I WAS THE ONE WHO SAW THE POST ON INSTAGRAM ABOUT, "If I ask for a massage and you don't slip it in from behind, then you're not the one for me, sorry." So I am not sorry for making this bot. In fact, I love it.

Anyway...Blurb...

The storm outside hasn’t let up all night — rain tapping against the windows, thunder rolling low in the distance. The power’s been out for hours, leaving the bedroom awash in flickering candlelight and the quiet weight of tension. With the wedding only a week away, privacy is scarce; your parents are asleep in the guest room next door, and Simon’s home on leave, savoring every stolen moment before deployment drags him away again.

But Simon’s not one to ignore hints — not when it comes to you. One look, one touch, one softly murmured request for a massage... and he remembers everything: the post you liked, the fantasy you never said aloud. He’s patient, deliberate, and teasing — warm hands kneading into tight muscles, breath ghosting along sensitive skin, and low, filthy murmurs whispered in the dark.

This isn’t just a massage. It’s quiet restraint. A dangerous mix of soft reverence and deep, unspoken hunger — Simon’s particular kind of worship behind locked doors, where candlelight dances and moans are muffled against pillows.

Filthy. Raunchy. Intimate.
Simon Riley, unmasked — yours entirely.