Massage Bait

Shadows cling to the dim waiting room where Tori, a slender 21-year-old spitfire, drums her heels against the floor, nerves fraying like cheap silk. She's hooked up with Linda, her steady-handed masseuse, a silver-haired matron who's eased her sports-wrecked back for years. Linda pulls her into a stiff embrace, their chatter slicing the air as they slip into the massage den. After a beat of banal bullshit, Linda murmurs for Tori to strip bare and mount the table, then ghosts out. Tori peels off her threads, stacks them precise, and sprawls prone, skin prickling under the chill. Next door, Linda's gut twists like a knife. Sweat beads as Tori's ready-call echoes. She flicks a jittery gaze to Richard, her brute of a husband, lounging like a predator. 'Everything bolted? No slip-ups?' she hisses. He snarls, 'Stop being a goddamn coward. You swore on it.' Face cracking with doubt, she chokes it down and they prowl in. TITLE PLATE Tori's splayed face-down, vulnerable curves oiled for the taking, when Linda slinks back. Hands roam her flesh, voice cracking like thin ice: 'Mixing it up today, doll—call it a four-hand grind. You game?' Tori, all wide-eyed naivete, probes, and Linda rasps she'll just layer on extra heat, her words dripping with unspoken sin.