The third attendant—the blond—moves to her head. Tilts it back slightly. Begins massaging her temples, her jaw, her throat. Long strokes down the column of her neck. His fingers trail over her collarbones, down between her breasts, connecting to where the dark-haired one is working her stomach.
These men are experts at what they do. The whole thing comes off as choreography. They probably prepare a dozen women a season this way, getting them trembling, and wet, and ready to be fucked.
But none of those women wrote the instruction manual.
Scarletta did. Every scene she's ever written is a blueprint of her psychology, a map of her nervous system, a detailed guide on how to unmake her.
And I've studied that guide for six months.
The dark-haired attendant's hands dip lower. Not between her legs—not yet—but to the crease where thigh meets torso. Pressing. Massaging. His thumbs so close to her pussy shehasto feel his body heat.
Her hips lift again. More obvious this time. Seeking contact he won't give.
I was wrong. They're not just fluffers.
They're talented sadists.
The one working her legs spreads them wider. Bends her knees. Plants her feet flat on the table with her thighs butterflied open.
Camera two shows me everything. Her pussy fully exposed. Glistening. Swollen. Pink and pretty and desperate for attention.
One of them pours more oil. It drips onto her inner thigh. Warm. Trickling downward toward?—
She gasps.
The attendant catches the oil with his palm before it reaches her pussy. Smooths it along her thigh instead. Slides both hands up and down her legs, getting closer with each pass but never arriving.
Scarletta's fingers grip the edges of the massage table. Her knuckles go white.
She wants them to touch her. Wants it badly enough that shame doesn't matter anymore, that the audience of threestrangers doesn't matter, that whatever dignity she arrived with has dissolved in jasmine-scented oil and mounting desperation.
The blond attendant moves to her breasts again. This time his palms slide directly over her nipples. Circling. Applying pressure. Not quite pinching but close enough to make her arch into his hands.
Her mouth falls open. No sound comes out but I can see her throat working, can see her trying not to moan.
The dark-haired one traces patterns on her stomach. Figure-eights. Spirals. Each one dipping lower until his fingertips brush the top of her mound.
Still not touching her clit. Still making her wait.
She's written this exact torture in nine different stories. The anticipation that's worse than the act. The build-up that makes eventual release feel like transcendence.
I unbuckle my belt. Unzip my slacks. My cock is hard enough to hurt, straining against my boxer briefs.
I don't want to jerk off. Not when I'm just a few hours away from having her myself. Not when I've waited six months for the real thing.
But I pull my cock out anyway.
Because watching her surrender is a major part of the game for me.
The attendant working her legs slides his hands up her inner thighs one more time. This time his thumbs bracket her pussy. Pressing into the soft flesh on either side. So close she has to feel his breath on her wet skin.
He holds that position. Just—holds it.
Scarletta's entire body goes tense. Waiting. Trembling.
Then he pulls away.
She makes a sound. Frustrated. Almost angry.
