Towel Work

Camille moves to the head of the table and smooths the towel with two careful passes, palm firm, the other hand anchoring at your hip. Her voice is low, precise.

“Keep the towel taut so the friction translates without direct contact. You’re creating a sheath out of cloth—pressure from the heel of the hand, the fingers cupped to trap him, full-length strokes from base to belly. Match his breath, not his twitch. In on the rise… out on the fall.”

She drags the linen once, slow; again, identical. You jolt despite yourself. She lifts her hand like a conductor’s halt.

“We are not taking him to the edge yet,” she says, eyes flicking to the three. “You have several demonstrations left. Keep him lively, not finished. Memorize his breath.”

She steps back. “Miss Cruz.”

Lana slides in, smug and shining. She plants her left hand just above your pubic bone, pinning the towel down to make it smooth and tight, then cups her right hand over your length through the cloth—fingers curved, heel of palm set. She starts a velvet-slow stroke, dragging the towel up in a single unbroken glide until the head presses the fabric flat against your belly, then rides it back down, squeezing slightly on the return.

“Look at it jump under the linen,” she purrs, eyes on your face. “Good boy. Don’t run from it. Ride it.” Her breath tickles your cheek. “I can feel the heat through the cloth. You'll keep me warm through the winter, won't you, handsome?”

Your thighs tense; the towel lifts and falls with each breath, your cock kicking helplessly under her tempo.

“Normally,” Camille says, mild as tea, “the chatter would be unprofessional.” A beat, then a glint. “In this module, it’s an A+. Right, John?”

You can’t make a sound. Lana smiles like she’s been knighted and gives you three identical passes that scrape your sanity thin, then peels away with a satisfied hum.

“Savannah.”

Savvy drifts in on kitten-soft feet. She takes a breath with you, then tucks the towel even tighter—one hand spreading the fabric along your shaft to make it glass-smooth, the other cupping over you like she’s cradling a secret. She draws the cloth down and up in long, molten pulls, timing the drag to your exhale and easing off a heartbeat early so you never quite spill.

“Easy now, sugar,” she whispers, syrup-thick. “Stay with me. In… and out.” On each “in,” her palm presses, on each “out,” she glides—never jerky, never rushed—just a steady, heavenly squeeze through the linen that makes your eyes clamp shut. On the fourth pass she adds her second hand, building a two-handed “sleeve”: the lower hand feeds you up as the upper hand gathers you in, then they switch, wrists brushing, a continuous cloth-sheathed stroke that has your hips creeping helplessly toward her rhythm.

“Mmm. So obedient,” she murmurs when you **** on a breath and **** yourself to stay still for her.

“Rachel.”

Rachel takes position like a professional at a piano—centered, intent. She plants her left hand flat above your base to keep the towel ironed tight; her right hand forms a perfect cup over your length, heel set, fingers firm. She starts exactly at the root, slides all the way to the crown in a measured count of four, compresses—lightly—over the head through the cloth, then returns in four. She repeats, calibrating pressure to your breath cycle, never letting it stutter.

Her off hand can’t help itself—it roams. It maps the ridge of your abs, the line of your ribs, the shallow cup beneath your collarbone. Worship, not work. The cupped hand keeps stroking with the towel, faster by millimeters, while the roaming hand skates lower and spreads flat on your lower belly, feeling you throb and jump beneath the taut linen. On her next upstroke, she adds the littlest twist through fabric, and your vision whites out.

Her breath goes ragged to match yours. “Yes…” she whispers, barely audible, and the cloth-sleeved stroke tightens—up, down, up, down—meter-perfect, terrifying.

Your hips buck—once, hard. You’re there, falling—

“Enough.” Camille’s fingers still the towel with two decisive taps. Rachel’s hand freezes flat on your stomach; the cupping hand opens and lifts. Silence pours in.

Rachel swallows, color high in her cheeks. “Sorry,” she manages, not moving her palm. “I—”

“It's okay. When doing the this, the client usually wants a finish,” Camille says, calm as a metronome. “but here we're not done with that cock.”

Rachel’s hand leaves your skin like it’s glued. You’re shaking. The towel is a tight, traitorous tent; you can feel your pulse through it.

Camille lets the quiet burn for a count, then: “Module two. Client self-contact. We observe and coach breath. We do not touch.”

She looks down at you, her voice going velvet again. “John, are you willing to remove the towel and proceed?”

You nod because your mouth won’t work. Her eyes warm.

“When you’re ready.”

You hook two fingers under the top edge. The room holds its breath with you. Linen whispers against skin as you peel it back—slow, careful—until there’s no cover left at all. Your cock springs free, flushed and heavy, bobbing once before standing proud against your belly. The air feels cold; their stares feel hot.

No one speaks for a heartbeat. Then the chorus comes, shameless and hungry:

Lana’s grin goes feral. “Christ, look at that cock. It's porn-star perfect - I could write a love letter on that vein.”

Savannah’s hand flies to her chest like prayer. “Mmm… I thought I was a lady, but one more twitch like that and I’ll forget my manners.” Her voice drops, wrecked. “I could just—stare.”

Rachel doesn’t blink. Her mouth parts. “Magnificent,” she breathes, and then, lower, truer: “I want it in my hand so bad my palm aches.”