padding along beside you on bare feet, and only pauses when she spots the towel she'd left on the floor of the hallway earlier. She scoops it up and wraps it loosely around herself, though it's more of a formality than actual coverage at this point. She walks you all the way to the front door, leaning against the frame just the way she had when she first let you in, except now her hair is a disaster and her lips are swollen and there's still a faint sticky shine on her cheekbone she missed with the tissue.
"It was a real pleasure meeting you, Jenna," you say, your case in one hand, turning back to look at her in the doorway.
She tilts her head, that slow bratty smile spreading across her face one last time. "Trust me," she says, crossing her arms over the towel and leaning into the doorframe. "The pleasure was all mine.”
—
A week passes. Seven days of normal life, normal clients, normal work. You do a couple's session at a resort downtown, a deep tissue for some tech CEO, and a sports recovery for a college swimmer with a pulled trapezius. Routine stuff. You go home, you eat, you sleep, you do it again. And you don't think about Jenna Ortega.
Okay, that's not true. You think about her a little. You think about her when you're setting up in someone else's living room and you catch yourself glancing at the door like you're expecting a girl in an oversized bathrobe to answer it. You think about her when you're working a client's feet and your brain flashes to the feeling of her toes pressing against the front of your pants. You think about her in the shower, briefly, and then you shut that down because you're not a teenager and you have a schedule to keep.
Now, about what happened with Jenna… It's not the first time. You're not going to sit here and pretend it is, because that would make you either a liar or delusional. In the years you've been doing this work, there have been three other occasions where a client turned the appointment into something else entirely. Three women who were attractive enough and forward enough and the circumstances were aligned enough that you let it happen. An interior designer in her forties who tipped you in cash and a kiss on the mouth. A fitness influencer who pulled you into her pool house after a ninety minute session. A divorce lawyer who locked the door of her home office and told you she needed a different kind of stress relief. Each time, it happened once, and you never went back. Not because it was bad. Because it was complicated. You work through a spa. You have a reputation. You have repeat clients who trust you to be professional, and the second that trust erodes, your entire livelihood goes with it. So the rule is simple. It happens, you enjoy it, you move on, and you never repeat the process.
Jenna should be the same. She should already be filed away in the same mental drawer as the other three, a great story you'll never tell anyone, a memory you'll revisit occasionally and leave alone. That should be the end of it.
Your phone buzzes on a Tuesday evening while you're eating leftover pad thai on your couch. Instagram notification. A message request from an account you don't recognize at first, and then you look at the profile picture and the verified checkmark and the follower count that has more digits than your bank balance, and you set down your fork.
Been thinking about you
How did you even find my Instagram?
Went to the spa's profile. They have this photo of all the employees at some company event and you're in the back row. Your profile was tagged. Easy. Took me like two minutes
So you stalked me
Absolutely I did. You should lock your doors and windows tonight. I know where you live now
You don't know where I live
Not yet. Give me another two minutes Okay I'm not going to be weird about this. I'm just going to say it. I really liked you. And not just because of the sex, which, for the record, was incredible, genuinely top tier, I'm still thinking about it a week later which is embarrassing but whatever
You're a cool guy. You're funny. You went along with all my bullshit and you didn't get weird about it, you just matched my energy the whole time, and I really, really enjoyed that. Most people either get intimidated or they try too hard and it's exhausting. You just showed up and were normal and hot and good with your hands and I haven't stopped thinking about it
You read that twice. Then a third time. You're aware that this is the point where you should type something polite and final. Something about how it was great meeting her too and you wish her the best and maybe you'll see her around. That's what you did with the other three. Clean, simple, no loose ends.
But Jenna isn't the other three. And you know that already, have known it since she opened the door in that bathrobe with her hair dripping, because none of the other three made you laugh while you were inside them. None of the other three made you actually want to stay and talk after it was over. None of the other three texted you a week later being honest and funny and a little bit vulnerable underneath the bravado, and none of the other three made you sit on your couch staring at your phone like an idiot trying to figure out what you actually want.
You're cool too. I had a really good time
So...
So what?
So how about we meet up? Like, actual hanging out. Get drinks, talk, be normal people for a couple hours. And then maybe go back to my place and be not-normal people for a couple more hours. No massage table required
You lean back into the couch and stare at the ceiling. In a normal situation, you'd say no. You know you'd say no, because you've said no before, and it was the right call every time. But Jenna is genuinely funny. She's sharp and self-aware and she doesn't take herself too seriously despite having every reason to, and she's beautiful in a way that hits different when you've seen her with no makeup and no performance and no pretense, just a girl on a massage table being honest about how tired she is. And the sex was, frankly, some of the best you've ever had, and you're not in the habit of lying to yourself about things like that.
Fuck it. Why not?
I'm in. Where and when?
Her response is instant. She sends you the name of a bar you've never heard of, some place in a part of the city you don't go to often, and it occurs to you that she probably picked it because it's low-key enough that nobody's going to bother her there. Smart. Then she sends a time, Thursday at nine, and a follow-up message.
I'll be there first. I'll grab us a spot. Don't be late or I'll find another masseuse
There's no other masseuse like me and you know it
Cocky. I love it. See you Thursday
You put your phone down and pick your pad thai back up and eat the rest of it without tasting any of it, because your brain is already somewhere else entirely. You're thinking about what you're going to wear, which is not something you usually waste energy on, and that alone tells you that you're already in deeper than you planned to be.
—
Thursday comes faster than it should. After your last client, you shower, get dressed, and spend entirely too much time pretending you don't care what you're wearing. Then you head to the bar she sent you. It's small, dim, and pleasantly unpretentious. Good music, good atmosphere, the kind of place where people actually talk to each other. You walk in and scan the room. She's sitting in a booth near the back with a drink already in hand.
You spot her immediately. Jenna spots you, too, and she looks different tonight. Not worse, not better, just different. Her hair is down and dry and loose around her shoulders, and she's wearing a simple top and jeans and just enough makeup that you can tell she put thought into looking like she didn't put thought into it. The freckles are still there under her eyes. She lifts her glass to you from across the room and flashes that same bratty grin.
You walk over to the booth and slide in across from her.
"You're on time," she says, looking pleased. "I was ready to be stood up."
"Wouldn't miss it," you say, settling in. "You stalked me across the internet to set this up. Least I can do is show up.”
A waiter materializes beside the booth with the easy timing of someone who's good at his job, and you order a drink, something simple, while Jenna swirls the last of her amber whatever and asks for another. He nods and disappears back toward the bar, and you settle into the booth, taking in the place properly now.
"So do you come here a lot?" you ask, glancing around at the dim warm lighting and the small clusters of people who all seem to be minding their own business.
"Yeah, pretty often," she says, leaning back against the cushioned seat. "Usually with friends. It's one of the few places around here where I can just sit and not have my phone out in someone's hand pointed at my face the whole time. The staff knows me and they're cool about it. They don't make it a thing. It's a good spot."
"Then I'm flattered," you say. "You brought me to your secret good spot. That's basically a state secret."
She laughs, that bright unguarded sound you remember from the massage table. "Don't let it go to your head. I haven't decided yet if you've earned full clearance."
The waiter returns with both drinks and you settle into the rhythm of it, the easy back and forth, and it turns out to be effortless in a way that surprises you a little. She's funny, quick with comebacks, willing to make herself the punchline, and she listens when you talk, which is not something you expected from someone who spends her life being the center of attention. A few drinks later, she pauses, sets her glass down, and gives you a measured look, intrigued but not entirely convinced.
"Okay, so be honest with me," she says, tilting her head. "This has to happen all the time, right? Clients catching feelings for you, getting your number, taking you out. Your hands are basically a public health hazard. Your schedule must be absolutely stacked with women trying to get you alone."
You almost choke on your drink. "Okay, no. You're really misreading the situation here."
"Am I?" She arches an eyebrow, clearly enjoying herself. "Come on. I refuse to believe I'm special. You've got a whole roster, don't you? A little black book of housewives."
"I don't do this," you say, setting your glass down. "Like, ever. And I mean that. It's true that a few times something's happened with a client, I'm not going to lie to you about that. But three times. In years of doing this. Three."
She holds up four fingers and waggles them at you. "Four now."
"Four now," you concede, and she grins, delighted with herself. "But here's the thing. Out of those, I never once went back. Not a single repeat. It happens, it's nice, and then I keep it professional and move on, because the alternative is a disaster waiting to happen. So you're not just an isolated case. You're an isolated case among isolated cases. You broke a rule I've never broken."
That seems to do it. She studies you for a moment, absently turning her glass on the table as the teasing gives way to something more sincere. "Okay. So what made you break it, then? What's so different about this time that suddenly Mister Professional is sitting in a bar with a girl he gave a massage to a week ago?"
You consider lying, giving her something smooth. But she's been straight with you all night, so you give it to her straight back. "Honestly? I don't know. I just like you. That's the whole answer. And I kept thinking about that day all week, which doesn't usually happen, so when you messaged me it just felt like the right thing to do. So here I am. Breaking my own rules."
Something passes across her face, pleased and a little caught off guard, and she covers it by taking a sip of her drink. "Wow... Okay. That was almost dangerously sincere. I don't know how to handle you when you're not being a smartass."
"Get used to it. I have layers."
She laughs again, then goes quiet for a second, picking at the edge of her napkin. "I'm a little rusty at this, by the way. The whole dating, meeting people thing. I should probably just tell you that now so you don't expect me to be good at it." She shrugs, looking almost embarrassed. "Like, I've never really had much experience with it. I grew up on sets. I've been working since I was a little kid, always busy, always somewhere new, always with a chaperone or a tutor or a crew of forty people around me. So this kind of thing, just sitting in a bar with someone, going on an actual date, it's still kind of new territory for me."
"You're still really young," you tell her. "You've got plenty of time for all of it. More chances will come along, trust me."
"Sure," she says, and then she gives you a sideways look, that bratty spark flickering back. "But I'm living one of those chances right now, aren't I?"
You can't help but smile. "I guess you are."
"So?" She props her chin on her hand, watching you. "What's the verdict so far? How am I doing? Am I a disaster?"
"You're doing great. You're way better at this than someone who claims to be rusty."
"I'm enjoying it," she admits. "It's funny. I've shot a hundred scenes like this. First dates, bars, the whole flirty getting-to-know-you thing. I could do it in my sleep, hit every mark. But real life is so much more interesting. There's no script. I have no idea what you're going to say next and that's kind of terrifying and kind of great."
You keep talking, and the drinks keep coming, and the conversation wanders all over the place, from her ridiculous press tour stories to the worst client you've ever had to a long pointless debate about whether pineapple belongs on pizza that gets weirdly heated. At some point, well into your fourth or fifth round, she sets her glass down and looks at you with an expression that's gone thoughtful and a little softer around the edges from the alcohol.
