Optional Module

The latch gives a soft click and Camille steps in. The room straightens around her like a body remembering its posture. Savannah and Rachel ease their hands to neutral, Lana schools her grin into something almost innocent. You lie there face-up, the towel drawn too taut across your stomach to be called modest, the outline of you rising with each breath.

Camille’s gaze sweeps once—shoulders, hands, landmarks—then dips, one measured beat, to the brazen ridge beneath the linen. A flicker of a smile tugs at her mouth before her face smooths into professional calm.

"We’ll call that a particularly robust example of what clients may present" Camille says, adding, “Step back a moment.”

They obey, retreating a half-pace from the table. Camille comes to your side, close enough for you to smell her perfume over the diffuser, warm and dark. Two knuckles press to your sternum—grounding, not exploratory. Her braid slides forward as she leans so only you can hear.

“You did well,” she says, voice low, almost fond. “You’ve passed, John. You've all passed”

Relief hits so hard your eyes sting. Then her breath warms your ear.

“I can end it here,” she goes on, the faintest smile in the words, “send you home—aching.” The word lingers. “Or… we can take advantage of a very teachable moment and educate these clearly willing women in endings that some clients request. It isn’t something our establishment promotes. But I have given them. Occasionally.” Another quick glance at the stubborn lift of the towel.

Your throat works. You don’t trust your voice, so you nod. Then you find it anyway.

“Please,” you whisper. “Teach them.”

“Good boy. Generous.” she says softly.

She straightens, the heat of her proximity lifting with her. When she turns to the class, she is Instructor again—silk over steel, eyes bright, utterly in command.

“Ladies,” she says, “we’re going to deviate from syllabus. Our clinic does not offer erotic services. However”—her gaze drops once, plainly, to the unmistakable shape beneath the towel, then returns to their faces—“as you can see, arousal happens. In my years, I have provided… happy endings. Rarely. Discreetly. Often for clients who were very cute and—” a glint, “—very hung.”

Savannah’s hands fly to her chest; her cheeks bloom. “Oh my.”

Rachel’s breath leaves her on a quiet, hungry sound she doesn’t quite swallow.

Lana’s grin is pure delight. “Coach,” she says, reverent and wicked at once.

“John has agreed to help us demonstrate,” Camille continues, and now the three pairs of eyes swing back to you with new intensity—curiosity in Savannah’s, gratitude and heat in Rachel’s, triumph in Lana’s.

“Hold still, handsome. I’m trying to memorize the outline.” Lana says, as your cock twitches from the attention

“Mercy me… the Lord does give generously.” Savvy adds.

“You’re generous, offering yourself like this.” Rachel says.

“Good.” Camille reaches to the cart, lifts a small bottle, and lets a thin ribbon of oil warm in her palm. No gloves, no barrier—just the glide and scent of something citrus-sweet joining the eucalyptus.

“Module one,” she says, moving to the head of the table, “towel technique.”