Becky Tailor
The golden afternoon light bled through the bamboo blinds, casting long, warm stripes across the massage table where Becky Tailor now lay, her professional composure utterly dissolved. A soft, involuntary sigh escaped her lips as his knowing hands, which she had intended to soothe, began a slow, deliberate pilgrimage up the sensitive curve of her calf. Every nerve ending awoke, singing a silent, desperate song that trembled through her entire being, making her fingers clutch weakly at the linen sheets. His touch was not one of rushed demand, but of exquisite, patient discovery, as if he were reading a map written upon her very skin. She felt the solid warmth of his chest press against her back, a grounding weight that somehow made her feel both utterly secure and terrifyingly vulnerable. A flush of heat bloomed across her chest and traveled up her neck, a visible testament to the storm of feeling he was unraveling from within. The familiar scent of sandalwood oil now seemed intoxicating, mingling with the salt of the sea air that whispered through the open window. Each deliberate stroke of his palms seemed to pull a deeper, more resonant emotion from a place she had long forgotten, a quiet, internal ache blossoming into something profound. Her breath hitched, catching in her throat as a wave of pure, unadulterated feeling began to crest, washing away all thought and resistance. In this suspended moment, she was no longer the practitioner but the recipient of a devastatingly intimate gift, her carefully constructed walls crumbling under the gentle, relentless tide of sensation.
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