"Can I tell you what actually got me?" she says. "About you. From the start."
"Go for it."
"It's that you know I'm famous and you just genuinely don't care." She says it plainly, like she's still a little amazed by it. "From the very first second. When you walked in the door, even. And I'll be honest, at the beginning it kind of bugged me. I kept thinking, okay, I know you're being all polite and professional and saying you don't make it weird, but deep down I know what you're really thinking, I know you're freaking out a little on the inside. I was waiting for the mask to slip."
"And?"
"And it never slipped. Because there was no mask. You're just like that." She shakes her head, smiling. "That's so rare. You have no idea how rare. Normally people make this huge production out of it. They either pretend they don't recognize me and it's so obvious they do, or they go the other way and get all weird and starstruck, or worst of all they act normal for like ten minutes and then ask for a photo. But you were just, consistently, the entire time, treating me like a person. And that's actually what made me brave enough to message you."
"How so?"
"Because I knew you weren't going to screw me over," she says. "I didn't have to worry about it. Like, do you know how scary it is for me to flirt with someone? To send a message? Because there's always this thing in the back of my head going, what if he screenshots this, what if this ends up on some gossip site tomorrow, Jenna Ortega caught DMing her massage therapist, what if the whole world sees me being a normal person who likes a guy. But with you I just knew. I knew you'd never do that."
"I'd never do that," you confirm. "And not just because I'm a nice guy, though I am. It's also pure self-preservation. The second I do something like that I'm screwed too. I lose my job, my reputation, everything. So you're safe with me on a purely selfish level if nothing else." You take a sip of your drink. "But also, like, I figured you've got people fawning all over you constantly. Falling all over themselves. The least I can do is be normal and treat you like I'd treat anybody."
"You'd be surprised how few people actually do that. It sounds like the easiest thing in the world, just be normal, and almost nobody manages it." She raises her glass toward you. "So. Thank you. For having basic common sense. Apparently that's a rare and precious gift."
"To basic common sense," you say, clinking your glass against hers.
Time does that thing where it stops existing. You're deep in conversation and then you blink and the bar is emptier than it was and your glass is empty again and you realize you're both pretty drunk, the good kind of drunk, loose and warm and laughing too easily at things that aren't that funny. Jenna's leaning across the table now, gesturing with her hands while she tells you some story about a costar that has her giggling so hard she keeps losing the thread of it, and you're laughing too, and at some point you both seem to silently agree that it's time to go.
Jenna is the one who pulls out her phone and fumbles through the Uber app, squinting at the screen as she books the ride with the sluggish concentration of someone several drinks past sober. By the time she's done, she's drained the last of her cocktail, and the two of you make your way outside into the cool night air, lingering near the curb while the car makes its way over.
A few minutes later, the Uber rolls up. You both climb into the back seat, and Jenna immediately sinks against the upholstery, looking ready to pass out. The ride has barely begun when she suddenly notices something on her phone. With a groan, she realizes she'd entered the wrong destination while drunk and hastily updates the trip, correcting the address before letting herself slump back into the seat beside you, eyes half-closed as the car heads off into the night.
The city slides by outside the windows, all glowing signs and empty intersections, and after a couple of minutes you feel her shift and then the weight of her head settling against your shoulder. Her hair smells like whatever she put in it and faintly like the bar. She gets comfortable, tucking herself into your side.
"Just so we're clear," she mumbles, "this isn't romantic or anything. I'm just tired. Don't read into it."
"Wouldn't dream of it," you say, and you feel her smile against your shoulder.
"Good. Because it's not. It's purely a logistics thing. Your shoulder is conveniently located."
"Very convenient. Premium shoulder real estate."
"Mhm." She goes quiet, and for a while the only sound is the hum of the road and the driver's radio turned down low, and you let her stay there, this tiny famous girl half asleep against you in the back of a stranger's car, and you think about how strange and good this all is and how thoroughly you've broken your own rule.
The Uber eventually pulls up the private drive you recognize, the bougainvillea spilling over the white wall lit up by the headlights, and Jenna stirs and sits up, blinking herself awake. You thank the driver and the two of you climb out, and she leads the way up to the door, fishing her keys out of her bag with the slightly exaggerated care of someone who's had a few. She gets the door open on the second try and steps inside, then turns around to face you in the entryway, leaning against the frame, that grin spreading slow across her face.
"Well," she says, spreading her arms a little. "Welcome back.”
You step through the doorway after her and the place is exactly as nice as you remembered, all high ceilings and soft lamplight, though there's something different about being here now, at night, with both of you swaying a little from the bar.
"It's good to be back," you say, and you mean it more than the words suggest.
She heads deeper into the house and you follow, and she's walking ahead of you but twisted around at the waist so she can keep talking to you, telling you something about how she rearranged half the furniture when she moved in because the staging was hideous, and she's so busy looking back at you that she doesn't see the low side table directly in her path. Her shin catches the edge of it and she pitches sideways with a startled yelp, and you lunge and get an arm around her before she goes all the way down, hauling her back up against your chest.
"Okay," you say, holding her steady. "You are a genuine hazard when you're drunk."
"I am not drunk," she protests, though she's still clutching your forearm and clearly grateful you caught her. "Okay, I'm a little drunk. But that's not the point. That table was not there before. I swear to god. Somebody moved it."
"Oh yeah? Who do you think moved it?"
She gets very serious, looking up at you with wide eyes. "I don't know. But I hear things at night. Voices. Footsteps." She drops her voice to a stage whisper. "I'm not alone in this house. There's something here. It rearranges the furniture to kill me slowly."
"That's deeply concerning," you say, still holding her against you, smiling down at the absurd earnest expression on her face. "You should probably move."
"Can't. The ghost would just follow me. We're bonded now."
You're about to say something else but she doesn't let you. She pushes up onto her toes and kisses you, and whatever you were going to say evaporates. It starts soft and goes from soft to hungry fast, her mouth opening against yours, her hands sliding up to fist in the front of your shirt. You kiss her back and she makes a small sound into your mouth and presses closer, the two of you start moving toward the bedroom without breaking apart, a clumsy drunken shuffle down the hallway, bumping into a wall, knocking a frame crooked, neither of you caring. She walks you backward through her bedroom door and your tongues are tangling, her fingers are pulling at your collar and it's all heat and wet and the taste of whatever you were both drinking.
She breaks away just long enough to kick off her shoes, hopping on one foot, and you toe off yours, and then she grabs you again and the two of you tumble down onto the bed together, a tangle of limbs, her laughing against your mouth as you land. You end up on top of her, settling between her thighs, and you kiss her again, sloppier now, more teeth, more spit, the kind of kiss that's lost any sense of finesse and doesn't want it back.
You break from her mouth and move down to her neck, dragging your lips along the warm skin there, and you can taste the faint salt of a light sweat on her, the night and the bar and her own heat. She tilts her head to give you more room and sighs, her fingers threading into your hair. You work your way along her throat, and at some point you lift your head and your eyes meet hers in the dim lamplight, and there's a beat where you just look at each other.
Then she leans up and licks your face. One long stripe from your jaw to your cheekbone, completely without warning.
"What the hell," you say, pulling back. "You're a freak."
"Excuse you," she says, grinning up at you, utterly delighted with herself. "That was the single most romantic thing I could have done. I poured my whole soul into that lick."
"Okay. You want romantic? I'll show you romantic." You reach for the hem of her top and she lifts her arms and lets you peel it off over her head, tossing it somewhere into the dark of the room. She's not wearing a bra, just like you suspected, and there she is, her small perfect breasts and her tanned skin glowing in the low light. You don't waste a second. You dip your head and kiss across her chest, pressing your mouth to the soft swell of her breast.
"Oh," she breathes, her back arching slightly. "Okay. Yeah. That's romantic. Worshipping my tits. Very gentlemanly of you. A true romantic hero."
You wrap your lips around one stiff nipple and suck, and her words dissolve into a sigh. You take your time with her, lavishing attention on one breast and then the other, kissing and licking and sucking, your tongue circling each peak before you draw it into your mouth. You cup the other in your hand while you work, rolling her nipple between your fingers, switching back and forth so neither one feels neglected. She squirms beneath you, her fingers tightening in your hair, her chest pushing up into your mouth, the drunken giddiness slowly giving way to something heavier and more breathless.
"You're really committed to this," she murmurs, watching you through half-lidded eyes. "I was joking but you're actually- oh, okay, keep doing that."
When you finally lift your head, both of you are flushed and glowing in the dim light, a faint sheen across her skin and yours, her breasts wet and shining where your mouth has been. You move down her body and hook your fingers into the waistband of her jeans, popping the button and dragging the zipper down, and she lifts her hips obligingly so you can peel them off her legs, taking her panties along with them in the same motion. You toss the whole bundle off the side of the bed, and now she's bare beneath you, completely.
"Okay," she says, pushing herself up onto her elbows. "My turn. Off with all of this." She reaches for you, tugging at your shirt, and you let her undress you, helping where you can. She gets your shirt off and runs her hands appreciatively down your chest, then works at your belt and pulls your pants down your legs until you're left in just your underwear. She sits back on her heels, looking you over with frank approval, and then a particular kind of mischief creeps into her expression.
"So," she says, drawing the word out. "I was thinking. I want to do something a little different tonight. For a change."
"Different," you repeat, raising an eyebrow. "What's more different than having sex with your masseur? I feel like we already cleared the bar for different."
"Funny." She crawls off the bed and pads over to the nightstand and pulls open the top drawer. She rummages around for a second and then turns back to you holding a bottle of lubricant, brandishing it like a prize. "Okay, hear me out. I'm thinking we switch roles tonight." She climbs back onto the bed and tosses the bottle onto the mattress beside you. "It's not one of your fancy expensive massage oils or whatever, but it'll do the job just fine." She gives you a little push toward the headboard. "So. Lie back. On your back. And those need to come off." She nods at your boxers.
You look at the lube, then at her, and you understand exactly what she's got in mind.
You hook your thumbs into the waistband and lift your hips off the mattress, peeling your boxers down your thighs and kicking them off the end of the bed. Your cock springs up, already hard, standing thick against your stomach, and Jenna's eyes drop to it with that unabashed directness she has, no shyness, no pretending she's not looking. She picks up the bottle of lube from where she tossed it on the sheets and uncaps it, squeezing a generous amount into her palm, and the slick clear liquid pools in the center of her small hand.
"Let me do this properly," she says, settling onto her knees beside you. "You're always the one with the oils and the fancy products. Let me have my moment."
