Some self love

“Module two,” Camille says, silk over steel. “John, begin. Go on. Show us how you touch yourself.”

Your hand hovers, then closes. Heat roars up your spine at the first stroke. The room seems to tilt—three women in leggings and tanks, eyes avid, Camille at your shoulder like a metronome you can’t disobey.

“Wait,” Lana purrs, palm lifted toward the cart. “Let him do it properly.”

Camille tilts her chin: permission without a word.

Lana snags the bottle from the warmer, shakes it once, then holds it above you. A ribbon of warm oil spills onto your shaft—no touch, just a glossy cascade that beads on the head before sliding down the thick vein. It’s obscene and perfect.

“Mmm. Now rub that all over, handsome,” she says, voice gone low. “Slow. I want to watch it shine.”

You obey. Your fist glides from base to crown and back again; the oil turns friction to glide, turns sensation to smoke and honey. The three of them drink you in.

“Good pace,” Camille murmurs at your temple.

Lana leans in, finally quiet for once, eyes dark and wide as she just watches—the purest, hungriest spectator. “God, it’s beautiful,” she whispers, almost devotional.

Savannah can’t keep still. “Lord have mercy… I swore I was a lady,” she says, hands pressing to her chest, then dropping uselessly to her thighs. “But you keep strokin’ like that and I’ll forget my own name.” Her accent wraps around you like heat.

“Wow,” Lana adds, eyes gleaming, “You’re putting on a show, handsome.”

Savannah breathes, “Don’t rush. Make it last for us, darlin’.”

Rachel, voice low, reverent: “I can see every heartbeat in it. It’s… beautiful.”

Camille’s tone stays clinical, hotter for it. “Some clients want direction,” she tells the class, eyes flicking to Rachel. “They want to be told how to move, when to breathe, when to stop.” Her gaze slides to Savannah. “Others want stimulation by sight. Visual input can be as potent as touch. A deliberate reveal—breasts, for example—can be used to modulate arousal without breaking hands-off.”

Savannah startles, then grins like she’s been given permission she didn’t know she craved. “Well, sugar,” she breathes, “I do aim to be helpful.”

She hooks her thumbs under her pink tank and—slow as summer—lifts. Soft breasts spill free, full and heavy, high and plush, the kind that overflow her hands when she cups them; dusky nipples pebble hard in the cool air. Even Lana breathes, “holy—” before she remembers to grin. She cradles them up, pinching lightly, eyes locked on yours. “Consider this a little Southern hospitality—two generous helpings, piping hot, just for you,” she teases, voice wrecked and sweet. “Mercy. Look at him jump.”

Your stroke falters; your hips tip; your cock surges in your slick fist so hard your breath stutters. Lana actually goes speechless, a hand at her throat, the other fisting in her own hem. Rachel inhales like she’s been slapped and steps in, voice low, decisive, a lifeline and a leash.

Lana flicks her gaze to Rachel, grinning. “You take lead, Rach—I want the front row.”

Rachel jumps on it, like a starving animal on a meal, “Gladly.”

Rachel’s voice is steady, but there’s gravel in it. “Angle your hand a quarter turn on the upstroke,” she says, eyes never leaving your cock. “Yes. Now pause at the crown. Catch your breath. Good.” Her pupils are blown. “Again. Slow. Base to head. Give me one beat where you hold and feel it swell against your palm.”

You do, and the room hears it—the helpless sound you make when you hit the top. Lana’s breath catches. Savannah’s lips part on a little prayer. Rachel swallows and keeps instructing like it’s the only thing keeping her hands to herself. “Now two shorter strokes. Hold at the base. Don’t rush.”

You glance over and catch Lana staring, one hand already slipped beneath her waistband; her fingers move lazily against herself as she meets your eyes and presses harder, shameless.

“Eyes on me,” Rachel orders. “Good. Now—firmer base, lighter tip. Twist on the up. Hold—hold—hold. Breathe.” Her hand doesn’t touch you; it hovers inches above your wrist, commanding without contact. “Two more. Then stop on my word.”

You climb, helpless, the heat cresting, Savannah’s breasts filling your vision, Lana’s awe pricking your skin, Rachel’s instructions threading straight to your spine.

Your whole body tightens. You’re right there—edges blurring, breath breaking—

“Stop,” Rachel says, voice gone hoarse.

You tear your hand away like you’ve been shocked. Your cock leaps, angry and aching, painting the air with nothing. Your hips buck instinctively, humping emptiness, the slick head searching for friction that isn’t there. A strangled sound claws out of your throat.

Savannah whimpers like she felt it in her own bones. “Oh, sugar…”

Lana’s eyes are huge, greedy. “He’s dying. Look at him try to fuck the air.”

Rachel’s chest rises fast; her fingers flex against nothing, then she circles the table, comes to your head, and sinks her fingers into your hair. She strokes slow, soothing, like you’re something precious barely holding together. Her eyes drink you in—your flushed face, your trembling chest, the twitching cock you’re forbidden to finish with. “Good,” she whispers, wrecked but proud. “Obedient. So good.”

Camille lets the silence throb a beat, then strokes two knuckles over your shoulder—grounding, praise. “Excellent control,” she says to the room, calm again. “We keep him lively, not finished.”

Her eyes drop to your slick, furious length; when she looks back up, they’re bright. “Module three next.”