Date: Wed, 9 Apr 2025 20:31:08 -0400 From: Nathaniel St. Cyr Subject: Meridians Spa - Chapter 3 Meridians Spa - Chapter 3 Encounters Sci-fi/Fantasy Nifty needs your donations to provide these wonderful stories (using link https://donate.nifty.org/). Chapter 1: The Return to Meridian You don't hesitate this time. The moment you step through the doors of Meridian, the weight of the last few weeks starts to loosen from your shoulders, like tension recognizing it no longer has a place here. The lobby is exactly as you remember--dimly lit, hushed, the air carrying that signature blend of pine, jasmine, and something deeper, richer. The music is low, masculine--a slow, rhythmic pulse that feels more like a presence than a sound, settling into the bones of the space. The man at the front desk greets you with a warm, professional smile. He's perfect. Everything here is. "Welcome back to Meridian," he says, voice smooth, controlled. "It's good to see you again." You murmur your thanks, stepping up to the counter. Even this--the simple act of checking in--feels elevated. The paper beneath your fingertips is thick, weighty, the kind that holds ink like a promise. As you sign, you glance up. "Who's my therapist today?" The man behind the desk smiles, setting your completed form aside with practiced ease. "Jonas and Tucker aren't available," he says, and for a brief moment, you feel something like disappointment curl low in your stomach. But then--his smile lingers, just a little. "But you'll be in good hands." The words settle over you, quiet and assured. And then--he gestures, stepping out from behind the desk, leading you deeper into the sanctuary of Meridian. The hallway is dim, warm. The hush of the spa folds around you, muffling the outside world, pulling you deeper into this one. He stops in front of a door, presses a hand to it lightly. "You know the routine." You nod. The changing room is exactly what you need. Quiet. Private. A space to breathe. You step inside, exhale. The air is warm, subtly scented. The bench is smooth beneath your fingertips, the lighting low enough to be forgiving, to let you unwind without feeling watched. You reach for the robe--except-- There isn't one. Instead-- A jockstrap. That's interesting. You pause, rolling the thick fabric between your fingers. Different. But before you can think too much about it-- A knock at the door. Soft. Patient. Waiting. Chapter 2: A New Introduction The door opens smoothly, and the man who steps inside is-- Striking. Tall, refined--urbane in a way that suggests both elegance and masculinity. His features are sharp but softened by something intentional--well-groomed stubble, a slight tousle to his dark hair, the easy confidence in his posture. The way he looks at you isn't assessing, isn't clinical--he notices you, takes you in with an awareness that's subtle but absolute. He smiles, small but warm, closing the door behind him with a gentle click. "Good evening," he says, voice low, rich with something polished. British, maybe. Or something close. "I'm Oliver. I'll be taking care of you tonight." The way he says it--taking care of you--settles into your skin like a slow bloom of warmth. Oliver's eyes flick briefly down to you, noting the shirt still tucked in, the belt still fastened. His smile lingers at the edges. "You're not quite ready," he observes, tilting his head slightly. He meets your gaze again, unreadable but assured. "Would you like some help?" You swallow. Pause. His voice carries no expectation, no command--just the soft certainty of someone who knows how to lead. You nod. Oliver steps forward, slow and deliberate, his presence closer now, his scent--something warm, woodsy--curling at the edges of your breath. He lifts a hand--not rushed, not impatient--fingers brushing at the knot of your tie. His movements are precise, the silk slipping loose beneath his touch. "You dress well," he comments absently, letting the tie slide from your collar before folding it neatly. Then--the buttons. He starts at your throat, fingers deft but unhurried, each flick of fabric part of something deliberate. As he undoes each one, his fingertips graze just slightly over your skin, tracing warmth down your sternum. His knuckles skim your ribs as he pushes the shirt from your shoulders, letting the fabric pool against his forearms before he folds it, setting it atop the tie. Then--lower. Oliver kneels smoothly, his movements practiced, refined. You feel the shift in height--the quiet power in him even here, kneeling before you, composed and focused. He reaches for your shoes, his hands skimming along your ankles as he undoes them. You lift each foot, his grip steady, warm, as he slides your socks away, setting everything aside with meticulous care. Then--your belt. There's no hesitation as he releases