They're fluffers. That's the industry term. Getting her aroused, primed, ready for whoever wins her.
Except there's no "whoever." There's only me.
I've already won. She just doesn't know it yet.
The hands move lower. Over her ribs. Her stomach. The soft flesh she hides under oversized hoodies. One attendant works her arms, pulling each one overhead, stretching her out. Another focuses on her legs, starting at her ankles and moving up her calves.
The third one—the quiet one with dark hair—pours more oil directly onto her chest.
It pools between her breasts. He smooths it outward with both palms. Covering her completely. His hands shape themselves to her curves, professional but thorough. Cupping the weight of each breast, thumbs circling but not quite touching her nipples.
Scarletta's breathing changes. Faster. Shallower.
She keeps her eyes closed. Probably telling herself this is just a massage. Just preparation. Nothing sexual about oil-slicked hands on her naked tits.
Liar.
Her nipples are hard. I can see them clearly on camera two. Flushed dark pink, peaked, begging for attention those hands won't give.
Not their job. Their job is to make her desperate for it.
The attendant working her legs has reached her inner thighs. His hands slide higher with each stroke. Oil makes his palms glide smoothly over her skin. He pushes her legs wider apart—just slightly, just enough—and his thumbs press into the crease where thigh meets hip.
So close to her pussy but not touching.
She shifts on the table. Small movement. Unconscious. Her hips tilt upward maybe an inch.
Seeking.
Camera four gives me the perfect angle. I can see between her legs. Can see she's wet. Not from the bath. From this. From the hands of strangers all over her body, positioning her, spreading her, taking away her choices.
Just like she's written it.
In "Captive," the protagonist Elena is prepared for her first night with her kidnapper. Three servants bathe and oil her. Scarletta spent four thousand words on that scene. Describingevery touch, every moment of mounting arousal, the shame of being turned on by violation.
I shouldn't be wet. I shouldn't want this. But their hands know exactly where to touch, where to avoid, how to make my body betray me. One of them works his fingers closer to where I'm aching and I hate myself for hoping he'll slip, hoping he'll give me what I need, hoping?—
God, what's wrong with me?
On screen, Scarletta bites her lip.
The dark-haired attendant has moved from her breasts to her stomach. Long strokes down her centerline. Each one ending just above her blonde mound. His fingers splay wide, covering her from hip to hip, pressing in as he draws his hands downward.
Again.
Again.
Never quite touching her pussy but promising he might.
Her thighs fall open wider.
She's stopped pretending this is just a massage.
The attendant working her legs slides both hands up the inside of her thighs simultaneously. Firm pressure. Spreading her further. His thumbs meet at her apex—so close I can see her pussy clench in anticipation—and then trace outward along her hip bones.
Scarletta whimpers.
An actual whimper. Needy and desperate and so fucking beautiful I have to adjust my cock through my slacks.
