The girls get massaged

Camille’s smile has that soft steel in it again as she gathers you around the tables.

“Today,” she says, braid brushing her shoulder as her eyes sweep over each of you, “is the final practicum. We’ll rotate, everyone receiving a full-body sequence. Real skin, real muscle, real touch. You’ll go last, John. For now, you’ll be practicing on them.”

Lana grins like she’s already won something. Savannah bites her lip around a smile. Rachel just folds her arms, but her eyes flick once down your chest like she’s imagining it already.

You swallow, pulse thudding, as Camille gestures toward Rachel.

Rachel lies on her stomach, her clothes traded for a towel draped across her hips, hiding the lush curve there—the kind of soft fullness that makes your palms itch to sink in.

Savannah stood over Rachel’s shoulders, curls spilling forward as she leans close. Her hands glide slow down Rachel’s spine, thumbs pressing in rhythm. Rachel hums low in her throat, not loud, but enough to make your body tighten. Savannah’s southern drawl sneaks out as she murmurs, “There we go, honey, just breathe right through it,” and it sounds indecent even though every word is clinical.

When Lana takes over, she oils her palms and works up Rachel’s calves with long, greedy strokes. She leans in so close her hair brushes Rachel’s skin. Rachel lets out a sharper sigh when Lana’s thumbs press into the arch of her foot. Lana smirks over her shoulder at you before saying, “So tight down here—think I can loosen her up?” Her tone makes you nearly ****.

Camille clears her throat, and all of you dutifully turn aside as Rachel carefully rolls under Lana’s guidance. You hear the rustle of towels, Rachel’s soft exhale, and when you look back, she’s on her back now, modestly covered by two towels, her cheeks faintly flushed. Camille’s eyes catch yours. “John, prepare your stance. You’ll start at the calves.”

Now it’s your turn.

You oil your hands, warm them together, and begin on her calves, slow and careful. She sighs deeply—not a put-on sound, not a tease, but the kind of sound a woman makes after years of carrying weight in silence. It makes your chest ache.

When you slide higher, she clears her throat softly.

“Could you… work the upper thigh too? Right near the hip flexors.”

Camille nods once. “You may work proximal to the hip flexor. Keep one hand guarding the towel edge. Ask for feedback on pressure.” Her tone is classroom-clean, but her smile when you swallow is not.

The second your palms press into that softer flesh just below the towel, Rachel bites her lip hard. Her breath catches. She doesn’t moan—no—but she exhales in a low, quavering voice:

“Yes… that’s the spot. Don’t stop.”

The room stills. Savannah’s eyes go wide. Lana lets out a low laugh and mutters, “Damn.”

You keep going, heart hammering, Rachel biting her lip like it’s the only thing keeping her together. When you finally ease your hands back down her legs, she exhales like she’s been holding herself on the edge of something dangerous.

She thanks you quietly, cheeks faintly pink. You can’t look her in the eye.

Next up is Savannah. You all turn as she undresses, slips under the towel, and arranges herself on her stomach.

She giggles as you step to her side, wriggling into place like a cat finding its sunbeam. “Mmm, I was hopin’ I’d get you first, sugar. Been dreamin’ about them big hands on me all week.”

You hover, suddenly all thumbs; Camille drizzles a ribbon of oil into your palm, guiding your fingers closed over it. “No rush. Melt her first,” she whispers, the words warm enough to burn.

You start at her shoulders, kneading in circles. She makes a little humming sound—almost purring.

“Mmm. Lawd, you’ve got strong hands. You could knead the sin right outta me.”

The others snicker, but Savannah just lets out a sweet moan as you move lower.

“Keep your thumbs softer at the mid-back,” Camille says, adjusting your wrist with a cool, firm touch. Then, lower, only for you: “She purrs when you get it right.”

Savannah purrs on cue. “Mercy me, if you keep pressin’ like that, I’ll have to take you over my knee and spank you for bein’ so wicked.”

Your ears burn. Every word sounds polite, genteel—except dripping with innuendo so thick it nearly drowns you. When you slide your palms down to her lower back, her hips give a tiny roll, the towel pulling just a fraction tighter across her chest.