the clasp, pulling it free in one smooth motion before sliding your slacks down in a slow, precise sweep. The air cools against your skin, and Oliver's touch remains impersonal, but felt. He slides your underwear away just as easily, lifting it from you with the same care as every other piece. Then, finally, he holds out the jockstrap. You step forward, lifting a foot to slide in, and your first point of contact-- Your hand on his shoulder. Solid. Steady. Grounding. Oliver doesn't react--doesn't startle, doesn't flinch. He just waits, patient, holding the fabric open for you, his breath calm, his presence unwavering. And when you meet his eyes again-- There's something knowing in them. Something assured. Something that tells you-- You're in very, very good hands. Chapter 3: The Lavender and the Ice Oliver leads you down the corridor, his steps unhurried, his presence a steady, unwavering force beside you. You feel exposed in the jockstrap, the air cool against your skin where fabric should be. But--oddly--you don't feel vulnerable. Because this is Meridian. Because this is Oliver. Because no matter what happens next, you already know it will feel good. When he opens the door, you step forward--and into another world. A lavender field in high summer. The air is thick with warmth, golden light pouring from the late afternoon sky, pooling over rows of deep purple blooms. The scent of lavender drifts on the breeze, heady and full, surrounding you in something that feels endless. The cabana--if it can even be called that--is little more than a trellis for grapes, their vines curling thick and heavy overhead, casting dappled shadows onto the polished wood beneath your feet. Oliver gestures toward a reclined wicker chair, its cushions plump and inviting. "There's no need for scents today," he remarks as you settle in, his tone matter-of-fact, precise. British. "You're surrounded by them." And he's right. The lavender is everywhere. In the air, in your lungs, in the way the warmth clings to your skin. Oliver moves with effortless grace, retrieving a silver tray from a low table nearby. On it-- Ice. Perfectly formed, glistening, each piece nestled in a small crystal dish, the light catching on their surfaces like cut glass. "You'd be surprised," Oliver says, as though you'd asked, "how many flavors ice can hold." He lifts a small dish, tilting it so that the frost catches the sunlight. "This one--honey and elderflower. Light, floral." Another. "Basil and mint. Bright. A little sharp." And then--he picks up a final dish, and before he even says it, you know. He smirks slightly, handing it to you. "Pine." Of course. You bring it to your lips, the cold pressing sharply against your tongue, melting into something crisp and green, earthy, like sap on fresh bark. The chill moves through you, spreading into your chest, cooling the warmth that lingers there. Oliver watches you for a moment, then--without any preamble--he reaches for the hem of his shirt, pulling it smoothly over his head. Then--his shorts. And now, he too is stripped down to nothing but a jockstrap. His body is-- Exactly what you expected. Lean. Defined. Composed. A gymnast's build, but with the quiet elegance of someone who doesn't need to prove it. He doesn't ask if you're ready. He doesn't need to. He simply places a hand at the small of your back, guiding you toward the table. There's no sheet. The wood is smooth beneath you, the air warm against your skin. And Oliver-- Oliver is firm. Gentle. Getting you comfortable. Getting you to relax. Chapter 4: The Cleansing Oliver's hands hover just above your skin. His voice, crisp and articulate, fills the warm air between you. "We'll start with an aura cleansing," he says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "Before I begin working on your body, I need to clear away residual energy. Stress lingers, you see. We hold it without realizing. It sticks to us, like dust settling on the surface of water." He moves slowly, his fingers drifting through the air just above your chest, your stomach, your legs. And God--you feel it. It's subtle at first. A lightness. A shift in the space around you. Like something peeling away, something dissolving, something making way for more. Oliver's tone never changes, steady and unwavering. "The body holds tension. But the field--" his hands glide smoothly through the air above you, "--the field holds everything else. Thought, emotion, expectation." Your breathing slows. You listen because his voice makes you want to listen. And you relax because--somehow--you already feel it working. Oliver's movements are precise, methodical. He steps around the table, and you watch the way his body shifts, the way his muscles flex beneath smooth, unmarked skin. He is measured, every movement practiced, his presence both