Happy Ending?

"There's a very effective way to release this kind of tension," Suki murmurs, uncapping the bottle and pouring a generous ribbon of oil into her palm. "The recovery blend has all those circulation boosters in your system. Your body needs to process them. The fastest way to bring everything back to normal would be for you to... well." She meets your eyes, her own glittering with mischief and desire. "Release."

"Suki," you breathe, your heart hammering. "Valerie—she said—if you get caught—"

"I know," Suki says, and for a moment something genuine flickers beneath her bravado. "She'd probably fire me. This is wildly against policy. If anyone walked in right now, I'd be packing my locker before you finished buttoning your shirt."

"So why—"

"Because you need it," she interrupts, and her oiled hand hovers just above your straining cock. "[INsert line here]. And because..." She leans in, her lips brushing your ear, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I think you want me to."

The oil is warm when it hits your skin. Suki tips the bottle and lets it cascade directly onto your shaft, a slow, deliberate pour that glistens as it runs down your length. You gasp at the heat, at the slickness, at the sheer obscenity of watching her empty half the bottle over your aching cock.

"Let me take care of you," Suki breathes, setting the bottle aside and flexing her oiled fingers. "Let me be very, very unprofessional."

And then her hand wraps around you, and the world narrows to the heat of her palm and the slick glide of oil and the dark, hungry focus in her eyes.

----------------

The studio is dead silent for the first time all day.

On the massive screen, Suki's oiled fingers curl around John's rigid cock, and the entire audience seems to be holding its collective breath. A woman in the third row has both hands pressed flat over her mouth. Someone near the back is fanning herself with a program.

Chloe leans into her microphone, her voice dropped to a reverent hush. "Ladies. We all knew Suki was going to break eventually. But I don't think any of us expected her to break this beautifully."

On screen, Suki begins to stroke — slow, deliberate, exploratory — and the studio erupts.

"That's a full hand around it!" Chloe shouts over the screaming. "That is direct, skin-to-skin, fully lubricated contact! Someone check the waiver — did we agree to this? Oh, wait — yes, we did!"

"Poll time! Option one: Let Suki finish him off, right here on the table. Option two: Deny him again — send Valerie back in, make him walk to his next treatment still hard and dripping. Which kind of cruel are we feeling today, ladies?"

---------

Suki's stroke is nothing like the clinical, efficient touch you've been subjected to all day. This is unhurried. Exploratory. Almost reverent. Her oiled palm glides from base to tip in a slow, twisting motion, and she watches your face the entire time, cataloguing every flinch, every gasp, every helpless thrust of your hips.

"There you go," she murmurs, her thumb circling the sensitive crown. "Just let it happen. You've been fighting this all day, haven't you? Everyone looking at you. Everyone touching you. And you just had to stand there and take it."

She strokes faster, her grip tightening. The wet, slick sound of oiled flesh fills the room.

"But you don't have to fight anymore," Suki breathes, leaning over you. Her free hand comes up to trace along your jaw. "Right now, in this room, you don't have to be professional or polite or embarrassed. You can just feel."

Your hips buck into her grip. A strangled sound escapes your throat.

"That's it," Suki coos. "Let me hear you. I want to know exactly what feels good."

She works you with devastating skill — long, firm strokes interspersed with teasing, feather-light touches that make your whole body clench. She cups your balls with her free hand, rolling them gently, and you nearly arch off the table.

"You're so responsive," Suki marvels, her voice thick with lust. "I've never—I mean, I've thought about this, obviously, but the real thing is—"

She breaks off, biting her lip. Her hand doesn't stop moving.

"I want to taste you," she confesses, the words tumbling out like she can't hold them back anymore. "[Insert line here]"

She does. She looks at your cock, glistening and straining in her grip, and makes a small, desperate sound.

"Just a little," she whispers, more to herself than to you. "Just once. Then I'll stop. I'll be professional. I'll finish the massage like a good attendant. Just let me—"

She doesn't wait for permission. She bends at the waist, her dark hair spilling across your hip, and takes the head of your cock into her mouth.

The wet heat of her tongue is electric. You cry out, your hands flying to the edges of the table, gripping the linens like a lifeline. Suki moans around you, the vibration traveling straight up your spine, and her hand keeps stroking the base while her lips work the tip.

She's not neat about it. She's enthusiastic, messy, making small desperate sounds as she licks and sucks, like she's been starving for this. Her tongue traces the ridge of your head, dips into the slit, circles and flutters until your thighs are trembling and your breath is coming in ragged gasps.

