They get to work on your back

“Since you’re our only man,” Camille says, braid sliding against her shoulder, “we’ll do this differently. All three of you will practice every segment on John’s back—top to bottom. Observation, correction, repeat. We’ll save the front for next.”

Her eyes find you for half a heartbeat—warm, steady—then she gestures to the table.

You lower yourself face-down. The sheet is cool; the head cradle smells faintly of eucalyptus. Your breath fogs the little oval of space beneath you. You feel huge on the table at first, tense and too aware of your body—then Camille’s palm ghosts between your shoulder blades, just a resting weight, and something in you settles.

“Savannah. Upper back.”

Savvy steps in at your left shoulder. You hear the soft chime of oil in her palms, then her hands land: warm, slow, careful. She melts outward from your spine in long glides, circling back with a little more intention each pass. The first real pressure—her thumbs drawing lazy figure-eights beneath your shoulder blades—makes you exhale through your mouth.

“That’s it, sugar,” she murmurs, the drawl turning the room to warm syrup. “Deep breath in… and let it all go.”

You do. The table seems to catch more of your weight with each pass. Her touch is textbook, but the way she narrates—soft, coaxing, patient—has your ribcage following her rhythm before you even notice.

“Angle a hair more,” Camille says, and you feel her fingertips land on Savvy’s knuckles, guiding them half an inch. “Good. See how he softens?”

You do soften. Your shoulders loosen like a knot slipping in water. Heat leaves you by degrees, each exhale shaving a little tension off your bones.

“Rachel. Mid-back.”

Rachel trades places with Savannah without a word. Oil; the feathered promise of her hands before they commit. Then she sinks, slow, into the long bands of muscle along your spine, holds there, waits—doesn’t hurry your body into anything it isn’t giving. When you sigh, she follows the opening, deeper but never sharp, just the right kind of insistence.

“You’ve been carrying,” she says, almost to herself, voice low and even. “Right here.”

It isn’t sex. It isn’t teasing. It’s worse. It’s intimate. You feel seen in a way that empties your lungs and leaves you with the raw, embarrassing urge to thank her. Camille hovers near your right elbow, watching, saying nothing—until Rachel pauses to oil again.

“Good pace,” Camille says quietly.

Your breath syncs with Rachel’s in a way that makes you aware of her body by proximity—the steady rise and fall, the quiet control. When she leaves, the absence is a little shocking.

“Lana. Lower back and hips.”

You brace for mischief. You get it—contained, maddening. Lana’s hands arrive with a flourish you feel rather than see, wide and confident, spreading warmth across the broad plane above your waistband. She works slow strokes across the spot that always tightens when you stand at a bar for hours, then leans in with the soft heels of her palms to chase tension where your back feeds into your hips. No technical, no clinical—just a steady, greedy-feeling pressure that makes your toes press against the cradle’s edge.

“Lot of heat here,” Lana hums, pleased. “He’s melting for me, coach.”

“Mind your landmarks, Miss Cruz,” Camille replies, silk over steel. “Keep the sheet exactly where it is.”

You hear Lana’s little smile in her breath. The sheet stays; her hands behave. Somehow that makes it worse. Every time she finds a stubborn spot, she lingers just long enough to draw out a sound you try to swallow and fail.

“Posterior legs,” Camille says. “All of you—top to bottom. Savannah first.”

Savvy covers your calf with both hands, gliding from ankle to the back of your knee, then up the meat of your thigh in a long, slow pass that ends just shy of where the towel guards you. The back of your leg wakes up in a golden ache.

“Mercy,” she whispers, pleased. “That lets go nice, doesn’t it?”

You make a sound. It might be a yes.

Rachel switches in at your other leg. Her style is different—clean, exact, the smallest adjustments landing like she knows your body better than you do: a soft twist of skin here, a firmer slide there, reassuring your breath as she goes. “More or less?” she asks once, a quiet checkpoint you answer without words.

Then Lana. She coats her hands shamelessly in oil and takes a long pass up the back of both legs at once, wide forearms skimming your hamstrings, then repeats, slower, smooth as a tide. You feel yourself lengthen under her, as if the table itself is pulling you flat.

Camille circles as they trade places, making micro-corrections with a whisper of touch on wrists, elbows, knuckles. “Yes. Like that. Don’t change the pace when he sighs—let him fall through it.” And to you, low enough that you almost doubt you heard it: “Good breathing, John. Keep it.”

They finish your legs. You feel loose and heavy. The sharp ache in your groin that had pinned you to the table at the start has cooled, bled outward, folded into the general hum that makes you feel like warm clay.

“Feet,” Camille says.

Savannah lifts your right foot with gentle hands, cradling heel, thumb smoothing the arch in slow, hypnotic passes. Rachel takes your left—more structure, less lullaby, but just as careful—press and hold, release, press and hold. You try not to make any sound when Savvy drags from the ball of your foot up toward your heel with a pressure that makes your throat close. Lana watches, for once, quiet, eyes full of the kind of attention that makes you very aware of your own ankle.

“Finish quiet,” Camille murmurs. “Soften him down before the turn.”

By the time their hands leave your feet, you feel boneless. Your pulse is steady. The needy throb between your legs has slipped down a notch or two. Not gone—just quieter.

“Face up,” Camille says, the room’s temperature seeming to notice. “Class—eyes on the wall.”

Chairs scrape; three women pivot obediently to stare at the blank paint. You sit up on the table, the sheet slipping to your waist, the cooler air kissing skin that feels newly borrowed.

You take your time.

You fold the top edge of the main sheet up over your chest, make sure the towel is set. Your semi has calmed to a heavy weight—still there, still obvious—but you angle it up and lay it flat along your stomach beneath the towel, coaxing the fabric to lie smooth so there’s no rude tenting, just a subtle ridge that feels unreasonably loud to you but you hope it looks like nothing at all to anyone else.

Camille hasn’t turned, but you feel her attention like a hand. “Comfortable?” she asks, soft, not a test.

You nod. The braid brushes her shoulder when she inclines her head; you can hear the smile in the hush between words.

You settle deeper into the table, palms damp, breathing slow. The diffuser hums. Somewhere behind you, Lana’s laugh gets swallowed into her fist. Savannah’s curls make a faint rustle against her tank as she fidgets. Rachel does nothing at all, which somehow says the most.

You wet your lips. Your voice comes out steady enough.

“Alright,” you say, eyes on the ceiling, “you can turn around now.”