clinical and intimate. "There," he murmurs after a long moment. "That's better." His hands move lower, just above your thighs, and then-- He touches you. A real touch this time, his palms warm against your skin. He starts slow, pressing lightly, his fingers tracing the contours of your muscles in quiet, thoughtful strokes. "You're unwinding now," he notes, voice dipping slightly. "That's good." You are. And Oliver-- Oliver notices everything. His hands move with slow precision, pressing deeper as your muscles yield to him. "Don't hold on," he says, voice smooth as silk. "Let it happen." You do. You let him work. And God, it feels-- It feels like just the beginning. Chapter 5: The Ritual of Oil and Friction Oliver moves with an easy, practiced efficiency. You watch as he lifts a polished brass apparatus from a nearby table, adjusting the spout, checking its balance. The metal gleams in the golden light, intricate yet functional, something both ancient and refined. He notices your attention, his mouth curling in something like approval. "Shirodhara," he explains, tapping the vessel lightly. "An Ayurvedic technique--warm oil poured in a steady stream, bringing the body and mind into alignment." He tilts his head slightly. "We'll get there. But first--" He sets the apparatus aside, reaches instead for a smaller set of tools--a round, textured brush, its bristles firm but not coarse, and a silk pouch filled with something weighty, something herbal. "A dry rub," he continues. "To prepare your skin. Open circulation. Make sure the oil works instead of just sitting on the surface." Oliver's voice never wavers. It is crisp, articulate, but assured. He doesn't ask if you're ready. He simply begins. The first pass of the brush is unexpected--not rough, but felt. The bristles drag over your skin in slow, methodical sweeps, stimulating the surface, coaxing warmth from within. "Lymphatic stimulation," Oliver murmurs, as though explaining to himself as much as to you. "Encourages detoxification. Wakes the body up." He starts at your feet, working upward with practiced precision, never rushing, never skipping a step. Over your calves. Up your thighs. The motion is firm but not intrusive, his hand steady as he brushes over the sensitive skin near your hips, along your ribs, across the planes of your stomach and chest. When he reaches your arms, he lifts them gently, working along the lines of muscle, the bristles teasing out warmth, sensation, awareness. Your skin tingles. Your body responds to the friction, to the heat it leaves in its wake. Oliver trades the brush for the silk pouch, pressing it lightly against your skin before kneading it in small, rhythmic circles. "Grounding herbs," he explains, moving up your forearm, into the dip of your shoulder. "Turmeric. Ashwagandha. Sandalwood." The scent unfurls--deep, spiced, something almost earthy, something that clings to the warm air between you. Oliver moves to your other side, repeating the process with the same patient care, his touch methodical, his voice a steady, grounding presence. "Dry rub first," he reminds you, almost as if it's a ritual. "Then oil. Always in that order." His hands still, the silk pouch pressing one final moment against your chest before he pulls away. His gaze flickers over you, measuring, thoughtful. Then-- "Now, we begin." Chapter 6: The Unraveling The waiting is almost unbearable. You feel the pause, the way Oliver moves with such maddening patience, the deliberate care with which he prepares everything. The brass vessel stands ready, its spout adjusted, its balance precise. The air is thick with the scent of warmed oil, something deep, something rich, but you can't quite place it. Oliver catches the way your fingers twitch, the way your breath hitches in anticipation. His mouth curves into something small, knowing. "It's alright," he murmurs. "More than alright." He steps closer, one palm pressing gently to your shoulder, grounding. "It will be better than alright." Then-- The first drop lands. Right between your brows. It's warm--almost hot--but not quite. The oil glides over your skin, pools for a brief moment at the space between your eyes before sinking, seeping into the fine lines of your forehead, trailing down through your hairline. Then--another drop. And another. The rhythm is slow at first, careful, the warmth settling, spreading. Oliver's voice comes through the haze, crisp and assured. "You're clenching." You exhale sharply--you hadn't realized. Oliver's hand is at your temple now, his thumb pressing lightly, tracing small circles. "Unclench your jaw," he says, matter-of-fact, as if it's a command but also a kindness. You do. He hums, approving. "Lower your tongue from the roof of your mouth." You swallow. Let it fall. "Good," he murmurs. "Now--breathe." His fingers