Jake And The Masseuse
Jake and Lily make a connection at the massage table The studio feels like a warm cocoon. Cedarwood scents the air, soft jazz plays low, and candles flicker with a knowing glow. I’m Jake, 32, lean from running trails, with strong legs and a chest shaped by effort, not weights. My dark hair stays tousled, hazel eyes catch light when I grin, which happens often, especially when I’m intrigued. Right now, I’m face-down on the table, towel slipping, shoulders tight from a desk j...