Spy Tugs
Spy Tugs Pic(s)
The afternoon light was fading, casting long shadows across the unfamiliar room as I settled onto the padded table. A faint scent of lavender and sandalwood hung in the air, promising a session of deep relaxation. The masseuse’s hands were initially confident, moving with a practiced rhythm that eased the tension from my shoulders. Soon, however, the pressure began to change, becoming less therapeutic and more exploratory in a way that felt distinctly unprofessional. A knot of apprehension tightened in my stomach as her touch strayed repeatedly from my aching muscles. I lay perfectly still, my face pressed into the headrest, hoping my rigid posture would signal my discomfort. The soft, ambient music that had once been soothing now felt like a soundtrack to my growing unease. Each passing minute stretched into an eternity, filled with the silent scream of my own hesitation. I finally gathered the resolve to mumble an excuse about a sudden headache, my voice barely a whisper. The session ended abruptly, leaving me with a profound sense of violation that no amount of scented oil could ever wash away.
Comments
Post a Comment