She wraps her lubed hand around the base of your cock and you feel the cool slick of it immediately, her fingers tightening and then sliding upward in a slow stroke, coating you. She's thorough about it, spreading the lubricant from root to tip with both hands now, her small palms twisting in opposite directions, making sure every inch of you is gleaming and slippery. She pays particular attention to the head, circling her thumb across the sensitive underside, and her eyes flick up to your face to watch your reaction while she works. Her grip slides all the way back down to the base and back up again, one long gliding stroke, and she gives you a satisfied nod.
"There we go," she says, examining her handiwork. "All ready. Now comes the master touch."
She shifts on the bed, repositioning entirely, turning so she's sitting facing you with her legs extended toward your hips. She leans back on her hands for support and lifts both feet, placing them on either side of your slick cock, pressing the soft warm arches against your shaft. Your cock sits between her soles, trapped in the gentle pressure of them, and the lube makes the contact impossibly smooth.
"Oh," you say, looking down at the sight of her bare feet cradling your cock. "Okay. This is a new type of massage."
She grins, wiggling her toes against you. "What? Have you never massaged someone with your feet before? It's a whole technique. Very ancient."
"In case you haven't noticed," you say, gesturing at yourself, "I am not an orangutan. My feet don't do the same things my hands do. They're purely structural."
She throws her head back and laughs, her whole body shaking with it, which incidentally makes her feet shift against your cock in a very interesting way. She has to take a second to compose herself, pressing one hand to her chest while she catches her breath.
"Damn," she manages, still grinning so wide her eyes are nearly shut. "Okay, that was genuinely a good one. I'll give you that. Full marks." She takes a breath and then fixes you with a stern look that's completely undermined by the fact that she's still fighting off giggles. "But hey. This is supposed to be hot, alright? We're having a sexy moment here. So stop being so funny. You're ruining my whole vibe."
"My apologies," you say. "Please continue. Show me the ancient technique."
She narrows her eyes at you, then starts to move. She presses her feet together with your cock sandwiched between them and slides them upward, the arches of her feet dragging along your shaft from base to tip, the lubricant making the motion fluid and easy. When she reaches the top, she curls her toes slightly around the head and then slides back down, setting up a slow, rhythmic stroke that has you exhaling through your teeth.
Nobody has ever done this to you before. In all your experience, all the various encounters and the handful of clients who crossed the line, this particular act has never come up. But the feeling of it is unexpectedly good. Her feet are small and impossibly soft, the skin smooth and warm, and the lube turns every pass into something slick and effortless. She finds a rhythm, her feet pumping up and down your length in tandem, and she watches your face the entire time with a look of concentrated satisfaction, reading your reactions the same way you read hers on the massage table.
"Look at you," she says softly, her feet gliding up your cock and back down again. "The big professional masseur, lying on his back, getting a footjob from his client. How does it feel to be on the other side? To be the one getting worked on instead of doing the work?"
"Still getting used to it," you admit, your stomach tightening as she picks up the pace slightly, her arches squeezing around you. "But it feels great. You've actually got real talent here."
"Thank you," she says, almost prim about it, as if you'd complimented her on a performance. "I take my craft very seriously."
She adjusts her angle, tilting her feet so one sole presses flat against the underside of your shaft while the other rubs along the top, creating a different kind of friction. The change in sensation makes your hips shift on the mattress and she catches it, noting what works, and she keeps that configuration going, one foot stroking the sensitive underside while the other applies pressure from above. Her toes curl around the head every few strokes, gripping gently, and the combination of soft skin and warm lube and the sight of her sitting there between your legs, naked and focused and so small that her feet barely span your full length, is doing something to you that you didn't anticipate.
"You're really into this," she observes, her eyes traveling from your face down to where her feet are wrapped around you. "Your whole body just tensed up. I can feel your cock twitching against my feet."
"You know what you're doing," you say, and your breathing is getting heavier now, you can hear it yourself, the steadiness leaving it.
She pumps her feet faster, finding a quicker rhythm, her soles slipping up and down your lubed shaft with a smooth wet glide. She presses her feet together tighter, increasing the friction, and starts working the top half of your cock with short quick strokes, her toes teasing the ridge of the head on every pass. You can feel the heat building in your gut, that familiar tightening at the base of your spine, and your hands grip the sheets on either side of you.
"Yeah, there it is," she murmurs, watching you with that knowing look, her feet never stopping. "I can see it in your face. You're getting close, aren't you? My feet are getting you off. That's so filthy. I love it."
She's right. The pressure is building fast, faster than you expected, and her small soft feet pumping your slick cock are pulling you toward the edge with alarming efficiency. You feel it coiling tighter, your thighs going rigid, your abs clenching, and she can see all of it, she can read your body the same way you read hers.
And then she stops. Both feet lift off your cock entirely and she pulls her legs back, tucking them underneath her, leaving you throbbing and slick and aching in the open air. The sudden absence of contact is almost painful, your cock twitching against your stomach, and you let out a breath that's somewhere between frustration and disbelief.
"No," she says simply, shaking her head, that bratty grin blooming across her flushed face. "Not yet. We've barely started. You don't get to finish that fast."
"Oh," you say, dropping your head back against the pillow, staring at the ceiling. "Oh, I see where this is going."
"Do you?" She tilts her head innocently.
"This is because of the massage, isn't it." You lift your head to look at her. "The first time. When I made you wait. When I kept teasing you and wouldn't touch where you wanted me to touch. This is payback."
She presses her lips together, trying not to smile, and fails completely. "Maybe. Or maybe I just like watching you squirm. Could be either one. Could be both." She stretches her arms above her head, casual and unhurried, as if she didn't just edge you within an inch of your sanity. "In any case, tonight I'm going to have some fun with you. So just stay lying down like that. Get comfortable. You're going to be there for a while."
You exhale slowly and let your head fall back against the pillow again. "You're evil."
"I'm adorable and you love it." She repositions on the bed, sliding down between your legs, lying on her stomach with her face level with your hips. Her dark hair spills across your thigh as she settles in, and she props herself up on her elbows, one hand reaching out to wrap around the base of your still-slick cock. She tilts it toward her mouth, studying it up close with an expression of genuine appreciation, and she presses a soft, slow kiss to the tip. Her lips linger there, warm and full, and then she pulls back just enough to look up at you through her lashes.
"Now," she says, her breath warm against the wet head of your cock, "let's see how long you can last.”
She starts with her hand, just her hand, her fingers wrapped around you loosely at first and then tightening as she finds her grip, stroking you from base to tip with long, lazy pulls. The lube from before is still slick on your skin and her palm glides effortlessly, her thumb pressing into the underside on every upstroke, finding that sensitive ridge and dragging across it. She's in no rush. She watches her own hand working you, studying the way your cock responds to each variation of pressure, cataloguing what makes your stomach clench and what makes your breath stutter, and there's something almost clinical about the attention she's paying.
"You're so hard," she murmurs, squeezing gently and watching a bead of precum well up at the tip. "This is all for me. All of this." She swipes her thumb through the slick drop and spreads it around the head in a slow circle. "I barely touched you and you're already leaking. That's really flattering, you know."
Then she leans in and replaces her thumb with her tongue. She starts at the base, pressing the flat of her tongue against the underside of your shaft, and drags it all the way up in one long, wet, unhurried stroke. When she reaches the head she circles it once with the tip of her tongue and then goes back down and does it again, licking you root to tip, coating you in warm saliva, tracing the veins and the ridges. She licks up one side and down the other, her tongue traveling the full length of you over and over, and by the time she's done your cock is glistening and twitching and her lips are shiny and swollen.
"You taste good," she says, looking up at you from between your legs with those dark eyes. "Clean. A little salty. I could do this for a while."
She opens her mouth and takes you in. The head first, her lips stretching around you, and then she sinks lower, letting you slide across her tongue and into the tight wet heat of her throat. She goes slow, agonizingly slow, taking more of you with each bob, her cheeks hollowing as she applies suction, her tongue working the underside in constant motion. She pulls back until just the tip sits between her lips, sucks firmly, and then descends again, deeper this time, and you feel the back of her throat and the flutter of her swallowing around you.
"Fuck, Jenna," you breathe, your hand finding the back of her head, fingers threading into her dark hair.
She hums around you, pleased, and the vibration travels straight through your cock and into your spine. She settles into a rhythm, bobbing on you with a slow, savoring pace, and it's clear she's enjoying this as much as you are. She pulls off after a while and dips lower, her tongue tracing down past the base of your shaft to your balls. She takes one into her mouth, gentle, rolling it on her tongue while her hand keeps stroking you, and the dual sensation makes your hips jerk off the mattress.
"Stay still," she tells you, releasing you with a wet sound and moving to the other one, sucking it softly into her mouth while her fist pumps your slick cock. "I'm working here. Let me concentrate."
She lavishes attention on your balls until they're wet and tight, then licks her way back up your shaft and swallows you again, picking up speed now, her head bobbing faster, spit dripping down your length and pooling at the base. The sounds are obscene, wet and sloppy, and she doesn't try to be delicate about it. She's messy and thorough and she keeps her eyes on yours while she works, watching you unravel with visible satisfaction.
The first edge builds like a wave you don't see coming until it's already cresting. Your thighs go rigid and your abs clench and your hand tightens in her hair and you're right there, right at the precipice, your cock pulsing in her mouth, and she feels it. She feels the telltale throb against her tongue and she pulls off immediately, her hand releasing you, leaving you straining and twitching in the open air with your orgasm dissolving just before it breaks.
"Not yet," she says, wiping her chin with the back of her hand, grinning up at you while you groan and grip the sheets. "Patience. You taught me that, remember? On the table? You made me wait forever. This is educational."
"You're a nightmare," you manage, your chest heaving.
"I'm a delight and you know it." She waits, watching your cock throb and settle, and when she's satisfied that you've pulled back from the edge enough she dips her head and takes you in her mouth again.
The second round is worse. Or better, depending on perspective. She's learned exactly what gets you close now and she exploits it mercilessly, alternating between slow deep strokes that push you toward the back of her throat and quick focused suction on the head, her tongue flicking across the sensitive spot just below the tip. She drops down to your balls again when she feels you getting too close, lapping at them while she lets your cock cool down for a few seconds, and then she's right back on you, swallowing you deep and moaning around your length like the taste of you is the best thing she's ever had in her mouth. Her free hand comes up to cup your balls, rolling them gently while she sucks you, and the added stimulation pushes you toward the edge at alarming speed.
"Jenna," you warn her, your hand gripping her hair. "I'm going to come if you keep doing that."
She doesn't stop. Not immediately. She takes you all the way to the base, her nose pressing against your stomach, and holds you there in her throat for a long moment, swallowing around you, and your vision whites out at the edges. Then, at the absolute last possible second, she pulls off and squeezes the base of your cock firmly, cutting it off, and you feel the orgasm shatter and recede without ever fully arriving.