shift, pressing lightly behind your ears, his thumbs sweeping down to the hinge of your jaw. His own breath is measured, steady. "Four in." You inhale. "Hold." The oil continues to drip--steadily, smoothly, like a second pulse between your brows. "Four out." You release it, slow. His touch shifts, sliding back into your scalp, his fingers spreading through the warm, slick strands of your hair. "Again." The breathing repeats, but this time, you're aware of him. The weight of his hands. The scent that clings to his skin, to the oil--something spiced, something ancient, but you can't quite name it. Then--he begins. Oliver's fingers press into your temples, slow and deep, dragging over the ridges of your skull, working into the tension that lingers there. The first strokes are methodical, his thumbs sweeping outward in careful arcs, stretching the skin beneath them. "You hold so much here," he muses, his voice low, steady. "Too much." His fingers sink deeper, pulling, kneading, tracing slow, deliberate circles over the base of your skull. "Tension settles here first," he continues. "The scalp. The temples. The jaw." A sharper press--his thumbs hooking just behind your ears, dragging firm pressure along the ridge of bone. You feel it unwind. Oliver feels it too. His breath dips lower, approving. "There we go." His hands glide down the back of your neck, slick with oil now, his fingers pressing into the bands of muscle that anchor your head in place. "You feel that?" You nod--or try to--but his grip keeps you still. He chuckles, the sound low, indulgent. "Mmm. Don't fight it." He moves again, his palms pressing deeper, his fingertips working into the tight, stubborn knots that have lived there for too long. Every stroke pulls something out of you--something unspoken, something held in the tight spaces behind your ears, along the crown of your head, in the small, unconscious clench of your teeth. And Oliver-- Oliver knows exactly how to find it all. He hums, almost to himself, as his thumbs sweep down the back of your skull, pressing a perfectly controlled amount of pressure into the base of your neck. "Better," he murmurs. "Much better." His fingers slide lower, tracing warm, slick paths down your spine, dragging heat with them. And God-- You feel like you could melt beneath him. Chapter 7: Into the Oil, Into the Body You do melt. It happens so gradually, so thoroughly, that you don't realize when the last of your tension has left you. Only that the world has slowed, softened into something rich and golden, something that exists only in the sensation of his hands, the warmth of the oil, the rhythm of his voice. Oliver keeps talking. Guiding. Explaining. Everything he does is intentional, and he tells you why. "This oil," he murmurs, dipping his hands into the basin, coating them again before smoothing them over your scalp, down your temples, across the curve of your jaw, "is a base of sesame and coconut, infused with brahmi and ashwagandha. It's meant to calm the nervous system. To bring balance to your thoughts." His fingers glide deeper, spreading the oil down the column of your throat, sweeping beneath your ears, into the notch between your collarbones. "It enters through the skin. Soaks into the bones. This isn't just about relaxation," he continues, pressing his thumbs along the hollow of your throat, his touch just shy of too firm. "It's medicinal." The oil is everywhere now. Warm and slow, sinking into your skin, into your hair, into the very air between you. So are Oliver's arms. You feel them glide over you, slick and controlled, as he works through every inch of tension you might have had left. His forearms sweep along your shoulders, firm and broad, dragging slow, deliberate pressure into the muscles. He leans into it, just enough to press you deeper into the table, grounding you beneath him. "Your body wants to resist," Oliver observes, his tone thoughtful, detached in that way only the British manage. "It's used to holding on. To keeping things rigid." Another pass, firmer this time, working down from your neck, across your chest. His palms flatten, spreading warmth as he eases the oil into your skin. "But you can let go." You don't answer. You can't. Because he's right. Because you are letting go, sinking into the sensation, into the warmth, into him. His hands slide lower, following the oil down the slope of your ribs, tracing the spaces between bone and muscle, kneading warmth into the deep-seated knots that still hold the faintest echoes of tension. You breathe in. Lavender. Sesame. Something deep and green. You breathe out. And Oliver-- Oliver keeps you there. Keeps guiding you, keeps grounding you, keeps pressing you into the moment, into this. Into your body. And God, it feels-- It feels like nothing else. Chapter 8: Relentless and