Nothing was intentionally sexual.
Everythingwas torture.
During the blindfold activity, they had me sit in a chair while they took turns touching me. I had to identify who was touching me and what emotion they were conveying.
Lex’s touch was always controlled, deliberate. Each placement of his hands was intentional. When he cupped my face, it was possessive. When he gripped my shoulder, it was grounding.
Majesty’s touch was warmer, more exploratory. His fingers would linger, tracing patterns. When he touched my arm, it was affectionate. When he rested his hand on my thigh, it was intimate.
By the time lunch break arrived, I was shaking. Not from fear. From need.
“Go eat,” Majesty said quietly as the students filed out. “Take a walk. Cool down.”
“I don’t think I can cool down.”
“Good.” Lex’s voice was dark with satisfaction. “That’s the point.”
I escaped to my room during the break, but it didn’t help. I lay on my bed, my body thrumming, and seriously considered breaking their rule about not touching myself.
But I didn’t. Because I wanted to be their good girl more than I wanted relief.
The afternoon session on layered touch was even worse. They had me lie on the mat while both of them touched me simultaneously. Majesty worked on my shoulders and arms while Lex focused on my legs and feet.
“Notice how she responds differently to each of us,” Lex told the students. “Her breathing changes. Her muscle tension shifts. These are the cues you need to learn to read.”
Their hands moved in coordinated patterns. When Majesty’s fingers traced my collarbone, Lex’s hands massaged my calves. When Lex’s touch moved to my thighs, Majesty’s hands worked my shoulders.
I was so aroused I could barely think. Every touch sent sparks through my nervous system. I could feel how wet I was, and I knew they could see how affected I was.
“You’re doing so well,” Majesty murmured, leaning close to my ear. “Taking everything we give you. Such a good girl for us.”
The praise made it worse. Made the ache unbearable. By the time the evening demonstration rolled around, I was barely holding it together. They were going to show how touch could soothe one partner while exciting another, and I already knew I was going to be the one getting excited.
They had me sit between them again, and Majesty started with slow, soothing strokes down my arms. His touch was gentle, calming, designed to relax.
But Lex’s touch was different. His hand slid up the inside of my calf, his fingers pressing into sensitive spots that made my breath hitch. While Majesty soothed, Lex aroused.
“See the difference?” Majesty asked the students. “Same person, two different types of touch, two different responses. Her upper body is relaxing while her lower body is tensing with arousal.”
I wanted to hate him for narrating my torture, but I couldn’t. Because he was right. And because part of me loved being the center of their attention like this. Lex’s hand moved higher, his fingers tracing the inside of my thigh, and I bit my lip to keep from moaning.
“Notice her tells,” Lex said calmly, like he wasn’t driving me insane. “The way she’s biting her lip. The quickening of her breath. The flush spreading across her chest. These are all signs of arousal.”
His fingers moved higher, so close to where I was desperate for contact, and then stopped.
“Control is everything,” he continued. “Both the control to stop before going too far, and the control to accept that stopping. Cami, color?”
“Green,” I gasped. “But barely.”
The students laughed, the tension breaking slightly.
“That’s honest,” Majesty said with a smile. “And honesty is crucial. She’s right on the edge, but she’s communicating clearly. That’s what we want to see.”
They demonstrated several more techniques, each one leaving me more desperate than the last. By the time they released the students to practice, I could barely stand.
“You need a break,” Majesty said, guiding me to the side of the room.
“I need to come,” I whispered, beyond caring who heard.