"Oh my god," you groan, throwing an arm over your face. "You're killing me. You're actually going to kill me."
"Don't come yet," she says, her breathing heavy, her lips puffy and wet and utterly ruined. She releases your cock and crawls up your body, her small frame sliding along yours, skin against skin, until she's lying on top of you with her face above your face. "I have plans for all your cum. Every single drop. So you don't get to waste it in my mouth. Not tonight."
She leans down and kisses you, and you can taste yourself on her tongue, salty and warm. You kiss her back hard, your hands coming up to grip her waist, and when you break apart she's breathing fast and her pupils are blown wide in the dim light.
You put your hand on her neck, just holding, your fingers spanning the slender column of her throat, and you use that grip to guide her off of you and onto the mattress, rolling her beneath you in one smooth motion. She goes willingly, her dark hair fanning out across the white pillow, her legs falling open as you settle between them. You reach down between your bodies and take your cock in hand, guiding it down until the swollen head presses against her folds. She's soaking wet already, you can feel the heat and the slickness of her against your tip, and you drag yourself through it, parting her lips with the head of your cock and sliding up to nudge her clit before pulling back down to her entrance.
"Is this where you want it?" you ask, pressing forward just enough that the head catches at her opening. "Right here? You want me to fill this pretty little pussy up?"
"Yes, daddy," she whispers, her hips tilting up toward you, trying to take you in. "Put it all inside me. Every drop."
"You sure about that?" You push forward another fraction of an inch, just barely stretching her entrance, holding there. "Because once I start I'm not pulling out."
"I'm sure," she says, her hands gripping your shoulders, her nails biting in. "I'm on the pill. I want to feel you come inside me. I've been thinking about it since last time. Please. I need it."
You press forward, and the tight wet heat of her begins to swallow the head of your cock, her body opening for you inch by slow inch.
You bottom out inside her and hold there, buried to the hilt, feeling her tight wet walls grip every inch of you. She exhales beneath you, long and shaky, her body adjusting to the fullness of you, and you give her a moment before you start to move. The first stroke is slow, pulling almost all the way out and then sinking back in deep, and she gasps, her nails pressing into your shoulders. You set an unhurried pace, long and thorough, each thrust filling her completely before withdrawing again, and you can feel how soaked she is, how easily you glide in and out of her, the obscene slick sound of it filling the quiet bedroom with every stroke.
"Put your hand back on my neck," she breathes, looking up at you through heavy lids. "Please. Like before."
You bring your hand up and wrap it around her throat, your fingers settling against the warm skin, and you apply just enough pressure that she can feel it without it restricting anything. Her eyes flutter and her lips part and she melts deeper into the pillow beneath her.
"Like that?" you ask, your hips still rolling into her at that same slow, punishing pace.
"Yes, daddy," she whispers, her hand coming up to rest on your wrist, not pulling you away, just holding on. "Just like that. Don't let go."
You tighten your grip the slightest fraction and thrust into her deep, holding yourself there while she squirms on your cock. "You had your fun earlier. Edging me with your mouth. Bringing me right to the edge and pulling me back. Watching me suffer." You pull back and slide into her again, slow and deep, and she whimpers. "Now it's my turn. I'm going to take what I want from you. And you're going to give it to me."
"Yes," she breathes, her hips rising to meet you. "Take whatever you want. I'm yours tonight. Use me, daddy. However you want. I'm right here."
You start building the pace. Not all at once but gradually, each thrust coming a little faster and a little harder than the one before, your hand still on her throat and your eyes locked on hers. She holds your gaze, those big dark eyes glazed with pleasure and something raw and trusting underneath it, and her mouth hangs open as the increasing rhythm starts to drive louder sounds out of her. You lean down over her, changing the angle so your cock drags along the front wall of her on every stroke, and you kiss her. Not gentle. You press your mouth to hers and push your tongue between her lips and she opens for you eagerly, moaning into your mouth, and you suck on her tongue, pulling it into your mouth and sucking hard before releasing it and diving back in. She kisses you back with equal ferocity, sloppy and breathless between the jolts of your hips driving into her, her teeth catching your lip, her tongue chasing yours.
Her legs come up and wrap around your waist, her ankles locking together at the small of your back, and the new angle pulls you deeper inside her. She gasps against your mouth and her thighs squeeze you, holding you close, and now every thrust grinds your pelvis against her clit and buries you as deep as her body will allow. She breaks the kiss to throw her head back, her throat pressing into your palm, and her fingers rake down your back harder.
"Oh god," she pants, her legs tightening around you. "Oh god, you're so deep. I can feel you everywhere. You're reaching places nobody's ever reached."
You pick up the pace again, fucking into her with steady, powerful strokes, and she starts to unravel beneath you. Then Jenna looks up at you with those wet eyes and her flushed cheeks and her swollen lips and she starts talking, and the filth that pours out of her pretty mouth makes your cock throb inside her.
"Breed me," she gasps, her hips bucking up to meet every thrust. "I want you to breed this little pussy. I want to feel you come so deep inside me. Fill me up, daddy. I want every single drop. I want to be dripping with it. I want my pussy so full of your cum it's leaking out of me."
"Yeah?" you grunt, snapping your hips harder, the bed creaking beneath you. "You want me to cream this tight little cunt? You want me to pump you full?"
"Yes, please, oh fuck, please," she begs, her nails digging into your back, her body jolting with each impact. "Make my pussy all creamy inside. I want to feel it, I want it so bad, I've been thinking about it all week, thinking about your cock filling me up and leaving me stuffed and dripping."
You release her throat and plant both hands on either side of her head, caging her beneath you, and you give her everything you have. Your hips piston into her relentlessly, the wet smack of your body against hers echoing off the bedroom walls, and she takes every stroke, her small frame absorbing the force of you, her tits bouncing with each impact. You can feel the sweat building between your bodies, can feel the heat of her skin pressed against yours, and her pussy is clenching around you tighter with every thrust, gripping you, pulling you deeper, refusing to let you go.
"Give it to me," she pleads, her legs locked around you so tight you couldn't pull out even if you wanted to. "Give it all to me. Come inside this little pussy. Please daddy, fill me up, I need it so bad!”
The orgasm builds from somewhere deep in your core, a pressure that's been accumulating all night through every edge and every denial, and it rises through you now unstoppable and enormous. Your thrusts go erratic, slamming into her with no rhythm left, just raw desperate need, and you bury yourself to the hilt and hold there as it hits you. You come harder than you've ever come in your life. The first pulse shoots deep inside her and your whole body locks up, your cock throbbing and pumping, flooding her with thick hot ropes of cum, filling her so completely you can feel the warmth of it around your own shaft. It keeps going, wave after wave, your balls emptying into her tight little pussy, and she feels every single pulse of it.
"Oh my god, I can feel it," she cries out beneath you, her eyes going wide, her walls clamping down on your cock. "I can feel you coming inside me, it's so warm, oh fuck, oh fuck, I'm cumming too, I'm cumming."
Her orgasm crashes into her at the same moment, triggered by the sensation of you flooding her, and she shatters around your cock, her pussy convulsing in hard rhythmic squeezes that milk every last drop out of you. Her back arches off the mattress and her legs clamp around you and her whole body trembles violently, the two of you locked together, coming together, your cock buried deep and pulsing inside the tight fluttering grip of her. You feel her cum mix with yours, feel the wet heat of it, and the clenching of her walls draws out your orgasm until you're shuddering and spent and completely emptied into her.
You collapse onto her, catching yourself on your forearms at the last second so you don't crush her, your face buried in her neck, both of you gasping and shaking and slick with sweat. You can feel your cock still twitching inside her, the last weak pulses, and her pussy still fluttering around you in aftershocks.
"Don't pull out," she whispers immediately, her arms wrapping around your back, holding you against her. "Stay inside me. Just a little longer. I want to feel you in me."
You obey. You stay buried in her, softening slowly inside the warm wet mess you made of her, and she sighs beneath you, a sound of total and complete satisfaction. Her fingers trace lazy patterns across your shoulder blades and her breathing gradually evens out, her heartbeat slowing against your chest.
"That was really intense," she murmurs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. "Like, genuinely. I felt that in my soul. We came at the same time. I've never done that before. I didn't think that actually happened outside of movies."
"First time for me too," you say, lifting your head to look at her. "That's never happened before."
"Really?" She searches your face, and whatever she finds there makes her smile. "So we lost our simultaneous orgasm virginity to each other. That's kind of special."
"Kind of special," you agree.
For a moment, she says nothing. Her thumb traces your jaw while she looks at you, her gaze carrying a softness that feels entirely new. "Stay tonight," she says. "Sleep here. With me. In this bed."
"You sure?"
"I'm sure." She pushes a strand of damp hair off your forehead. "And in the morning we can have morning sex. Slow and lazy, the kind where you're both still half asleep. And then maybe I'll even make you breakfast. I can do eggs. They're not great, but they're edible."
"Wow." A grin spreads across your face. "Morning sex and mediocre eggs? That's a really hard invitation to turn down.”
"I know it is," she says, her own grin matching yours. "I made it impossible on purpose. I'm very strategic."
"Then I'm in," you tell her.
She lifts both hands to your face and gently draws you down to her. Her lips meet yours in a slow, lingering kiss, carrying traces of the night. You melt into it, tangled together in the soft white sheets, letting the kiss linger longer than either of you intended.
—
Jenna has a way of slipping into your life without warning. No grand entrance, no announcement. Just a text at nine in the morning while you're preparing for your first client, or a photo of her breakfast, while you send back a photo of your massage table and she replies that seeing it gives her flashbacks and she needs to lie down. This goes on. Throughout the day, between clients, during her meetings or her fittings or whatever it is she's doing on any given Wednesday, your phone buzzes and it's her. Never anything heavy. Never anything that demands a response right this second. Just the steady, easy presence of someone who's thinking about you and isn't trying to hide it.
You see her again three days after that first night. She picks a ramen place this time, somewhere loud enough that nobody pays attention to anyone else, and you sit across from her in a corner booth slurping noodles and talking about nothing in particular.
You end up back at her place. The sex is good, but what strikes you is how different it feels from the first time. Nobody's trying to impress anyone anymore. Nobody's keeping score. You don't even make it to the bedroom. She ends up riding you on the couch, and at one point she has to stop because she's laughing too hard at the cushion constantly sliding off the frame. You're holding onto her with one hand and trying to keep the couch together with the other. Afterward, she stays curled up on top of you while the TV runs in the background. Neither of you could tell anyone what was on. Her fingers drift lazily over your collarbone, and for a while neither of you says anything at all. The quiet feels nice.