Unyielding Oliver smiles as he works--softly, but with that same quiet confidence. Urbane. Assured. Knowing. There is more oil. The first drizzle lands on your thigh, warmer now, cascading in slow, golden rivulets down the length of your legs, pooling in the creases of muscle, sinking into the heat of your skin. Then-- The tempo changes. The pressure shifts. Oliver's hands, slick and unrelenting, dig deeper, his palms smoothing over your calves, his thumbs pressing firm into the knots just behind your knees, working their way up--higher--pressing, kneading, pulling at the tension until it dissolves beneath his touch. He moves your leg with ease, stretching it slightly, rolling your ankle, pressing his fingers into the arch of your foot before moving back up--always back up. There is no rush. Only method. Only purpose. He pours more oil, lets it slip down your thighs, his forearms following the path it takes, slick and strong, gliding along the dense muscle, finding the hidden places where tension still lingers. You're still in the jockstrap. Or what's left of it. The fabric is soaked, sodden with oil, clinging to your skin, to your heat, to the places where Oliver's hands haven't touched. And Oliver-- Oliver is just as covered. His arms glisten in the golden light, his hands, his chest, his skin slick with the same thick oil that now coats you. It makes everything easier. The pressure. The motion. The way he works you, not just through touch but through presence. Because every time you tense-- Every time you think about resisting-- Oliver is there. With his hands. With his weight. With the relentless, steady, unyielding way he coaxes every last inch of you open. And God, it arouses you. You can't help it. The way his hands slide up, how they knead, how they press-- The way his palms glide closer, always closer, pushing up your thighs, working into the thickest, deepest parts of your muscles, forcing them to yield beneath his expertise. And Oliver-- Oliver sees. He notices the way your breath hitches. The way your body responds. The way the oil catches in the shallow dips of your skin, glistening over every curve, every ridge of muscle. He sees all of it. And then-- That soft smile again. Knowing. Certain. And-- Without a single word-- He continues. Chapter 9: The Flow of Energy Oliver never stops moving, never stops working you--his hands firm, slick, unyielding. But then-- He starts talking. His voice remains measured, crisp in that refined, British way, but now there's something else--a weight to it, a knowledge far older than just technique. "Kundalini," he murmurs, dragging his palms up the length of your thighs, his touch slow but insistent. "Energy that coils from the base of your spine--your root--and flows upward, circulating through every part of you." His hands shift, following the path of his words, skimming along the soaked straps of the jockstrap, where they meet at the sensitive space between your legs. And then-- He presses. It's not gentle. Not yet. It's a firm, steady pressure, directly at the base of your spine, where the straps converge, where his fingers find the hidden tension just beneath. You flinch--just slightly. It's not pain, but something else, something strange, something felt in ways you don't fully understand. Oliver notices. Of course he does. "Breathe," he instructs, calm, unhurried. His thumb eases deeper, pressing in rhythmic circles. "I know. It's uncomfortable at first. Most people carry resistance here." You try. Try to breathe, try to let go of whatever tightness lingers beneath the weight of his touch. "This is your root chakra," Oliver continues, his voice a quiet, grounding thing. "It's the home of your pleasure, of your security. And--" his hand eases, the pressure shifting from direct to something slow, something coaxing "--when you learn to let go, it becomes the seat of your deepest release." The oil is everywhere now, making each motion effortless, seamless. His fingers soften, rubbing deep circles into the space beneath your tailbone, the sensation transforming from something sharp into something good, something felt not just where he touches, but throughout your entire body. Then-- His other hand moves. It trails up, tracing a path over your ribs, slow and deliberate, until it reaches your chest. Until his fingertips find your nipple. And then-- Lazy circles. A slow, knowing drag of his fingertips, the oil making his touch seamless, smooth, unbroken. "Energy flows upward," Oliver murmurs, his voice as steady as his movements. "From here--" his fingers press at your root, warm and deliberate "--to here." His other hand circles again, his palm rolling firm over your chest. Your breath catches. And Oliver-- Oliver smiles. Not unkind. Not teasing. Just knowing. Just assured. He leans in slightly, his