CHAPTER NINE

Riley and her mom stand and follow her down the quiet corridor.

The hallway opens into a dim, candlelit space that feels warmer than the lobby. The air smells faintly of oils and warm wax, the kind of scent that lingers gently in the back of the throat. Soft light flickers along the walls where rows of thick candles sit in glass holders, their flames swaying slightly in the still air.

Curtains hang from rails along one side of the room.

Each one forms a small private space where treatments can be done without the rest of the room watching.

The Service Stock woman walking ahead of them slows and gestures toward one of the curtains.

Riley steps forward and pulls it aside.

Inside she sees another woman waiting beside a padded treatment table. She’s also naked with a red watch. Service Stock.

The woman smiles when Riley looks in.

“Would the Meatgirl prefer a male or female hand?” she asks politely.

The question catches Riley off guard for a moment.

Her first instinct is to say male. The thought flashes through her head automatically, the same way it might have any other day.

Then she remembers Mr. Greern’s hand grabbing her wrist.

The memory hits hard enough to make her shudder.

“I’m fine with her,” Riley says after a moment, giving a small nod toward the woman inside the curtain.

“Good luck, baby,” Riley’s mom says with a quick smile.

Riley steps inside the curtained space and lets the fabric fall closed behind her. The soft rustle of the curtain cuts her off from the rest of the room, leaving only the warm candlelight and the quiet presence of the woman waiting beside the table.

On the other side of the curtain she hears the attendant guiding her mom a few steps farther down the row.

“Would the Meatgirl prefer a male or female hand?” the attendant asks again.

Riley’s mom doesn’t hesitate.

“Oh, male,” she says quickly. “The younger you got, the better.”

A short amused laugh follows from the attendant.

“Of course.”

“Please lie down with your head in the hole,” the masseuse says, indicating to the padded table, “Then we’ll begin.”

Riley climbs onto the table and lies face down.

The padded surface is warm beneath her stomach and chest, but that doesn’t stop the strange feeling of exposure creeping over her. Without a towel or sheet covering her, her bare body feels completely visible, her butt lifted slightly by the position of the table as if it’s deliberately being presented.

She shifts her arms slightly under her head, trying not to think about it.

The masseuse steps beside the table.

“Now,” she says, “I’m going to start with your back.”

Riley feels a fingertip touch the center of her spine.

The finger moves slowly downward, gliding along the line of her backbone as if the woman is counting each ridge beneath the skin.

“Then your butt,” the masseuse says.

Her hand flattens gently against Riley’s butt cheek, spreading the skin slightly as it moves in a slow, testing stroke.

“Down to your legs.”

The same finger trails down the back of Riley’s thigh, following the muscle until it reaches her calf.

“And then,” the woman adds calmly, “we’ll flip you over and go from the top.”

Riley feels her face grow warm as she lies there on the table.

The slow contact along her spine and legs had caused her pussy to glisten under the candlelight. It takes her a moment to realize what it is, and when she does, embarrassment hits her all at once.

She presses her forehead lightly against her folded arms with a strained groan. “Sorry,” she says, muffled by her head in her arms.

The masseuse runs a hand between Riley’s legs, gently coating her finger in the warm juices.

“That’s normal,” the woman says kindly.

Her voice carries the same calm professionalism she had used since the beginning of the treatment, like she’s reassuring someone about a perfectly ordinary physical reaction.

“Some Animals, like you, respond strongly to touch,” she adds gently.

Her hands continue moving in slow, practiced strokes along Riley’s back while she speaks, the motions steady and unhurried as the treatment goes on.

The masseuse pauses for a moment as her hands rest lightly on Riley’s back.

She leans slightly closer, her voice dropping to a softer tone near Riley’s ear.

“Would you like to take a moment before we begin?” she asks quietly.

Her breath brushes faintly against Riley’s ear as she speaks, the question delivered in the same calm, professional way she has used for the rest of the treatment.

“Or we can continue and deal with it afterward.”

Riley’s blush deepens again.

“After,” she says quietly, having no real intention of taking the woman up on the offer.

She lowers her face into the folded pillow beneath her arms and tries to focus on breathing normally while the moment passes.

Behind her she hears the soft click of a bottle opening.

A thick sound follows as lotion is squeezed into a waiting palm. The masseuse rubs her hands together slowly, spreading the liquid between them while warming it.

The faint scent of the oil reaches Riley a moment later.

“This will tingle,” the woman says calmly as she steps closer to the table, “but it won’t hurt.”

Her voice stays gentle and matter-of-fact, the same steady tone she’s used since Riley entered the room.

“It’s like a normal massage,” she continues, “except the lotion is for more than helping you relax.”

When the woman’s hands finally begin to move, Riley can’t stop herself from gasping.

She had been warned the lotion would tingle, but the sensation still catches her off guard. The woman’s fingers begin working quickly across the skin of her back, spreading the warm oil in firm, practiced strokes that leave a faint prickling sensation wherever they pass.

