The Open-Door Policy

The massage studio smelled of eucalyptus and clean linen, but all I could focus on was the way Lena’s black tank top clung to her tits when she reached for the oil bottle. She caught me staring, and her lips curled into that knowing smirk she’d been giving me all night at the bar where I worked.

“You’re supposed to be relaxing, Marco,” she said, pouring a warm stream of oil onto my back. “Not thinking about work.”

“I’m not thinking about work,” I mumbled into the face rest. Her hands slid down my spine, slow and deliberate. “I’m thinking about how you poured my whiskey earlier. You have a heavy hand.”

She laughed, low and throaty. “You have no idea.”

The door to the treatment room was still open. I could hear the soft hum of the hallway, the occasional murmur of voices from the reception area, the distant chime of the front door. Lena didn’t seem to care. She worked her palms into the knots of my shoulders, and I let out a groan that was half pain, half something else entirely.

“You’re tense,” she whispered, leaning close enough that her breath tickled my ear. “All this tension… I should work on your glutes next.”

My cock was already hard, pressed awkwardly against the table. “Lena, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” Her hand slid down my side, fingers tracing the waistband of the towel she’d given me. “You don’t trust me?”

I turned my head to look at her. Her eyes were dark, playful, and full of intent. “I don’t trust myself.”

She grinned. “Good.”

She tugged the towel loose, and the cool air hit my skin. Her oil-slicked fingers wrapped around my cock, and I hissed through my teeth. “Fuck, Lena.”

“Shh,” she whispered, stroking me slow, teasing. “The other rooms are busy. You have to be quiet.”

The door was still open. Anyone walking by could see her hand working my shaft, my hips twitching against the table. The thought made my dick throb even harder.

She chuckled. “I can feel that. You like the idea of getting caught, don’t you?”

“I like the idea of you,” I managed.

She squeezed the base of my cock, making me gasp. “Flattery will get you everywhere.” She leaned over me, her tits brushing my back as she pressed her lips to my ear. “But first, I want you to watch.”

She stepped back, unbuttoning her jeans with slow, deliberate fingers. She didn’t pull her tank top off. She just hooked her thumbs in her panties and slid them down her thighs, then turned around, bending over the edge of the massage table. Her ass was round and firm, and she spread her cheeks with one hand, showing me her wet pussy glistening in the dim light.

“You like the view?” she asked over her shoulder.

I was about to answer when I heard footsteps in the hallway. Lena didn’t flinch. She just looked at me, a wicked glint in her eye, and pressed a finger to her lips.

The footsteps grew closer. A woman’s voice called out, “Lena? You have a client in ten minutes.”

“Almost done!” Lena called back, her voice perfectly steady. Her finger slid inside her own pussy, and she bit her lip, watching my face as I stared at the open doorway, terrified and thrilled.

The footsteps faded. Lena pulled her finger out, slick and glistening, and brought it to my lips. I tasted her, salty and sweet.

“Now,” she said, straddling the table, “let’s see how quiet you can be.”

She lowered herself onto my cock, and I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from moaning. She was so wet, so hot, and she took me inch by inch, her eyes locked on mine. “Oh, fuck,” she breathed, her voice barely a whisper. “You feel even better than I imagined.”

She started to ride me, slow and grinding, her hips rolling in a rhythm that made my toes curl. The table creaked beneath us. I grabbed her hips, trying to steady her, but she shook her head.

“Keep your hands flat,” she commanded. “I’m in charge.”

I obeyed, gripping the edges of the table as she fucked me. Her tits bounced under the thin cotton of her tank top, her nipples hard and visible. She was watching the doorway, too, her head tilted as she listened for any sound.

“Another client,” she whispered, nodding toward the hall. I heard it — a man’s voice, low and gruff, talking to the receptionist. Lena smiled and started to ride me faster, her pussy clenching around my cock.

“You’re going to make me cum,” I grunted, trying to keep my voice down.

“Not yet,” she said, leaning forward, her hands on my chest. “Not until I say so.”

She shifted her angle, and suddenly she was hitting that spot inside her that made her gasp. Her rhythm became frantic, her breathing ragged. She bit her lip hard, her eyes squeezed shut.

“Oh, God,” she whispered. “Oh, fuck, Marco…”

The man’s voice outside grew louder, closer. He was walking past the open door. Lena’s eyes flew open, and she looked at me, a wild, desperate expression on her face. She clamped her hand over her own mouth and rode me harder, her hips slamming against mine, her pussy gripping me like a fist.

I couldn’t hold back anymore. I thrust up into her, burying myself deep, and came with a shuddering groan. She felt it, her eyes rolling back as her own climax hit her, her body trembling against mine. She came silently, her hand still pressed to her mouth, her thighs shaking.

The footsteps passed. The man’s voice faded down the hall.

Lena collapsed on top of me, her face buried in my neck, her chest heaving. I wrapped my arms around her, my heart pounding so loud I was sure someone could hear it.

“You okay?” I whispered.

She lifted her head, a lazy smile on her lips. “I’m better than okay.”

I laughed, breathless. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever done.”

“Just wait,” she murmured, her fingers tracing lazy circles on my chest. “I have a whole menu of services.”

We lay there in silence, listening to the sounds of the studio — the distant music, the muffled voices, the soft hum of the ventilation. Her breathing slowed, matching mine. I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want this moment to end.

“You know,” she said finally, her voice soft, “the door’s still open.”

I looked at her. “Should I close it?”

She smiled, her eyes half-lidded. “Not yet.”