weight pressing into you as he works deeper, his hands in perfect tandem. "Good," he murmurs. Chapter 10: The Body Remembers You are caught. Between sensations, between pulls-- The slow, grinding pressure Oliver keeps against your perineum, his fingers pressing, rolling, insistent-- The steady thrum of his thumbs teasing your nipple, circling, stroking, knowing exactly how much to give you-- The confinement of the jockstrap, the way the slick fabric clings to you, holds you, makes everything feel sharper, more immediate, more felt. And then-- There are the waves. The wanting. Not just yours. The air is thick with it, humming with it, the oil-slicked warmth of Oliver's body pressing close, holding you, grounding you. Your breath hitches, and when your eyes find him, he's already watching. You take him in-- The gleam of oil on his skin, the way it catches in the hollows of his collarbones, the deep ridges of his shoulders, the taut pull of his forearms as he works you. He is strong. But more than that-- He is unshaken. Still holding you steady, still anchoring you through it all. Oliver exhales, and his voice--low, measured, endlessly assured--spreads through the heat between you. "Men carry so much." His fingers press deeper at your perineum, circling in a way that makes your spine arch before you can stop it. "Here." The weight of his other hand increases, pressing over your chest, pinning you just enough to make you feel held. "And here." You try to breathe--try to focus--but your body is caught in the pull of both sensations, between the grind of his palm below and the drag of his touch above. "You don't even realize it," Oliver murmurs. "How much you hold. How much tension lingers beneath the surface." He kneads again, working pressure into the dip of your sternum, his fingertips rolling against your nipple, his body never once losing control. "But you don't have to hold on." His head tilts slightly, his expression soft but assured. "You just have to let go." Chapter 11: Reverence Oliver watches you for a long moment, his gaze steady, considering. He's supposed to offer you another treatment--another ritual, another carefully curated technique. But instead-- He smiles. Soft. Assured. "You don't need another treatment," he murmurs. "You've already let go." And then-- He moves. The touch of his fingers is slow, deliberate as they hook into the sodden waistband of your jockstrap, the fabric clinging, reluctant to part from the warmth of your skin. He peels it away, unhurried, his hands dragging the oil-soaked material down your thighs, over your calves, finally slipping it free. He folds it--careful, precise--sets it aside as if it's part of the ritual itself. Then he looks at you. And God--the way he looks at you. His smile lingers, his expression warm but certain, his fingers tracing an absent pattern into the inside of your thigh. "They were right," he muses, voice soft, distant--like he's considering you, taking you in the way a craftsman might admire something rare, something singular. You exhale, waiting, watching. Oliver tilts his head slightly, his gaze flickering over you, still measured, still knowing. "You're beautiful," he says. And then-- He moves again. His hands glide over you, slick and thorough, every motion deliberate, every press of his fingertips just shy of too much. He narrates as he works, his voice crisp but low, explaining the way the muscles respond, the way pressure translates into release. He presses here--and you breathe deeper. He strokes there--and your body unfolds further. Every touch is an extension of the care he's already given you--unrushed, purposeful, an exploration that is both technical and deeply felt. His palms move, guiding you further into this moment, into this space, into this surrender. And God, you let him. Because of course you do. Chapter 12: Held in Sensation The oil is everywhere now. Thick, golden, warmed by both body heat and intention. It pools in the dips of your skin, slicks the path of Oliver's hands as they move--deeper, pressing, coaxing, guiding. And God, the way he works you-- Each movement is methodical, but there's nothing detached about it. Nothing distant. Every stroke is felt. Every touch is earned. He doesn't rush, doesn't force, doesn't take. He opens. He widens. And you want it. Your body responds before your mind does, yielding to the press of his fingers, the way the oil slips into you, sinking past the last shreds of tension, dissolving whatever resistance might have remained. Oliver notices. Of course he does. His voice, crisp and steady, cuts through the thick haze of sensation, grounding you in the moment even as you feel yourself drifting toward something vast, something overwhelming. "That's it," he murmurs, voice smooth as the oil he's working into your skin. "Let