Riley’s shoulders tense for a moment before she manages to relax again.

The masseuse works methodically, her hands moving with confident precision as she spreads the lotion across Riley’s skin. The tingling grows stronger wherever the oil settles, a strange mixture of warmth and faint buzzing that lingers behind each pass of her hands.

“It surprises people the first time,” the woman says calmly, noticing Riley’s reaction.

Her tone remains steady and reassuring as she continues the treatment, her fingers moving in slow, controlled patterns while the lotion begins to do its work.

Her hands begin kneading into the muscles along Riley’s back.

The pressure is firm and deliberate, the woman’s fingers working their way along the lines of muscle beside Riley’s spine. Each time she presses into a tight spot Riley feels the tension loosen, and a soft groan escapes into her folded arms before she can stop it.

The tingling from the lotion spreads across her skin while the steady pressure of the massage works deeper.

The woman moves up to Riley’s shoulders next.

Her thumbs press into the tight muscles there, slowly working out the knots that have been building from tension Riley hadn’t even realized she was carrying. The sensation travels up the back of her neck as the woman’s fingers follow the muscles upward, kneading carefully along the base of Riley’s skull.

Riley exhales slowly, her body sinking further into the table as another knot finally gives way.

Then the woman’s hands move lower.

“I’m going to work on the buttocks now,” the attendant says calmly. “Alright?”

Riley swallows and nods against her arms.

“Yeah,” is all she manages to say.

Riley feels the woman’s warm hands settle onto her butt cheeks.

This time they don’t hover or test the way they had earlier. The pressure is firm and deliberate, the attendant’s palms pressing into the muscle with the same practiced purpose she had used on Riley’s back.

The lotion leaves a faint tingling wherever it spreads.

For a moment Riley finds the situation strangely confusing. All her life she had been told to watch out for people trying to “cop a feel,” warned about wandering hands and unwanted contact.

Now someone is touching her there openly, methodically, the same way they had worked on every other part of her body.

As a Meatgirl, it isn’t treated as anything unusual.

It’s just another muscle group being worked.

The woman kneads the area a few times more, spreading the lotion evenly across the skin before moving on.

Just as quickly as it began, the hands leave her butt.

They slide down to her legs instead, fingers working the lotion into the muscles of her thighs before continuing down toward her calves. The same tingling sensation follows wherever the lotion is applied, spreading slowly across her skin while the attendant’s hands keep moving in steady, professional strokes.

Eventually the woman’s hands work their way down Riley’s legs.

Her fingers move slowly along the calves, spreading the lotion evenly before continuing downward until they reach the arches of Riley’s feet. The attendant presses her thumbs gently into the soft muscles there, working them the same careful way she had treated the rest of Riley’s body.

When her fingers reach the tips of Riley’s toes, a different kind of shiver runs up Riley’s spine.

It catches her by surprise.

The woman notices immediately.

“Oh,” she says with a small amused sound, still holding Riley’s foot in one hand. “Do you like me touching your feet?”

Her tone remains warm and conversational as she continues the treatment.

“My, you are a sensitive little Animal, aren’t you?”

When the woman finally lets go of Riley’s feet, the sudden absence of pressure makes her toes curl slightly against the table.

The attendant’s hand travels back up Riley’s leg in a slow, deliberate motion, spreading the last traces of lotion along the skin as she moves. Her fingers glide along the back of Riley’s calf and then higher, over the muscles of her thigh.

The tingling follows the path of her touch.

Riley feels the woman’s hand stop just below her pussy, resting lightly at the top of her thigh.

The pause hangs there for a moment.

“Now?” the woman asks simply.

Her tone remains calm and professional, like she’s waiting for permission to continue the next step of the treatment.

“Now,” Riley says.

The masseuses hand begins to stroke between Riley’s legs. She separates them gently, allowing easier access. But then she stops. “After,” she says, nibbling the shell of Riley’s ear.

Riley almost complains but she catches herself.

The attendant helps Riley turn over carefully on the table.

Her hands guide the movement with practiced ease so Riley doesn’t slip on the lotion that now coats her skin. Riley settles onto her back, the warmth of the table against her shoulders while the candlelight flickers softly across the ceiling above her.

For a moment the woman studies her the same way she had studied Riley’s back earlier, her attention focused and professional.

The attendant raises one finger and hovers it lightly above Riley’s collarbone.

“We’ll start here,” she says calmly.

Her fingertip touches down and begins tracing a slow path across Riley’s upper chest, spreading another thin layer of the lotion while the faint tingling sensation follows close behind the touch.

“Then here.”

Her hand moves lower across Riley’s breasts, slowly circling a nipple before working steadily over her stomach and along the curve of her waist. The same careful pressure continues while the lotion spreads evenly across the skin.

