Friendly Competition

Brandi Love sits in her car ripping into her receptionist about another client walking out for the shop down the street. Fourth one in a row—she’s done. She’s got to find out what the fuck that place is selling, so she tells her receptionist to book a slot under a fake name, pay-phone only, then hangs up pissed and ready. Her phone buzzes: appointment’s locked, go now. She strolls into the parlor, takes one look around and mutters about how trashy it looks. Jill Kassidy steps up, chirps her usual welcome, but when Brandi turns around Jill clocks her instantly. She still plays polite: “Been here before?” Brandi shrugs it off and Jill lets it slide. Smirking, she offers, “If you want a massage, I’ll show you why clients stick around.” Brandi eyeballs the table and jabs it twice, testing whether the thing will even hold weight. Jill doesn’t blink: strip down. Brandi calls her out—“You turning around?” Jill fires back that it isn’t her first pair of tits, so Brandi huffs and kicks everything off, letting the clothes smack the floor. “Happy now?” she snaps. Jill tells her to climb on. Oil hits cold; Brandi snipes that you warm it first. Jill mumbles an apology, already knowing the test, but when her palms start working Brandi again says the pressure is garbage and maybe she picked it up in an alley. Jill breathes through her nose, keeps rubbing, and notes that happy clients don’t lie—new ones keep pouring in. Brandi grins mean. “Sure, fresh paint fools people for a while,” she drawls. Jill reaches the ass and gives it long, firm strokes; Brandi admits it feels pretty good and Jill asks if that’s the service she gives at her place. The slip freezes Brandi mid-exhale. Jill chuckles, says years ago she got a session at Brandi’s shop and it pushed her to open her own. Brandi’s face lights up—she remembers. Relief floods her voice as she beams, glad to see her after all.