it happen." His hands never falter. One strokes slow, deep circles where you're still adjusting, learning how to let go. The other glides up, mapping the ridges of your abdomen, the tense planes of your chest, smoothing away even the last instinct to hold back. The pressure builds. Pleasure folds over itself, layering and layering, and suddenly-- It feels like you are being touched everywhere at once. Inside and out, heat and silk, firm and gentle, the rhythm of Oliver's movements syncing with the pulse of your own breath. The world spins. Pleasure pulls at the edges of you, an unraveling that feels like surrender, like freefall, like something sacred and earned. You grip him. Needing something to anchor yourself to, something real in all this sensation, all this overwhelming bliss. And Oliver-- Oliver takes it. Takes you. Holds you steady, keeps you here, keeps you from slipping entirely into oblivion, no matter how much you feel yourself beginning to let go. And God-- You will let go. Because of course you will. Chapter 13: The Crest of Pleasure Oliver's hands never falter. The slick warmth of the oil, the practiced rhythm of his touch--everything is deliberate, everything is felt. He reads your body like a map, like a text he's studied and memorized, and God, you let him. And then-- Heat. Wetness. The slow, devotional pull of his mouth, surrounding you in something so warm, so precise, that it nearly undoes you on the spot. He moves with intent, his lips sealing around you, his breath steady even as he works you deeper, taking you in with quiet reverence. At the same time-- His fingers keep moving. Softening. Coaxing. Pressing slow circles where you're still tight, where your body still holds the last of its resistance. He is relentless--but not impatient. He knows you will yield to him. And you do. Your breath comes hard now, muscles trembling under his hands, under the perfect, perfect pull of his lips. Oliver makes a quiet, pleased sound--something content, something warm, something that vibrates through you and forces your pleasure higher, harder, until you're right there, balancing on the razor's edge of it. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, gripping something, anything to keep yourself from unraveling entirely-- But Oliver doesn't stop. His fingers push deeper. His mouth pulls harder. And then-- You groan, your body seizing, your pleasure cresting-- And Oliver-- Oliver takes all of it. His breath doesn't stutter, his hands don't falter. He holds you steady through the shuddering waves of it, through the unbearable heat of release, through the sensation so big it feels like it might swallow you whole. And only when the tremors start to fade, when your breath evens, when your body finally yields completely into his care-- Only then does Oliver ease back. Only then does he let you go. And God, he looks so satisfied. Chapter 14: The Breaking Point You move to reciprocate--of course you do. But Oliver--still slick with oil, still radiating heat--demurs. His hands, steady even now, press against your chest with quiet insistence. "This is your session," he murmurs, the crisp edge of his accent still intact, his voice still smooth--still controlled. But you smile, and there's something in your gaze that makes him pause. "If it's mine," you say, voice warm, low, "then I want to relax you." Oliver studies you. You watch the flicker of something--hesitation? Amusement? Curiosity--pass through his sharp green eyes. Then-- He tilts the oil back over you. The golden stream cascades down your chest, warmer than before, slipping over your skin, pooling in the grooves of muscle, gliding. And then-- He pulls you close. Bodies pressing. Skin sliding. Oliver's jockstrap comes down in one fluid motion, and then--nothing between you. Nothing but heat. Nothing but oil. Nothing but motion. He moves-- Slow at first, finding the rhythm, his body slick and perfectly in tune with yours. Grinding. Methodical. The movement is seamless, his chest pressing into yours, the warmth of his breath mingling with yours, every part of him moving in tandem with every part of you. His composure-- His infuriating control-- Holds for a long moment. And then-- Something shifts. Something breaks. You feel it before you see it--the way his breathing stutters, the way his rhythm falters, the way his hands clench against your back as if he needs something to hold onto. And then-- The first raw, uncontrolled sound rips from his throat. A low, guttural moan, something unpolished, something that doesn't belong to the urbane, perfectly measured man he was moments ago. "God," Oliver gasps, his voice cracking slightly, his accent slipping just a little, less polished, less in control. "That's--fuck--" You watch him come apart. His body tenses against you, slick and