"Oh god," you choke out. "Suki—I'm—you have to stop or I'm going to—"

She pulls off with a wet pop, but her hand keeps stroking, slower now, teasing.

"That's kind of the point," she murmurs, her lips brushing the tip. "I want to see you fiis. I want to watch your face when it happens. I want to feel you lose control."

Her tongue flicks out, tracing a vein along the underside of your shaft.

"I want to swallow every drop and then walk out of this room like nothing happened," she whispers. "Can I do that, John? Will you let me?"

You're past words. Past shame. Past everything but the slick, relentless slide of her hand and the wet heat of her mouth and the pressure building at the base of your spine.

"Please," you gasp. "Please, Suki, I need—"

"I know what you need, baby" she purrs, and takes you deep.

She works you with renewed focus now — not teasing, but purposeful, her hand and mouth moving in perfect coordination, her tongue pressing flat against your shaft as she bobs her head. She's making sounds, too — small, hungry moans that vibrate through your entire body. Her free hand cups your balls, squeezes gently, and that's it — you're on the edge, balanced on the knife-blade of release, every muscle locked tight—

The door opens.

Suki moves faster than you've ever seen a human move. One second her mouth is on you, the next she's standing beside the table, her hands positioned on your thighs like she's been massaging them all along. Her face is composed. Her breathing is steady. Only the faint smear of oil on her lower lip betrays anything.

Valerie stands in the doorway. Her eyes sweep the room — your oiled, throbbing, visibly desperate cock still pointing rigidly at the ceiling; Suki's serenely professional posture; the bottle of oil on the side table.

"I trust the treatment is going well," Valerie says, and there's the faintest edge of a smirk on her lips.

Suki nods smoothly, her thumbs pressing into your quadriceps with perfect, clinical precision. "Just finishing up the thigh work. He's been very responsive."

"I'm sure he has." Valerie's gaze drops to your erection — still glistening, still achingly hard, still visibly twitching with the rhythm of your frantic heartbeat — and her smirk deepens. "Unfortunately, it's time to wrap up. Your next experience is waiting, John. I'll give you a moment to... collect yourself and for Suki to finish up"

Suki lets out a long, shaky breath. Her professional mask crumbles, replaced by a look of pure, frustrated longing. She leans closer and whispers

"Saved by the door," she mutters, reaching for a clean towel. She drapes it over you — gently this time, with something almost tender in the gesture. "I'm sorry. God, I'm so sorry. That was—"

"Incredible," you manage, your voice wrecked. "You were incredible."

Suki stares at you for a moment. Then she laughs — a bright, disbelieving sound — and shakes her head.

"I'm definitely getting fired," she says. But she's smiling as she says it.

-----------------

The studio screen flashes with a massive, glaring graphic: **POLL RESULTS.**

A giant red bar for *DENIAL* rockets past the blue bar for *RELEASE*, locking in at a staggering 72%.

"You sick, twisted, beautiful women!" Chloe cackles, her voice echoing through the screaming arena as she points at the results. "Seventy-two percent of you looked at that poor, dripping, desperate accountant and said, *'Nope! Shut it down!'* Valerie's timing was entirely dictated by your votes!"

Chloe practically sprints down the stage steps, shoving her microphone into the face of a woman in the second row who is currently booing the results.

"Jessica from Austin! You voted blue! You wanted Suki to finish him off!"

"She earned it!" Jessica screams into the mic, gesturing wildly at the frozen frame of Suki's devastated face. "She put in the work! He was right there! You can't just leave a man loaded like a shotgun and send him back into the hallway!"

"Oh, but we can, Jessica! We absolutely can!" Chloe pivots, marching up the aisle to a woman in a sleek blazer who is clapping politely, a wicked grin on her face. "And you, Brenda! You voted for the interruption. Defend your cruelty!"

"Are you kidding me?" Brenda laughs, leaning into the microphone. "If she finishes him now, the game's over! He gets to take a nap! Look at him—he's covered in oil, he's shaking, and he's still rock hard. I want to see him try to walk to his next appointment trying to hide *that* under a fresh towel! Make him suffer!"

The crowd roars in agreement, stomping their feet.

"The tribe has spoken!" Chloe shouts, strutting back toward the stage. "He is oiled up, edged out of his mind, and heading straight back into the wild! And trust me, ladies... The Lotus has so much more in store for our favorite nudist. Keep those keypads handy!"