The Deep End

The lavender oil was supposed to relax her, but the moment Lena's slick hands slid up the back of my thigh, my whole body went tight as a drum. The massage studio was a converted garage, all cedar planks and soft flutes, with a single window cracked open to let in the October wind. I'd booked the "athletic recovery" session after a hamstring pull, but I was starting to suspect my trainer had a different recovery in mind.

"Breathe, Marcus," she murmured from behind me. "You're clenching your jaw so hard I can hear your teeth."

"That's not my jaw that's the problem," I said into the towel.

She laughed, low and warm. "Yeah, I know. I can see you through the sheet, you know. You're not subtle."

I rolled over. The sheet tented comically, and Lena didn't even blink. She was thirty-five, built like a swimmer, with a blonde ponytail and a mouth that always looked like it was holding back a secret. She stood over me, hands on her hips, and I saw the strap of her sports bra had slipped off one shoulder.

"Lena—"

"Shh." She knelt beside the table, and the sounds of the studio—the hum of the space heater, a distant lawnmower, my own heartbeat—all got very loud. "You've been staring at my ass for six weeks. I'm not stupid."

"I was checking your form."

"My form is perfect." She dragged one fingernail down my chest, slow, deliberate, all the way to the edge of the sheet. "So's yours. That's the problem. You want to keep quiet for me?"

I nodded, not trusting my voice.

She pulled the sheet down. My cock sprang free, already hard and slick at the tip, and she made a soft, appreciative sound. "There he is." She wrapped her hand around the base and squeezed, and I heard myself make a noise like a wounded animal. "Quiet, remember. That window's open. The whole street can hear you."

The first stroke of her tongue was a wet, hot drag from root to tip, and she didn't tease. She took me into her mouth in one slow, seamless slide until her lips were at the hilt and her nose pressed into my belly. I felt the back of her throat flutter against the head of my cock and my hips bucked off the table.

"Ah—Lena—"

She pulled off just enough to speak, lips still brushing the tip. "I said quiet. Or I stop."

I gripped the edge of the table until my knuckles went white. She went back down, and this time she set a rhythm—not fast, but deep, so deep every time that I could feel her throat working around me. Her hand cupped my balls, rolling them gently, and the contrast between the soft squeeze and the firm, pushing pressure of her mouth made my vision swim. The room smelled like lavender and her coconut shampoo and the sharp, clean scent of my own arousal.

She pulled off with a wet pop, a string of spit connecting her lower lip to my cock. "You're gonna come in my throat," she said, matter-of-fact, wiping her mouth with the back of her wrist. "And you're not gonna warn me. You're just gonna do it."

"Lena—"

"Don't talk. Breathe."

She took me again, and this time she was merciless—one hand wrapped around the shaft, stroking in time with her mouth, and her other hand pressing flat against my hipbone to hold me down. The wet, sloppy sounds of her mouth filled the little studio, and I could hear the lawnmower stop and a dog bark somewhere down the block. Her ponytail brushed my thigh with every bob of her head.

"Fuck," I whispered, and she hummed around my cock in approval, and that was it. The vibration shot straight up my spine. "Lena, I'm—"

She didn't pull off. She looked up at me, eyes watering, and pushed down until her lips touched my skin, and I came in long, hot pulses down her throat. She swallowed around me, once, twice, and held me there until I was twitching and gasping and gripping her hair.

She pulled off slowly and sat back on her heels, wiping her mouth with the towel. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright.

"Same time next week?" she said.

I laughed, breathless, the sheet tangled around one ankle. "You're gonna kill me."

"Not my fault you can't keep your eyes on the weights." She stood, tossed me the towel, and walked to the little kitchenette in the corner. The space heater clicked off, and the room got quiet except for the kettle starting to whistle.

The next morning I found her on my porch with two coffees, her hair down and still damp from the shower.

"You forgot your water bottle," she said, handing me a cup. "And I was in the neighborhood."

She wasn't. She lived across town. But I took the coffee and stepped aside, and she brushed past me in the doorway, her arm grazing my chest, and I caught the faint smell of lavender oil still on her skin.

I'd never been so glad to have a pulled hamstring.