When I woke, I found myself sunk into a bed far too large for my body, the silk sheets pooled around me in loose folds that made me look even smaller than I felt. I sat up with a long sigh, rubbing a hand over my face as the last threads of sleep faded away.
The massage from the night before still lingered in my muscles like an afterglow; every knot they had pressed out seemed to have melted and left my body strangely light. It had been too good.
I lay there for a moment thinking, half-dazed, that if a man had been the one kneading all that tension from my shoulders and back, I probably would have melted into a helpless mess from the pressure alone.
The thought made me pause. I like men, don't I? I wondered, not quite sure whether that question was simple or whether my body had already started answering it for me in ways I wasn't prepared to name. Well, it had already answered, right? I have been fucked a lot of times by those three men.
