When the cat's away....

Savannah’s palms glide higher up your thigh, thumbs pressing into the dense muscle just shy of where the towel begins. Rachel mirrors her on the other side, calm and deliberate, her fingers spreading heat in long strokes up and down the inside of your leg. The two of them flank you like conspirators, working in rhythm, their touches closing in on the spot you’re most **** to protect.

They may be kneading muscle, but their eyes never leave the thick ridge rising under the towel. Every stroke up your inner thighs is paired with a glance at your cock, their gazes dragging higher than their hands dare to go.

“Mercy, sugar,” Savannah drawls, curls slipping forward, “these thighs are twitchin’ like they’re beggin’ for somethin’.”

Rachel’s voice is lower, steadier. “Feel how he tightens just before the edge? That’s a tell.” Her thumbs press, then ease off, and you can’t help the little buck of your hips against the table.

And above you—Lana. She leans over your chest, palms circling your pecs with slow, confident strokes. She bends close enough that her lips graze your ear, her breath hot against your skin.

“It’s right there under the towel,” she whispers, low enough the others can just hear. “Straining. Throbbing. You want us to see it, don’t you?”

Your cock kicks hard under the thin linen, a sudden jerk you can’t control. The towel, already precarious, slides loose, rolling down the underside of your shaft and collecting around your balls, exposing you in the quiet rush of eucalyptus-scented air.

The room stills.

Savannah gasps, hand flying to her mouth but her eyes glued, wide and shining. “Oh… my stars.”

Rachel freezes mid-stroke, her steady hands faltering, eyes fixed. Her voice slips out louder than she means: “He’s… magnificent.”

Lana’s laugh is low and delighted, her grin wicked. “I knew it. I knew you were packing. Tell me, girls—have you ever seen better?”

Blood surges to your face. Your cock twitches, pointed up at an obtuse angle , every flex another reminder you’re bare under three women’s stares. You croak, ****:

“C–could one of you… replace the towel?”

Savannah shakes her head quickly, curls bouncing. “Coach said no touchin’ it, sugar.”

Rachel swallows, her voice still low but firm. “She’s right. We’re not allowed. You’ll have to cover yourself.”

Lana tilts her head, eyes sparkling. “Mmm. Rules are rules. But don’t rush, handsome. Let us enjoy the view.”

Their gazes pin you down harder than their hands ever could. Your cock twitches again, the towel still bunched uselessly at your side. Heat prickles your chest. Finally, trembling, you reach for it.

Your fingers graze your shaft by accident—too hot, too solid—and the women all inhale at once. You drag the fabric up, fumbling, trying to lay it across your stomach. To flatten it, you have to adjust yourself, pressing down until the length of you is stretched along your belly. The towel settles taut, every ridge of you outlined, nothing hidden.

Savannah’s voice is a reverent whisper. “Lawd have mercy.”

Rachel doesn’t even look away. “That’s… not really covering anything.”

Lana’s grin cuts sharp. “Oh, it’s covering just fine. Every inch, every vein. Best draping I’ve ever seen—ten out of ten.”

Your face burns. The towel feels thinner than paper. Your cock pulses visibly beneath it, the outline obscene in the dim light.

Savannah leans closer, voice thick. “Behave, sugar, or you’ll break the poor linen.”

Rachel murmurs, almost to herself, “He’s straining so hard, I can feel the heat from here.”

And Lana? She just hums, pleased as a cat with cream. “Don’t worry. Coach’ll see it soon enough. Can’t wait to hear what she thinks.”

Your pulse hammers. Their eyes are everywhere. The towel flattens and lifts with every breath, betraying you more with each rise of your chest.

Then—heels on the tile. Camille’s footsteps, unhurried, approaching down the hall.

In a blink the three scatter back into “professional” posture—working on you with neutral faces, hands suddenly textbook—Savannah fussing with your shoulder, Rachel pressing a bland pattern into your forearm, Lana tracing your collarbone with exaggerated professionalism—as if they hadn’t just been ogling your cock seconds ago

And you’re left alone on the table, cock outlined in aching detail under a towel that hides nothing, sweat cooling on your chest as the door handle turns.