shaking, every muscle locking before-- A jolt of pleasure-- His head tipping back-- His voice breaking-- "Oh--oh God--" And then-- He collapses against you, gasping, his forehead resting against your shoulder, his chest rising and falling in deep, shuddering breaths. You hold him. Let him settle. Let him feel it. And when he finally lifts his head, when he finally looks at you-- His smile is open. Warm. And--for the first time-- Almost shy. He swallows, still catching his breath, then huffs out something between a laugh and a sigh. "Well," he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours for a lingering moment. "That was not how I expected tonight to end." You smirk. "You weren't expecting that?" Oliver exhales, shaking his head slightly. His fingers trail lazily over your back, still slick with oil, his voice dropping into something softer. "Oh, I knew you'd be trouble." His smile widens, teasing but still a little wrecked. "I just didn't think--" He stops, licks his lips, then exhales again. You run your hands down his spine, holding him close. "Didn't think what?" His laugh is quiet, almost self-conscious. "Didn't think I'd be the one losing control." You grin, pulling him against you, feeling the way his body still hums, still responds. "I like you like this," you murmur. Oliver tilts his head, arching a brow. "A mess?" "Relaxed." He huffs a breath, then presses his lips--not a kiss, not quite--just close to your jaw, to your cheek, to the space where words don't quite fit. Then he pulls back, smiling again. This time, it's all warmth. "And you," he murmurs, still breathless, still unguarded, "are very dangerous." Chapter 15: Returning to Center You are wrecked in the best possible way. Your body hums, slick with oil, loose-limbed and open in a way you haven't felt in a long time. The warmth lingers inside you, seeping into muscle and bone, into something deeper. For a fleeting moment, you think about asking him to continue. To stay in this space a little longer. But-- Oliver is barely holding it together. His usual polish, his carefully measured composure, is cracked--not broken, but softened around the edges, his breath still slightly unsteady, his hands lingering a little longer than necessary when he finally moves. And God, you love it. He catches your expression, sees the flicker of something mischievous, pleased in your eyes, and huffs a quiet, self-conscious laugh. "Don't," he murmurs, shaking his head, voice still wrecked. "I'm trying to be professional." You grin. "You were professional." Oliver scoffs, runs a hand through his oil-slicked hair, still settling, still recalibrating. Then--he sighs, rolling his shoulders, exhaling whatever remnants of tension still linger. Then-- The aftercare begins. His hands return, soft now, deliberate, but in a different way than before. He guides you, his touch steady, reassuring, as he helps you off the table, leads you back toward the locker room. The world outside the cabana feels different. Brighter. The air still hums with the scent of lavender, pine, something deeper, something grounding. And through all of it-- Oliver stays with you. He dresses you. First, your underwear, slipping it up with care, smoothing his palms briefly over your hips. Then--your t-shirt, lifting it over your arms, settling the fabric against your skin, his fingers lingering against your ribs for just a moment before moving on. Then--your slacks. Your shirt. Each button, fastened carefully, methodically, his knuckles grazing your chest with every slow motion. Finally-- Your tie. Oliver slides the silk around your collar, adjusting it with practiced ease, his fingers deft as he folds and knots it, pulling it snug--not tight, just right. His hands linger at the base of your throat, his thumbs brushing lightly against your pulse. Then--he exhales. Looks at you. Something warm, something grateful flickering in his sharp green eyes. And before you can say anything-- Before you can thank him-- He leans in. And presses the most careful kiss to your lips. Soft. Measured. But then-- Just as you part slightly in surprise-- His tongue slips in. Warm. Wet. He tastes like pine, like the oil that still lingers on your skin, like something undeniably Oliver. The kiss doesn't last long. Just enough to seal something between you. And then-- He pulls back, his mouth curling into something small, sated, something more real than the composed smiles he's given you before. "Thank you," he murmurs. And God, you don't know if he's thanking you for the session, for the release, for undoing him-- But it doesn't matter. You just smile, adjusting your tie, heading toward the door. And as you step out into the cool evening air, the scent of lavender still in your lungs, the warmth of oil still on your skin-- You already know. You'll be back.