You sleep at her place that night. And the next time you see her. And the time after that. It becomes the default, somehow, without either of you formally establishing it. Her bed is bigger than yours and her sheets are nicer and she has a fancy espresso machine that you figure out how to use by the third morning, which earns you a standing ovation from her while she sits on the kitchen counter in your t-shirt with her hair going in six directions.
She starts sleeping at your apartment too, occasionally. The first time, she looks around your place with genuine curiosity, picking things up and examining them, asking questions about the framed photo on your shelf and the stack of books on your nightstand. Your bed is smaller and your neighborhood is louder and she tells you she loves it, that it feels lived in, that her house sometimes feels like a showroom designed by someone who's never actually inhabited a space. She curls up on your side of the bed and steals both pillows and falls asleep before you've even finished brushing your teeth.
Between these nights, in the ordinary hours, you learn things about her. Not the things you could read in any magazine profile, not the filmography facts or the career milestones, but the small private details that only proximity reveals. She's particular about her morning routine in a way that borders on ritualistic, always in the same order, face wash then moisturizer then sunscreen, and she does it with a focus that suggests the world might end if she skips a step. She gets anxious before phone calls with her manager and paces the kitchen while she talks, opening and closing the fridge repeatedly without ever taking anything out. She watches horror movies the way other people watch nature documentaries, analytically, pausing to comment on the practical effects or the score choices, pointing out where the scare was telegraphed and where it actually landed. She's terrified of moths for reasons she refuses to explain. She can quote entire scenes from films you've never heard of.
She learns about you too. That you played soccer in college but blew out your knee sophomore year, which is how you ended up in physical therapy and eventually massage. That your parents are divorced and you're closer to your mother. That you read before bed every night without exception and if you skip it you can't fall asleep. That you're genuinely uninterested in social media and your Instagram exists purely because the spa required it. That you cook well but only three things, and you rotate between them with no shame. She absorbs all of it quietly, storing it away, and you notice her remembering details you mentioned once in passing, bringing them up days later in a way that tells you she was actually listening.
The conversations always have that same easy quality. Nothing forced. She's funnier in private than she probably is in any interview, quicker and meaner and more willing to be the butt of her own joke. She never tries to impress you with stories about her career and you never ask. When work comes up it's casual, the same way you'd mention a difficult client or a long day. She talks about a fitting that ran three hours and made her want to scream. You talk about a deep tissue session that left your hands aching. These things sit side by side, equal and unremarkable, and that seems to be exactly how both of you prefer it.
One night, maybe two and a half weeks in, she asks you about the three other clients. Not with jealousy. With curiosity. She's lying next to you in her bed, on her stomach, chin propped on her folded arms, and she asks what happened with them and why you never went back. You tell her the truth. That they were nice enough but there was nothing beyond the physical. That repeating it would have been complicated and ultimately pointless. That none of them made you want to break the rule.
She falls silent for a second before saying, "And I did.”
"You did," you confirm.
She smiles into her arms and doesn't say anything else about it, but you feel her foot slide over to touch yours under the covers and stay there.
By the third week, you stop counting. You stop tracking the timeline in your head, stop noting which night is the fourth or fifth or sixth, because the numbers stop mattering. She is simply present. A fixture. The girl whose toothbrush is in your bathroom and whose hair ties are on your nightstand and whose sleepy morning texts arrive before your alarm goes off. The girl who argues with you about what to order for dinner and always wins.
It's a Saturday evening, or maybe a Friday, and you're on her couch. Some movie is playing on the screen across the room, something she picked, and the lights are low and the remnants of takeout containers sit on the coffee table. She started the movie sitting next to you, her legs tucked underneath her, but over the course of the first act she migrated, shifting and resettling, and now her head is in your lap, her body stretched along the length of the couch, her dark hair fanning across your thigh. She's watching the screen with half-focused attention, occasionally murmuring commentary about the cinematography or the lead actor's choices, and your hand is in her hair. Not doing anything particular. Just stroking, your fingers combing through the dark strands, moving from her temple back over her ear and down to the ends and then starting again. She leans into the contact the way a cat does, tilting her head subtly to follow the path of your fingers, and every now and then her eyes close for a few seconds before she opens them again to keep watching.
"That shot was gorgeous," she murmurs at one point, not looking up at you. "The framing. The way they held the wide angle. Most directors would've cut to the close-up way too early."
"Mm," you say, your fingers working a gentle path through her hair.
"You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you."
"Not even a little bit."
Jenna laughs softly, then she reaches up and finds your free hand and laces her fingers through yours, bringing your joined hands to rest against her chest. She holds them there, your knuckles against her sternum, then she turns her attention back to the screen, and it hits you all at once how completely this moment exists outside anything you ever planned for.
—
She shows up at your door on a Monday afternoon. No text beforehand, no warning, just a knock, and when you open it she's standing there in a plaid skirt and an oversized cream sweater that swallows her frame, a pair of sunglasses pushed up on top of her head. She looks like she's on her way somewhere. You know immediately that something is off because she doesn't greet you with a joke or a kiss or a complaint about traffic. She just says hi and walks past you into the apartment.
She sits on the arm of your couch instead of the cushion. Not relaxed. Perched. Like she might need to leave quickly. You close the door and lean against the kitchen counter across from her, giving her room, and you wait.
"So," she says, picking at a thread on her sweater sleeve. "I got the part. That project I've been talking about. They confirmed it yesterday."
"That's great," you say. "Congratulations. That's the one you really wanted."
"It is. Thank you." She's looking at the floor between you. "Filming starts in twelve days. In London."
"London."
"Yeah." She finally looks up at you. "I'll be gone about six months. Maybe longer depending on reshoots, but the core shoot is six months."
Six months. You turn the number over in your head, automatically calculating where that puts you. Sometime next year.
"Wow," you say. "That's a long time. That's like, a really significant stretch."
"I know." She pulls at the thread harder. "I know it is."
"You could've sent a message, you know. You didn't have to come all the way across town for this."
"No, I wanted to tell you in person. The flight is in six hours. I've got a car picking me up at four. I just, I didn't want to text you something like this. It felt wrong."
"Okay. So this is serious business, huh."
She gives a nervous little laugh. "Yeah. I mean." She pauses, runs her hand over her face, and exhales. "It kind of feels like things between us have gotten a little out of control. Don't you think? Like, we started this as one thing and now it's, I don't know. It's something else. And I'm about to leave for half a year and I feel like we should probably talk about that."
You push off the counter and move to the couch, sitting down on the actual cushion beside where she's perched on the arm. You look up at her. "Okay. I think it's time we're honest about what's going on between us."
"Agreed," she says. "One hundred percent. Let's do that."
Silence. She looks at you. You look at her.
"You start," she says.
"Why me?"
"Because you're the good guy," she says, gesturing at you with both hands as if this is self-evident. "This is the part of the movie where the good guy declares his feelings for the good girl. You give the speech. I react emotionally. It's a classic structure. I've done this scene a dozen times."
"I'm not sure that's entirely accurate," you say. "And you're not exactly the good girl in this scenario. Let's be real."
"Rude. But fair. Go ahead. Tell me."
You lean back into the couch and take a breath. "Okay. In the last few weeks, things between us have gotten pretty intense. And I know we both felt that happening and neither of us said anything about it because it was easier to just keep going and not put a label on it. But it went past casual a while ago. We both know that. And I don't mind. I'm not scared of it. I've actually been enjoying it, a lot. Waking up next to you these past couple of weeks has been, honestly… it's been amazing. You're amazing. And six months without that is going to suck. I'm going to miss you."
She's quiet through the whole thing, her eyes on yours, and you watch the tension in her shoulders gradually release as you talk. When you finish she nods slowly, pressing her lips together, and you can see her processing.
"Okay," she says softly. "Yeah. I feel the same way. About all of it." She slides off the arm of the couch and onto the cushion next to you, tucking one leg underneath herself. "And I think that's been kind of obvious, right? Like, embarrassingly obvious. I was sleeping at your apartment four nights a week. I have a toothbrush in your bathroom. I reorganized your spice cabinet last Thursday and you didn't even comment on it. We were both just playing at being naive and pretending this was still casual when it clearly stopped being casual somewhere around the third week."
"Probably earlier than that," you admit.
"Probably." She exhales and stares at her hands in her lap. "And now I'm leaving and we don't have time to figure out what this actually is. That's the part that's messing with my head. We were in the middle of something and now there's going to be this huge gap right when it was getting real." She looks at you, and there's genuine worry beneath the composure. "Do you think it's too late? For us to figure this out?"
"I think maybe we need to admit what this is. What it already is. And then see if the feeling survives six months of distance. Because if it does, if we both still feel this way on the other side of it, then it's worth investing in for real. All the way."
"I'll text you every day," she says. "I mean it. Every single day. You'll be sick of me by month two."
"I'll hold you to that. Every day. No exceptions."
"No exceptions." She nods firmly, more to herself than to you, and then she leans over and kisses you. Her hand coming up to rest against your cheek, her lips pressing to yours gently, and you can feel the emotion packed into it, all the things she didn't quite say out loud folded into the contact of her mouth against yours. You kiss her back and she pulls away, but she doesn't stand up. She doesn't move toward the door. She stays right there on the cushion next to you, her knee touching your thigh, her fingers still resting against the side of your face.
"We still have a few hours," she says quietly. "I don't want to spend them being sad about leaving."
"A farewell fuck," you say, and you watch the corner of her mouth twitch. "That sounds totally like us."
"It sounds exactly like us," she agrees, and then she's kissing you again, harder this time, her hand sliding from your cheek to the back of your neck, pulling you into her. You wrap an arm around her waist and kiss her deep, your tongue meeting hers, and without breaking the kiss you pull her toward you and she follows, climbing into your lap with ease, her skirt riding up her thighs as she straddles you on the couch. Your hands settle on her hips and her fingers thread into your hair and the kiss gets wetter, needier, the kind of kiss that knows it has to last for six months.
She breaks away to breathe, her forehead against yours, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She looks at you for a long second. Then she takes your face in both hands, tips your chin up, and spits into your open mouth.
You swallow it. Blink. Look at her.
"That one's new," you say.
"Improvised," she says, completely unapologetic, that bratty little spark back in her dark eyes. "Felt right in the moment. Went with it."
"You actors really are good at improvising," you say, licking your lips. "Fully committed to the choice. Very bold."
"Thank you. I trained extensively." She shifts in your lap, settling her weight, and she goes still as she feels the hard length of you pressing against the inside of her thigh through your pants. Her eyebrows lift and she rolls her hips once, slowly, grinding against you, confirming what she felt.
