You nod, and she leaves the room. It takes a moment for her to cross the house and shut the front door, and only then do you unbelt the robe, drape it over a settee, and position yourself under the sheet. About three minutes later, Leya calls from the foyer and asks if you are okay with her coming back in. You call that it’s fine, and she re-enters, barefoot, typing an apron with deep pockets around her waist. You can’t really watch, but you hear her putting things in the pockets: the oils, from the gentle clinking of the vials.
“Okay,” she says. “Are you in any pain currently?”
“I went on a long hike, and I’m feeling beat-up,” you tell her.
“Poor thing,” she says sympathetically. “What kind of pressure do you generally like?”
“Medium up top, and firmer on my bottom half.”
“Mmm. I can work with that,” she says, applying some oil to your back.
Her touch is light at first. This effleurage, she explains, will promote blood flow and ease you into the massage. You’ve had plenty of massages—an LMT was always part of your touring entourage on Goalposts, and you’d frequently get rubbed down both before and after shows—but you like the sound of Leya’s voice, and don’t mind her walking you through it. Normally, you prefer not to talk during a massage so that you can relax and focus on your body. But Leya gets you chatting a bit. She asks if you have plans for Christmas, and you tell her honestly that you don’t know. Thankfully, the decorators didn’t come out to this house, since you are almost never here. She says that she’s driving up to Sacramento to spend the week between Christmas and the New Year with her mom. Talks about cooking a veganholiday dinner. Her palms glide over your back, stroking gently, spreading the oil. Warming up all that tissue.
Leya doesn’t say anything to indicate that she’s going to start targeted work, but you definitely feel the change in pressure. Her hands are a lot stronger than they look. She works on your shoulders and upper back. Her thumbs and fingers knead your traps in circular motions, then she applies the heels of her hands, framing your spine. Lower on your back, her touch is firmer, stroking down your sides and over your sacrum. There’s the slight pressure of her forearms, her hands working in tandem towards your ribcage.
“That feel okay?” she asks.
“Yeah,” you say, because it does. It feels really good. Leya isn’t talking anymore; she seems focused on her work. That’s fine with you—she was pleasant to talk to, but you like to float a bit when you are getting worked on. She’s definitely getting you into that space, her touch firm enough to make you melt, but careful to avoid discomfort.
She moves down the table, flipping the sheet up higher on your back and gently uncovering one half of your lower body, draping you for modesty. Her surprisingly-strong hands rub your outer thigh and hamstrings, kneading slowly. Like you asked, her fingers work more intensely on these parts of you. Your legs are sore, and her slow, thorough attention hurts in the best way. It’s like she has the blueprint for your body, hitting every single knot and tender patch.
“Would you like me to work your glutes?” she asks courteously.
“Yes, please,” you say.
Leya’s fingers dig into the meat of your ass, massaging your gluteus medius and maximus. Your skin prickles in the air, even though it’s warm. Her knuckles and elbow apply firm pressure in long strokes from your inner knee to your hip. Gradually, she moves down, compressing and rolling your calf muscles, and gently rotating your ankles, her fingers delicate on the small bones.
Your breath catches when she picks up your foot. Obviously, you’ve had your feet rubbed before—you danced in thigh-high stiletto boots on tour for almost two years; it was often more a necessity than a luxury—but it still feels very vulnerable when she touches you there. Her thumbs rub small circles on your arches and heels, and stretch your Achilles tendon.
“Breathe in and out for me, Ster,” she says softly. “Try not to tense up so much.”
Her use of your nickname catches you off-guard. It’s not like it’s a secret to the world, but most people who aren’t parasocial weirdos call you “Sterling.” Somehow, however, you don’t mind it. Touching your body is a familiar action; she can call you a familiar name. You didn’t realize that you were clenching your foot.
“I’m sorry,” you murmur.
“Shh,” she says. “Don’t apologize.”
She spends a long time on your foot, rotating, squeezing, and pulling each toe, running her fingertip lightly in the space between them. It feels strangely intimate, but also really, really great. You are pulling long, slow breaths, trying to keep your body loose. After a while, it starts to make you drowsy. That’s not surprising, either; you do some of your best napping during longmassages. You feel your eyes flutter as Leya rearranges the drape and moves over to your other hip. A light, drifting sleep comes over you as her fingers press into your skin, and you don’t fight it.
You can’t tell how long you are under. “Sleep” maybe isn’t the right word; some part of you is aware of her movement around the table, working your opposite side, even as slip-sliding, elusive visions that aren’t quite dreams paint your eyelids. There’s a quiet, muffled jingle when she moves, making you think that maybe she’s wearing an anklet with bells. The room is quiet, save the hum of the heat and the muted sound of the music. The room smells spicy and pleasant, and the air is pleasantly warm. You are floating away on the minutes—you have no idea how long a massage Maeve ordered you—when her touch can no longer be connected to her. When your brain, sleepy and lulled into rest by her hands, gets confused, and it’sKai. Kaimassaging you with all the sweetness in the world, Kai running his hands over you to relax and gentle you. His degree is in exercise science, your subconscious reasons, he must know how to lay hands on someone. You get pulled under by the fantasy, and in your dreams, or whatever place you go to, he’s touching you this way. Loving. Tender. Part of you knows that it’s a fantasy, but it feels so veryreal.The hands and fingers touching you, the warmth welling in your belly.
Despite not being fully unconscious, it takes Leya calling you a few gentle times to stir you and ask you to roll over onto your back. And then, the spell is broken. Kai’s not there. He never was.
You are groggy and more than slightly alarmed by the harsh jolt of reality, even though it’s not harsh at all. She oils your thighs and performs the effleurage, her strokes light, but doing nothingto help your confusion and alarm. You wonder if she can tell that you have goosebumps under her hands.
Leya has moved back up to your upper body. She massages your arms from shoulder to wrist, slow, lingering strokes. She holds your hand lightly, her thumbs working your palm and the webbing between your fingers. Like your feet, this feels so personal that it nearly breaks you. When she rubs the sensitive skin of your inner forearm, she pulls your wrist towards her chest. That moment is when you become aware, with a rise of welling panic, that there are tears in your eyes.
“You’re wound really tight,” she comments. If your eyes look shiny or distressed, she is kind enough not to comment. “Would you like me to massage your scalp? It’s great for stress. I can go wash my hands so that I don’t get your pretty hair all oily.”
That’s a terrible idea.
“Yeah,” you hear yourself answer.
She steps out of the room, and you quickly take inventory of the situation. Your heart is racing, and your skin feels too tight for your bones. Your head hurts, like it’s overfull with an ocean of unshed tears. Youcannot cry in front of this woman.You try to pull shallow, deep breaths and will yourself tofucking relax.
Leya is back in what feels like no time at all. “Your hair is still up,” she observes.
“Oh, shit,” you mumble. “I’m so sorry. I should have…”
