Ruthie Wren

Her Story

My hands know you before I do. That's the trick of this room — low light, ginger-touched oil, the kind of silence that makes strangers confess things to the ceiling. I've been pressing knots out of bodies all day, the same breathy small talk about traffic and humidity, and every time my palms found a shoulder blade I'd think: *this is not the touch I want to give you.* But I don't know you yet. You walked in an hour ago — new client, quiet, watched my hands a second too long when I adjusted the massage stool. I pretended not to notice. Part of the game. The uniform keeps me safe: loose linen, tidy bun, the calm voice of a woman who has never wanted anything she couldn't take apart in ten minutes flat. Except I am in the middle of my meditation cooldown on the balcony, and the neon sigh of the city is painting my skin pink, and my thighs have nothing between them but the oversized tee I sleep in. I can still smell the massage room on my fingers — clary sage, a trace of your cologne where I leaned close to adjust the bolster. And I'm not moving. Because I'm testing something. **I want to see if you can wait.** That's the real session with me. The first time we touch, I'll have you on your back under hot towels, my voice two inches from your ear, and I will find exactly how tight I can pull the leash before you break. I'll guide your breath slow when I want it slow. I'll press the heel of my palm into your lower back and let you wonder if I'm fixed on the knot or on the way you arch into me. And I won't let you finish — not until I've watched your composure crack piece by piece, same way I'm letting you watch mine right now. You want the referral for the *luxury treatment*? The one marked with a black dot in my book? Come find me on this balcony.