"Okay," she murmurs, rocking against you again, feeling you twitch beneath her. "Enough with the improv. I think it's time I follow the script." She reaches between your bodies and presses her palm flat against the bulge straining against your zipper, squeezing gently. "And we both know exactly how this scene goes.”
You reach between your bodies and fumble with your zipper, lifting your hips off the couch enough to shove your pants and boxers down your thighs in one motion, Jenna rising up on her knees to give you room without climbing off your lap. Your cock springs free, hard and flushed, and she looks down between them at it with that hungry little expression you've come to know well. She reaches down and pulls the crotch of her panties to one side, holding the fabric taut against her inner thigh with two fingers, and with her other hand she gathers her skirt up around her waist, bunching the plaid fabric so nothing is in the way.
You take yourself in hand and angle upward, pressing the swollen head against her slick folds, and she's already wet, and you drag the tip through the warm mess of her, parting her, finding her entrance. She braces one hand on your shoulder and starts to lower herself. Her thighs flexing on either side of yours as she takes you in bit by bit, her tight cunt stretching to accommodate you, her breath going shallow. You watch her face as she sinks, watch the way her brow creases and her lips fall open and her eyelids flutter, and then she bottoms out with her full weight in your lap and your cock buried completely inside her, and she exhales long and unsteady.
"There," she breathes, settling, adjusting, her inner walls squeezing around you in a slow pulse. "God... Every time. Every single time it feels like the first time."
She starts to move. Lifting herself with her thighs and dropping back down, finding a rhythm that's slow and grinding, her hips rolling in small circles every time she takes you to the base. Her hand stays fisted in her skirt, holding it out of the way, and you can see everything, your cock disappearing into her, the way her pussy stretches around your girth, the shine of her arousal coating your shaft as she rises and falls. She keeps the pace unhurried, savoring it, and you realize she's memorizing this. Banking the sensation for the months ahead.
You pull her face to yours and kiss her, catching her mouth mid-rise, and she moans softly against your lips as she sinks back down. You kiss her deep and slow, matching the pace of her hips, your tongues sliding together while she rides, and she tastes warm and familiar and a little desperate. She breaks away to pant, her forehead pressing against yours.
"I'm going to think about this every night I'm away," she murmurs, lifting and dropping, lifting and dropping, her pussy gripping you on every stroke. "In some hotel room in London, alone in bed, I'm going to think about your cock inside me and touch myself and it's not going to be enough."
"Then make this one count," you tell her, your hands finding her waist through the bulky sweater. "Take what you need."
"I plan to." She rolls her hips in a tight circle and you feel your cock stir inside her, nudging deeper at a different angle, and her breath catches. "I plan to take everything I can get in the next few hours."
You tug at the hem of her sweater, pulling it upward, and she releases her skirt long enough to raise her arms so you can peel it off over her head. It goes somewhere behind the couch. Underneath she's wearing a simple black bra, nothing fancy, the kind of thing she threw on this morning without thinking, her skin is warm and flushed beneath your palms as you run your hands up her bare sides. She's still riding you, never stopped, her rhythm continuous and steady, and the absence of the sweater lets you feel the heat of her body against yours, the slight dampness building between your chests.
"Get this off too," you say, your fingers finding the clasp at her back.
She reaches behind herself and unhooks it with one hand and shrugs the straps off her shoulders. The bra falls away and her small breasts are bare, nipples already stiff, and you fill your hands with them immediately. You cup both in your palms and squeeze, feeling the soft give of them, your thumbs finding her nipples and pressing, rolling them between your fingers while she rides your cock. Her back arches into your touch and a low sound escapes her throat, needy and pleased.
"You love my tits," she says, watching you touch her, her hips still working steadily. "Every time. The second they're out, your hands are on them."
"Can you blame me," you say, pinching lightly, tugging, and she gasps and grinds down harder on you. You squeeze them together and run your thumbs across both nipples simultaneously, and her pace falters for just a second before she recovers.
"Fuck," she pants, planting both hands on your chest now and leaning into you, using the leverage to ride you faster. The angle shifts and your cock hits deeper and she makes a choked sound that she tries to swallow. "Your hands… I swear. Even now. Even when you're just sitting there and I'm doing all the work, your hands make me insane."
"That's literally my profession," you remind her, rolling her nipples between your thumbs and forefingers. "Hands are my whole thing."
"Shut up and keep touching me." She bounces on you harder, her thighs flexing, her ass slapping against your lap on every downstroke, and you keep your hands on her breasts, kneading and squeezing and teasing her nipples while she fucks herself on your cock. Her skirt is bunched around her waist, her panties still pulled to the side, and the visual of her half-dressed and riding you, tits in your hands and her face twisted in pleasure, is something you want burned into your memory for the next six months.
"You feel incredible," you tell her, squeezing her breasts harder. "Your tight little cunt. The way you ride. I'm going to think about this too. Every single day you're gone."
"Good," she gasps, her nails digging into your chest. "I want you thinking about me. I want you unable to function. I want your cock hard in the middle of a massage because you thought about me for half a second."
"That's going to cause problems at work."
"I don't care." She slams down on you and grinds, rotating her hips with you buried to the hilt, and you feel every inch of her tight wet heat clenching around you. "I want to ruin you for six months. I want you counting the days until you can have me again."
She leans forward and kisses you, her breasts pressing against your chest, your hands sliding from her tits around to her back, holding her against you while her tongue pushes into your mouth. She rides you through the kiss, shorter strokes now, keeping you deep, her clit grinding against your pelvis on every roll. You kiss her until neither of you can breathe, until spit is smeared across both your chins and her lipstick is on your mouth and your lungs are burning.
You kiss her again, one more time, hard and brief, and then you grip her hips and lift. She gasps as your cock slides out of her, the sudden emptiness making her whimper, and you guide her off your lap and turn her around. She reads your intention immediately, planting her knees on the couch cushion and bracing her hands on the armrest, her back arching, her skirt still rucked up around her waist and her panties still pulled crookedly to the side. She looks back at you over her shoulder, hair falling across her face, and spreads her knees wider on the cushion.
"There she is," you murmur, getting up on your knees behind her, one hand on her hip and the other guiding your slick cock back to her entrance.
"Come on," she says, pushing her ass back toward you. "We don't have all day. Put it back in me.”
You sink into her to the hilt in one long steady stroke, her pussy so slick and swollen from the edging that you meet almost no resistance, just tight wet heat swallowing you whole. She groans into the armrest, her fingers clawing at the fabric, and you grip both cheeks of her ass, spreading them, watching your cock disappear between her flushed pink lips. You pull back slowly and push in again, setting an easy rhythm. Her cunt is so wet that every thrust produces a thick squeaking noise, that unmistakable sound of a pussy that's been thoroughly worked over, drenched and puffy and desperate to be fucked. Each time you pull back there's a slick sucking quality to it, her walls clinging to your shaft, reluctant to let you withdraw, and each time you push back in there's that soft squelching that gets louder as you build speed.
"Listen to that," you say, squeezing her ass, pulling her cheeks apart so you can watch yourself sliding in and out of her glistening cunt. "Listen to how wet you are."
"It is a mess," she agrees breathlessly, her back arching deeper. "My pussy is a total mess for you. Fuck, I can feel it running down my thighs."
You thrust into her harder and the wet sound intensifies, and you can see it now, the white cream starting to build at the base of your cock, that telltale frothy ring forming where her body meets yours. Every stroke churns it, pulling it out along your shaft in thick milky strings that coat you and smear across her swollen lips. Her pussy is getting creamier with every passing minute, her arousal whipped into something visible and filthy by the steady pistoning of your cock.
"Look at you," you murmur, watching the cream gather and spread. "Getting all creamy on my cock. Making a mess all over yourself."
"I can't help it," she whines, pushing her hips back to meet your thrusts. "My body's been ready to come since I sat on your lap and now it's just leaking everywhere. You did this to me."
You pick up the pace, your hips snapping forward with more force, and she starts throwing her ass back to meet you, matching your rhythm thrust for thrust. The collision of your bodies fills the room alongside the wet sticky sounds of her cunt taking your cock, and her ass ripples with each impact against your hips. You watch the way her small frame absorbs every stroke, the way her spine flexes and her shoulders tense and release, and you can see the cream coating your shaft thicker now, visible even in the dim afternoon light filtering through the apartment windows.
You reach forward and gather her hair in your fist, wrapping the dark strands around your hand once, twice, and you pull. Not violently. Firm and steady, enough to arch her neck back and lift her face off the armrest, and she gasps, her scalp tingling, her back bowing into an extreme curve that changes the angle of your cock inside her.
"Oh god," she chokes out, her hands bracing against the armrest now that her head is pulled back. "Pull my hair and fuck me. Just like that. Make it count. I want to feel this for weeks. I want to be in London with a sore pussy thinking about you."
"You will be," you tell her, tightening your grip in her hair and driving into her harder. "Every time you sit down on set you're going to feel where I've been. Every time you cross your legs in a meeting you're going to remember what my cock feels like splitting you open."
"Yes," she gasps. "Yes, I will. I'm going to think about your cock every single day. I'm going to touch myself in my hotel room and pretend it's you and it's never going to be enough."
You fuck her with her hair wrapped in your fist, pulling her head back just enough to keep that arch in her spine, your other hand gripping her hip for leverage. The pace is relentless now, steady and powerful, and her pussy is making the most obscene sounds you've ever heard, wet and thick and creamy, her arousal churned into froth by the constant friction. You can feel her tightening around you, her walls starting that familiar rhythmic clenching, and her breathing is climbing in pitch, getting shorter and more ragged with every thrust.
"I'm getting close," she pants, her thighs trembling against the couch cushion. "Oh fuck, I'm getting so close. Your cock is hitting the perfect spot. Every time you thrust I feel it in my whole body. My legs are shaking."
"Come for me," you tell her, releasing her hair and gripping both hips, pulling her back onto your cock with every forward thrust, driving as deep as her body will allow. "Come all over this cock, Jenna. Let me feel that creamy little pussy squeeze me. Give it to me. Everything. Right now."
"Oh god," she cries out, her fingers white-knuckling the armrest, her whole body going rigid. "Oh god, I'm coming, I'm coming, it's happening."
Her orgasm crashes through her in waves. You feel it start deep inside, a vice-like clenching around your shaft, and then it pulses outward through her entire body, her legs shaking violently, her abs contracting, her back seizing into a tight arch. She buries her face in the cushion and screams into it, muffled but raw, and her pussy clamps down on you so hard it's almost difficult to keep thrusting. But you do. You fuck her straight through it, never slowing, maintaining that punishing pace while she convulses around you, and each stroke draws another wave of clenching and another broken sound from deep in her chest. The cream on your cock multiplies, thick and white, pushed out of her with every thrust, coating her lips and dripping onto the couch beneath her.
