Your front is up next

“Eyes forward,” Camille says, braid brushing over her shoulder as she pivots back toward you. She doesn’t have to raise her voice. They all obey.

And suddenly you’re exposed—not naked, not even immodest—but lying flat on your back with nothing between your cock and their stares but a towel. You can’t see whether the ridge along your stomach is obvious, but you feel it. Every breath drags the fabric higher against you.

They notice. Oh, they notice.

Lana’s grin spreads like a cat with cream, her gaze darting down and back up as if she’s memorizing every outline.

Savannah’s cheeks go pink, curls falling forward to try to hide her expression, but she still whispers under her breath, syrup-thick: “Lawd have mercy.”

Rachel’s eyes hold steady, calm, clinical—until they flick once down your body and linger for a beat too long.

“Alright,” Camille says smoothly. “Sequence continues. Chest and arms first.”

Savannah takes your right shoulder. Her palms are soft, patient, circling your pec like she’s warming butter. She bends close enough that her hair brushes your cheek. “Mm, you’re tight here, sugar. Breathe for me.” She kneads once, twice, then lets her thumb stray higher, brushing just under your collarbone. “Good boy,” she murmurs—so quiet Camille can’t possibly hear, but Lana and Rachel do, and you burn. And just as she presses a little deeper, your cock stirs against the towel, twitching up like it’s begging to be seen. Savvy’s eyes dart down and widen; her lips part. Then she leans in, her voice sugar-sweet, meant only for you: "Mmm, I felt that, sugar."

Rachel claims your left arm, her hands firmer, cleaner. She stretches it out, works each muscle with steady precision. She doesn’t say a word, but her thumbs linger in the hollow of your palm longer than they should. By the time Rachel finishes your wrist and lets your arm fall heavy against the table, your cock is even harder—prominent now, a ridge pushing plain against the towel. Her eyes flick down before she can stop them. Her voice is low but carries: ‘Well… that’s impressive.’ A silence follows, broken only by Lana’s quiet laugh

Camille sets her pen down and steps forward. The room falls quiet.

“This,” she says, voice calm, even gentle, “is a perfectly normal physiologic response from male clients.” Her eyes drop once, deliberately, to the towel, only to elicit a twitch —your cock flexing helplessly against the ridge it’s made. She lets the silence hang, makes sure every woman sees it too. Then back up. Her pause is long enough for every woman in the room to follow her gaze.

“Nothing to be ashamed of,”

Another pause. Her lips curl, faintly. “…Some men would be grateful to measure up half as well”

When Lana takes her turn at your chest, she leans forward far more than necessary, her tank top gaping until the soft weight of her breasts is practically in your face. Her hands knead your pecs, but the brush of her nipples through fabric is all you can focus on. Your cock kicks under the towel. ‘Miss Cruz,’ Camille says, voice velvet over steel, ‘keep your chest over your hands, not over the client.’ Lana snickers, but doesn’t move far enough to help. You burn, your hips twitching against the towel like you’re begging

Your face flames. The towel feels like the thinnest barrier in the world.

Then Camille’s phone buzzes against the counter. A bright chime, jarring in the hush. She glances at the screen, sighs, and tucks it against her ear.

“Class,” she says, already turning toward the door. “I need two minutes. Continue your sequence, but remember: professional observation only. Hands on landmarks. No inappropriate contact. And absolutely no interference with draping.”

She scans them each in turn, her gaze firm, commanding. Then she pins Lana.

“Miss Cruz,” Camille says, voice velvet but edged with iron. “Especially you. I'm serious - no inappropriate touching, and don't you dare touch the towel - I will fail you. Do you understand?”

Lana spreads her hands in mock innocence. “Scout’s honor, coach.” Her grin makes a liar out of her.

Camille lingers, eyes on you for half a heartbeat, then on them. “I trust you,” she says softly. “Don’t make me regret it.”

The door clicks shut.

The room stills. The air thickens. You hear Savannah’s little laugh catch in her throat, Rachel’s steady inhale, Lana’s low hum of amusement.

And all you can think about is the way that towel clings to you—thin, obvious, one heartbeat away from disaster.