“You keep that up, I might just start confessin’ things I ain’t told a soul.”

Heat crawls through you, pressing insistently against your scrubs, and Lana makes a little “tsk” behind you like she knows exactly what’s happening.

Rachel takes over with calm precision, kneading Savannah’s calves. But her voice is low, almost throaty: “So much tension here… no wonder you’re sighing like that.” The way Savannah arches under Rachel’s hands makes your mouth go dry.

“Nice hand placement, Rachel,” Camille praises. “Glide through the gastroc head—yes, like that.” Her glance slices back to you. “Watch and steal.”

Lana, of course, ruins any sense of restraint. She slides her oiled palms down Savannah’s thighs with a showy little flourish, whispering, “Bet he’s jealous as hell right now.” Savannah laughs and moans at the same time, tilting her head just enough to give you a sly look. It’s impossible not to stare.

Finally, it’s Lana’s turn.

Rachel works Lana’s shoulders with slow, deliberate pressure, but Lana exaggerates every sigh, rolling her head side to side like a starlet in a movie. She cracks one eye open at you and smirks mid-sigh.

“Save the theatrics for later, Miss Cruz,” Camille says mildly. “I’ll let you audition when it’s your turn to receive corrections.”

When it shifts to you, she’s still on her stomach; you take her feet in your hands and begin to knead. She moans—long and shameless, like you’d found the perfect rhythm between her thighs. “God, yes,” she sighs, letting it echo.

By the time you work up her calves, her foot keeps twitching, brushing your thigh, then higher—her toes find the thick line straining your scrubs and pinch, slow and curious, rolling lazily as the ball of her foot strokes up, down, up—like she’s taking your pulse there. Your knee jerks; she laughs under her breath—

“Miss Cruz. Feet on the table.” Camille’s voice cuts through, smooth but firm.

“Caught,” Lana sing-songs, sliding her foot back. “I’ll behave. For now.” Her smile turns razor-sweet. “Don’t worry, John. I remember where it was.”

Camille’s smile never budges. “Thank you. Continue, John. Pretend her distractions aren’t working.” Then, softer, angled to your ear: “I enjoy your focus when you’re being tested.”

Then comes the turn. You steady the towel and turn around, hear her shifting underneath, then her voice singsong and wicked: “Okay boy and girls—showtime.”

When you turn, she’s sprawled like she owns the table, towel loose, hips tilted just enough to make your throat go dry. The linen rides low on her pelvis, slung there like an invitation, daring your gaze to misbehave.

Your hands sweep along her collarbones and—like a magician’s trick—the towel slips. Her chest bares in a rush, full and high, the cool air pebbling her as the linen puddles uselessly at her sides. Heat punches your gut; your mouth goes dry; your hands forget what they’re supposed to be doing.

“Mm, glad you approve,” Lana purrs, watching you gape. “But don’t you think it’s a bit naughty, therapist? Better cover me up before you get in trouble.”

You fumble with the towel, leaning close. Her lips barely move: “You’re loving this, aren’t you? Bet you’re rock hard under those scrubs. God, I want to see it.”

She lets you finish the rest with satisfied sighs, stretching under your hands, her grin saying she knows exactly how ruined you are now.

By the time you’re done, you’re sweating, your body aching, your face flaming red.

Savannah slides in for her turn at Lana’s legs, still smiling sweet as sugar while Lana lounges like a queen.

At last Camille straightens.

“Alright. That’s enough for now.” Her eyes find you, steady, unreadable. “John, your turn. On your stomach first.”

Lana winks at you. Savannah hides a smile behind her curls. Rachel just bites her lip again, gaze heavy.

They all turn away, handing you a towel.

Your hands shake as you strip, your arousal stiff against your thigh. There’s no hiding it.

Camille turns away with the others—pointedly, generously—but her voice finds you anyway, soft as velvet. “Drape, breathe, settle. We’ll see you when you’re ready.”

You thank every saint you’re starting face-down, the table swallowing the traitorous ache pressing into it.

You slide under the towel, belly down, praying the heat in your belly cools before the turn comes.

“Alright,” you croak, voice dry, “you can turn back now.”

The three women shift closer, oiling their hands, their laughter soft and conspiratorial.