The orgasm rolls through her in what feels like thirty continuous seconds, her body clenching and releasing and clenching again, and you feel your own release building at the base of your spine, drawn out by the relentless milking pressure of her cunt around your shaft. Your balls tighten and your stomach clenches and the heat gathers low and urgent and you know you're almost there.
You give her three more deep thrusts, each one burying yourself completely, grinding against the deepest part of her, and then you pull out. Your cock slides free of her pussy with a slick wet sound, glistening and coated in thick white cream, and you grip yourself and angle upward. You press the swollen head against the tight little ring of her asshole, still shiny and sensitive from your tongue, and you stroke yourself twice, three times, and you come.
The first thick rope pulses out of you and lands directly on her asshole, hot and white against the pink puckered skin. You groan through it, your hand pumping steadily, and the second and third streaks follow, painting her tight little hole in thick creamy lines that pool and drip. You keep stroking, milking yourself empty, watching your cum gather in the cleft of her ass, coating the rim of her asshole until it's glazed and dripping and obscene. A thick bead of it runs slowly down from her asshole toward her spent pussy, leaving a glistening trail across her perineum.
Jenna moans softly as she feels it, a low satisfied purr, her body still trembling with aftershocks. "I can feel it," she murmurs into the cushion, her eyes closed. "Your cum on my ass. It's so warm. It's dripping everywhere."
You milk the last drops out onto her, watching them fall onto the mess you've already made, and then you release yourself and sit back into the corner of the couch, your chest heaving, your cock softening against your thigh, still slick with her cream and your own cum. You let your head fall back against the cushion and close your eyes, catching your breath.
Jenna stays face down for a long moment, her body slack and boneless, draped over the couch with her ass still slightly raised, your cum slowly sliding down her skin. Then she melts all the way flat, lowering herself onto her stomach with a contented sigh, her cheek pressed against the cushion, her eyes half open and glazed. Her skirt is still bunched around her waist. Her hair is a disaster. She looks thoroughly, comprehensively ruined.
"That was really good," she says, her breathing still uneven, a lazy smile spreading across her flushed face. "The ass thing. The tongue. All of it. That was a strong farewell performance."
"Had to make it memorable," you say, still catching your breath.
She crawls across the couch toward you, slow and languid, and tucks herself against your side. She tilts her face up and kisses you, soft and unhurried, tasting faintly of salt and warmth, her hand resting on your chest over your heartbeat. When she pulls back she stays close, her nose almost touching yours, those dark eyes searching your face with something tender lurking beneath the post-orgasm haze.
"How many times do you think we can come before I have to leave?" she asks, her thumb tracing idle circles on your chest. "My car is coming at four. That gives us, what, a few more hours?"
You glance at the clock on the wall behind her. You have time. Plenty of it.
"I think we can find out," you say.
Jenna smiles. Not the bratty grin or the teasing smirk or the performative confidence she wears for the rest of the world. Just a real, genuine, warm smile from a girl who's about to leave for six months and wants to spend every remaining minute exactly where she is.
She's on all fours in front of you, her back arched, her knees spread wide on the couch cushion, her panties stretched crookedly to the side and her skirt bunched around her waist like a belt. She's looking back at you over her shoulder, expecting you to slide back inside her, expecting the blunt press of your cock against her entrance, and instead you grip both cheeks of her ass and spread them apart and press your mouth directly against her tight little asshole.
She jolts. Her whole body tenses and her fingers grip the armrest of the couch and her head whips around, her eyes wide with genuine shock.
"Oh," she breathes, and there's a note of real surprise in it, not performance, not bratty posturing, actual unfiltered surprise. "Oh my god. That's, okay, that's new."
You pull back just enough to talk, your thumbs still holding her open, your breath warm against the sensitive puckered skin. "Thought I'd improvise."
She lets out a shaky laugh, her thighs trembling on either side of your hands. "Using my own material against me. Okay. Respect."
You lean back in and lick her. A slow, flat, broad stroke of your tongue from just above her pussy all the way up to the tight ring of muscle, pressing firmly, and you feel her entire body shudder in response. You do it again, slower this time, letting her feel every millimeter of the contact, and she drops her forehead against the armrest and makes a sound that's somewhere between disbelief and surrender.
"Nobody's ever done this to me," she says into the cushion, her fingers clutching the fabric. "Not once. I've thought about it but nobody's ever actually, oh fuck, oh my god."
You seal your lips around her asshole and suck gently, then release and follow it with the pointed tip of your tongue, tracing tight little circles around the rim. The muscle twitches beneath your mouth, reactive and sensitive, and you keep at it, circling and licking and pressing, varying the pressure, listening to the sounds she's making to guide you. She's vocal in a way she hasn't been before, louder and less controlled, the novelty of the sensation stripping away whatever composure she usually maintains.
"That's insane," she pants, her hips pushing back against your face. "That's absolutely insane. How does that feel so good? It shouldn't feel that good. What the fuck."
You push your tongue against the center, pressing firmly, not penetrating but applying steady targeted pressure, and her thighs clench and her spine dips into a deeper arch. You can feel the tension in her glutes under your hands, the way her body is fighting between instinct and unfamiliarity, wanting more but not sure how to ask for it. So you give her more without making her ask. You flatten your tongue and lap at her in long steady strokes, thorough and wet, getting her slick with spit, and then switch back to the pointed tip, flicking rapidly across the sensitive nerve endings.
"Oh fuck, oh fuck," she whimpers, grinding back against your mouth. "You're eating my ass on your couch. This is so filthy. I love it. I love every second of it. Don't you dare stop."
You have no intention of stopping. You grip her cheeks harder, spreading her wider, burying your face between them, your tongue working her asshole with focused relentless attention. You lick and suck and probe, alternating between techniques, keeping her guessing, and her reactions tell you everything. The rapid breathing when you circle the rim. The full body shiver when you press the flat of your tongue against her and hold it there. The whine that escapes her throat when you point your tongue and push just barely inside, just the tip, just enough to feel the tight ring of muscle give the slightest fraction.
"Right there," she gasps, pushing back. "Oh my god, right there, your tongue, I can feel your tongue trying to get inside my ass, that's so dirty, that's the dirtiest thing anyone has ever done to me."
You keep your tongue where it is, pressing rhythmically against that tight entrance, and you bring your right hand down from her cheek and slide it between her thighs from behind. She's drenched. Your fingers find her pussy swollen and slippery, her arousal coating her inner thighs, and you run two fingers through the mess of it, gathering the wetness, before pressing both fingertips against her opening and pushing inside.
She cries out when you enter her, her cunt clenching around your fingers immediately, tight and hot and soaking wet. You sink both fingers in to the second knuckle and curl them forward, finding the spongy spot on the front wall, and you start to fuck her with your hand while your tongue continues its assault on her ass.
"Oh my god," she practically sobs, her arms giving out, her chest dropping to the cushion while her hips stay raised. "Both. You're doing both at the same time. Your tongue in my ass and your fingers in my pussy. I can't handle this. I actually cannot handle this."
You pump your fingers steadily, curling them on every inward stroke, massaging that sensitive spot inside her, and your tongue keeps circling and pressing and lapping at her asshole, and the combination turns her into something you've never quite seen before. She's writhing, her whole body undulating on the couch, her face pressed into the armrest, and the sounds pouring out of her are raw and broken and utterly without pretense.
"Don't stop, daddy," she begs, rolling her hips between your mouth and your hand, fucking herself on your fingers while grinding back against your tongue. "Please don't stop. Your mouth feels so good on my ass. Your fingers feel so good in my pussy. I'm losing my mind. You're making me lose my mind."
You add more pressure with your fingers, pumping faster, the wet sound of them sliding in and out of her filling the room alongside her desperate panting. Your tongue pushes against her asshole with renewed purpose, firm and insistent, and you feel the ring of muscle relaxing incrementally under the sustained attention, opening to you, her body learning to accept this new kind of pleasure. You seal your lips around her and suck while your tongue works the center, and she practically screams into the cushion.
"Daddy, please," she whines, her thighs shaking violently, her pussy gripping your fingers so tight you can barely move them. "Nobody's ever made me feel like this. My whole body is on fire. I can feel it everywhere. Your tongue on my ass is making my pussy throb and your fingers in my pussy are making my ass clench and it's all connected and I'm going crazy."
You can feel her building toward it. The telltale signs you've learned over these weeks together. The rhythmic clenching of her walls around your fingers, getting tighter and faster. The trembling in her thighs moving into her core. The pitch of her breathing climbing higher. Her whole body is coiling, tensing, approaching that edge with increasing speed, and you know she's close.
"Oh god, daddy, something's happening," she gasps, her hips bucking erratically. "Something's building, it's so intense, it's different from before, it's bigger, I think I'm going to come, daddy, I think I'm going to come from you eating my ass, that's so filthy, I'm so close, I'm so close, please don't stop, please."
You stop.
You pull your mouth away from her ass and slide your fingers out of her pussy in one clean motion, leaving her empty and exposed and teetering on the precipice. She lets out a sound of pure anguished frustration, her hips pushing back toward you searching for contact that isn't there anymore, her body clenching around nothing.
"No," you say, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "Not yet. I want you to come with my cock inside you. I want to feel this one around my dick."
She drops her face into the armrest and laughs, breathless and shaky, her whole body still trembling from how close she got. "You're so cruel. You are genuinely the cruelest person I have ever met in my life. You just edged me with your tongue in my ass. That's a war crime."
"You edged me three times the first night we were together," you remind her. "Consider this ongoing retaliation."
She laughs again, shaking her head against the cushion, and then she looks back at you over her shoulder with those glassy dark eyes and flushed cheeks and swollen lips. "Okay. Fine. I accept it. The idea of coming on your cock is better anyway. I want to feel you stretching me when I go over." She bites her bottom lip and pushes her ass back toward you. "But put it in now, daddy. Right now. My pussy is aching. I need you so bad it hurts. Fill me up."
You grip her hip with one hand and take your cock in the other, lining the swollen head up with her dripping entrance, pressing forward until you feel her heat engulf the tip, and you push inside.
You sink into her to the hilt in one long steady stroke, her pussy so slick and swollen from the edging that you meet almost no resistance, just tight wet heat swallowing you whole. She groans into the armrest, her fingers clawing at the fabric, and you grip both cheeks of her ass, spreading them, watching your cock disappear between her flushed pink lips. You pull back slowly and push in again, setting an easy rhythm, and the sound that fills the room is obscene. Her cunt is so wet that every thrust produces a thick squeaking noise, that unmistakable sound of a pussy that's been thoroughly worked over, drenched and puffy and desperate to be fucked. Each time you pull back there's a slick sucking quality to it, her walls clinging to your shaft, reluctant to let you withdraw, and each time you push back in there's that soft squelching that gets louder as you build speed.
