Fix My Tub

The Nuru massage bathtub craps out right at closing time, leaving Jackie twiddling her thumbs for the repair guy. Finally, he shows up—Eric, solid and sweaty from the day—and she leads him straight to the bathroom, pointing out the busted tub with a frustrated huff. As Eric crouches down, rattling off numbers and estimating a $300 fix, Jackie's eyes snag on that teasing peek of his butt crack peeking out from his low-slung jeans. She bites her lip, heat building fast, and slides a hand down her shorts, fingers dipping into her slick folds, teasing her clit with slow circles while he yaps on about parts. But Jackie's wallet's bone-dry—no extra cash for his fee. So she flashes a sly grin, straightens up, and purrs, 'How about I pay you in full-service Nuru instead? Slippery, hands-on heaven—my treat.'