"Listen to that," you say, squeezing her ass, pulling her cheeks apart so you can watch yourself sliding in and out of her glistening cunt. "Listen to how wet you are. That's from my mouth on your ass. I ate your little asshole and your pussy turned into a fucking mess."
"It is a mess," she agrees breathlessly, her back arching deeper. "My pussy is a total mess for you. It's been dripping since you put your tongue on me. I can feel it running down my thighs."
You thrust into her harder and the wet sound intensifies, and you can see it now, the white cream starting to build at the base of your cock, that telltale frothy ring forming where her body meets yours. Every stroke churns it, pulling it out along your shaft in thick milky strings that coat you and smear across her swollen lips. Her pussy is getting creamier with every passing minute, her arousal whipped into something visible and filthy by the steady pistoning of your cock.
"Look at you," you murmur, watching the cream gather and spread. "Getting all creamy on my cock. Making a mess all over yourself."
"I can't help it," she whines, pushing her hips back to meet your thrusts. "You edged me so hard. My body's been ready to come for the last twenty minutes and now it's just leaking everywhere. You did this to me."
You pick up the pace, your hips snapping forward with more force, and she starts throwing her ass back to meet you, matching your rhythm thrust for thrust. The collision of your bodies fills the room alongside the wet sticky sounds of her cunt taking your cock, and her ass ripples with each impact against your hips. You watch the way her small frame absorbs every stroke, the way her spine flexes and her shoulders tense and release, and you can see the cream coating your shaft thicker now, visible even in the dim afternoon light.
You reach forward and gather her hair in your fist, wrapping the dark strands around your hand once, twice, and you pull. Not violently. Firm and steady, enough to arch her neck back and lift her face off the armrest, and she gasps, her scalp tingling, her back bowing into an extreme curve that changes the angle of your cock inside her.
"Oh god," she chokes out, her hands bracing against the armrest now that her head is pulled back. "Pull my hair and fuck me. Just like that. Make it count. I want to feel this for weeks. I want to be in London with a sore pussy thinking about you."
"You will be," you tell her, tightening your grip in her hair and driving into her harder. "Every time you sit down on set you're going to feel where I've been. Every time you cross your legs in a meeting you're going to remember what my cock feels like splitting you open."
"Yes," she gasps. "Yes, I will. I'm going to think about your cock every single day. I'm going to touch myself in my hotel room and pretend it's you and it's never going to be enough."
You fuck her with her hair wrapped in your fist, pulling her head back just enough to keep that arch in her spine, your other hand gripping her hip for leverage. The pace is relentless now, steady and powerful, and her pussy is making the most obscene sounds you've ever heard, wet and thick and creamy, her arousal churned into froth by the constant friction. You can feel her tightening around you, her walls starting that familiar rhythmic clenching, and her breathing is climbing in pitch, getting shorter and more ragged with every thrust.
"I'm getting close," she pants, her thighs trembling against the couch cushion. "Oh fuck, I'm getting so close. Your cock is hitting the perfect spot. Every time you thrust I feel it in my whole body. My legs are shaking."
"Come for me," you tell her, releasing her hair and gripping both hips, pulling her back onto your cock with every forward thrust, driving as deep as her body will allow. "Come all over this cock, Jenna. Let me feel that creamy little pussy squeeze me. Give it to me. Everything. Right now."
"Oh god," she cries out, her fingers white-knuckling the armrest, her whole body going rigid. "Oh god, I'm cumming, I'm cumming, it's happening."
You feel it start deep inside, a vice-like clenching around your shaft, and then it pulses outward through her entire body, her legs shaking violently, her abs contracting, her back seizing into a tight arch. She buries her face in the cushion and screams into it, muffled but raw, and her pussy clamps down on you so hard it's almost difficult to keep thrusting. But you do. You fuck her straight through it, never slowing, maintaining that punishing pace while she convulses around you, and each stroke draws another wave of clenching and another broken sound from deep in her chest. The cream on your cock multiplies, thick and white, pushed out of her with every thrust, coating her lips and dripping onto the couch beneath her.
The orgasm rolls through her in what feels like thirty continuous seconds, her body clenching and releasing and clenching again, and you feel your own release building at the base of your spine, drawn out by the relentless milking pressure of her cunt around your shaft. Your balls tighten and your stomach clenches and the heat gathers low and urgent and you know you're almost there.
You give her three more deep thrusts, each one burying yourself completely, grinding against the deepest part of her, and then you pull out. Your cock slides free of her pussy with a slick wet sound, glistening and coated in thick white cream, and you grip yourself and angle upward. You press the swollen head against the tight little ring of her asshole and you stroke yourself twice, three times, and then you come.
The first thick rope pulses out of you and lands directly on her asshole, hot and white against the pink puckered skin. You groan through it, your hand pumping steadily, and the second and third streaks follow, painting her tight little hole in thick creamy lines that pool and drip. You keep stroking, milking yourself empty, watching your cum gather in the cleft of her ass, coating the rim of her asshole until it's glazed and dripping. A thick bead of it runs slowly down from her asshole toward her spent pussy, leaving a glistening trail across her perineum.
Jenna moans softly as she feels it, a low satisfied purr, her body still trembling with aftershocks. "I can feel it," she murmurs into the cushion, her eyes closed. "Your cum on my ass. It's so warm. It's dripping everywhere."
You milk the last drops out onto her, watching them fall onto the mess you've already made, and then you release yourself and sit back into the corner of the couch, your chest heaving, your cock softening against your thigh, still slick with her cream and your own cum. You let your head fall back against the cushion and close your eyes, catching your breath.
Jenna stays face down for a long moment, her body slack and boneless, draped over the couch with her ass still slightly raised, your cum slowly sliding down her skin. Then she melts all the way flat, lowering herself onto her stomach with a contented sigh, her cheek pressed against the cushion, her eyes half open and glazed.
"That was really good," she says, her breathing still uneven, a lazy smile spreading across her flushed face. "The ass thing. All of it. That was a strong farewell performance."
"Had to make it memorable," you say, still catching your breath.
She crawls across the couch toward you, slow and languid, and tucks herself against your side. She tilts her face up and kisses you, tasting faintly of salt and warmth, her hand resting on your chest over your heartbeat. When she pulls back she stays close, her nose almost touching yours, those dark eyes searching your face with something tender lurking beneath the post-orgasm haze.
"How many times do you think we can come before I have to leave?" she asks, her thumb tracing idle circles on your chest. "My car is coming at four. That gives us, what, a few more hours?"
You glance at the clock on the wall behind her. You have time. Plenty of it.
"I think we can find out," you say.
Jenna smiles. Not the bratty grin or the teasing smirk, just a real smile from a girl who’s about to leave for six months and wants to spend every minute she has left exactly where she is.
—
You're brushing your teeth when the apartment finally catches up with you. The silence of it. Not the usual silence of living alone, but the silence of an absence.
Her sneakers aren't by the door anymore. The couch cushion where she was stretched out a few hours ago still holds the faint impression of her body. The whole apartment carries traces of her: a hint of perfume, the lingering aftermath of sex…
You spit, rinse, wipe your mouth, and pad into the bedroom. The sheets are clean because you changed them this morning, before she came over, before everything, and they feel too smooth and too cold when you climb in. You plug your phone into the charger and set it on the nightstand and you're reaching for the lamp when the screen lights up.
A photo. Jenna in an airplane seat, first class, her hair pulled back under a baseball cap, her face bare and a little tired. She's doing a peace sign. Behind her you can see the curve of the cabin wall and the edge of a window showing nothing but dark tarmac.
It's going to be a long flight
You pull the phone off the charger and settle back against your pillow, typing with one thumb.
How long?
Like 11 hours. I'm going to lose my mind
Sounds rough. You should try to rest during the trip. You'll need it when you land
I will. Eventually. I'm too wired right now. My body is still buzzing from earlier.
I'll probably dream about you. Just so you know.
That's actually really romantic. I'll dream about you too
You better. If I find out you dreamed about someone else I'm flying back immediately to fight you
Nobody else worth dreaming about
She doesn't respond right away to that one. Three dots appear and disappear twice before her next message comes through, and you can picture her in that airplane seat, cap pulled low, chewing her lip, trying to figure out how to respond to sincerity the way she always does.
It's going to be a long six months
We'll survive it
You think so?
I know so
How? How do you know?
You stare at the screen for a moment, thinking about what to say. You could send something long, something thoughtful about how the last few weeks have shown that this is real, that it's worth holding onto. But that's never really been how the two of you communicate. You say what matters and leave the rest unsaid. Right now, she doesn't need a speech. She just needs to know.
Because nothing about this has felt temporary. Not once. And I don't think six months changes that
I really like your confidence. It's annoyingly attractive
That's my best trait. Top of the list. Everything else is secondary
Oh please. Your best trait is your hands and we both know it
Fair point. Confidence is second then. Now rest. Seriously. Sleep on the plane. We'll talk when you land
Okay okay. I'm going to sleep. Talk later
Talk later. Bye, Jenna
Bye babe
You stare at that last message. Babe...
Two syllables. Four letters. Dropped into the conversation like it was something she'd been saying for months. But she hasn't. Not once in all the weeks of texts and nights together and mornings tangled in sheets has either of you used a pet name. Not once. She's called you daddy in bed but that's different, that lives in a separate category, and outside of those moments you've both operated in the careful neutral territory of first names and pronouns. Well, it seems that has changed too.
And you like it. You really like it.
Six months. A hundred and eighty days, give or take. She'll be in London, on sets, in costume, surrounded by crews and actors and the entire machinery of her career, and you'll be here, in this apartment, at the spa, running your hands over strangers' backs and checking your phone between clients. The distance will be real and constant and some days it will probably be terrible. You know that. You're not naive about it.
But you're not worried either, and that might be the strangest thing of all. There isn't even a trace of doubt. What started on a massage table in a villa has become woven into the fabric of your days; there in the mornings, there in the evenings, there in the ridiculous smile that appears whenever her name lights up your screen at eleven o'clock at night. It wasn't something either of you performed into existence. It just happened, slowly and naturally, between two people who weren't looking for it but found it anyway.
You close your eyes. Your phone lies untouched on the nightstand. Somewhere over the Atlantic, a girl in a baseball cap is curling up in a first-class seat, falling asleep thousands of miles away. And somehow, you're completely certain that when you wake up, there'll be a message from her.
With that thought, you settle into your pillow and drift off.