The motion continues down along Riley’s pelvis, just shy of touching her pussy, and then farther, the attendant’s hands following the same methodical routine she had used earlier.

Finally her hands travel along the front of Riley’s legs, working the lotion downward in smooth strokes until the treatment reaches her knees and continues along the length of her calves again.

“Ready?” the masseuse asks.
Riley opens her mouth to answer but nothing comes out. Her throat tightens the moment she tries to speak, a sudden, humiliating fear that whatever sound escapes will be something small and broken. Something that will make the whole room look at her differently.

So she doesn’t risk it.

Instead, she swallows hard and gives a quick, silent nod.

Like before, the masseuse begins working the tension out of Riley’s muscles. The woman’s hands move with the same practiced confidence as earlier, thumbs pressing firmly along Riley’s shoulders before drifting lower as the tightness in her back slowly gives way under the pressure.

Riley closes her eyes.

She doesn’t want to watch.

The steady rhythm of the massage continues as the hands move forward, kneading gently into the soft tissue of her breasts with the same clinical detachment used everywhere else on her body. The masseuse avoids the more sensitive spots without hesitation, working only the muscle and tension she’s there to deal with, as though the rest of Riley’s body is nothing more than another set of tight fibers to loosen.

Riley focuses on the feeling of the pressure instead, the slow push and release of fingers easing knots she hadn’t realized were there, and tries not to think about where those hands are.

It doesn’t stop her body from reacting.
The warmth between Riley’s thighs slowly spreads, an unwelcome slickness that grows the longer the massage continues. No matter how carefully she tries to focus on the pressure in her shoulders or the steady rhythm of the masseuse’s hands, her body keeps responding anyway, the heat building in a way she can’t seem to shut down.

The wetness only deepens.

Whether the masseuse notices or simply chooses not to acknowledge it, Riley can’t tell. The woman’s hands continue their calm, methodical work as if nothing unusual is happening at all, kneading muscle and easing tension with the same detached professionalism she’s shown from the start.

If she sees it, she gives no sign.

The masseuse’s hands move down to Riley’s stomach next.

Here the pressure changes. The firm kneading used on her shoulders and chest softens into something much lighter, the woman’s palms pressing only gently against the skin as they work across her abdomen. Each movement is careful and controlled, applying just enough pressure to ease the tightness in the muscles without pushing deep enough to upset her stomach.

The hands glide slowly over the soft rise of her belly, pressing and releasing in slow, deliberate motions.

Too much force here could make her sick.

The masseuse clearly knows that, because she keeps the touch light, her fingers spreading slightly as she works across Riley’s stomach with the same quiet professionalism she’s shown everywhere else on her body.

The masseuse’s hands move lower.

When they reach Riley’s pelvis, the woman pauses only long enough to pump more lotion into her palms. The faint, medicinal scent rises into the air as she rubs her hands together, spreading it evenly before touching Riley again.

Her palms settle against the flat of Riley’s pelvis, just above the place where pubic hair would normally grow. The skin there is already warm from the earlier massage, and the lotion spreads quickly under the slow movement of the masseuse’s hands.

She works the area with calm, deliberate strokes, smoothing the lotion across the bare skin and pressing gently into the muscle beneath. The motion is steady and practiced, the same quiet professionalism she has shown everywhere else, as though this part of Riley’s body is no different from her shoulders or stomach.

The lotion leaves a glossy sheen as the masseuse’s fingers move across the sensitive skin, working the tension out of Riley’s hips while her hands glide slowly over the area.

The masseuse’s hands slide lower again, spreading another line of lotion across Riley’s hips before working it into the skin.

Her palms move slowly over the curve of Riley’s waist, smoothing the lotion across her sides and pressing into the muscles there with firm, steady strokes. The oil leaves a slick shine wherever her hands pass, the skin warming under the repeated motion as she works along the bones of Riley’s hips and the narrow line of her waist.

The touch is deliberate, practiced.

Riley feels herself sinking further into the table as the massage continues, her body gradually giving in to the slow rhythm of the woman’s hands. The tension that had been coiled through her stomach and back loosens piece by piece under the steady pressure.

Her breathing slows.

She bites her bottom lip without really thinking about it, eyes still closed as the woman’s hands continue working the lotion across her hips and waist, kneading gently as Riley’s body grows heavier against the table beneath her.

Before Riley fully realizes what’s happening, the masseuse has already moved down her body. Warm lotion spreads again beneath the woman’s hands as she works along Riley’s thighs and calves, coating her legs the same careful way she did before. The slow strokes travel from knee to ankle and back again, smoothing the oil across her skin until every inch of her legs carries the same slick warmth.

The rhythm is steady, practiced.

Then it stops.

The woman’s hands lift away from her body and the sudden absence of touch leaves Riley strangely aware of the room again. Cool air settles over the places that had been warm moments before, the thin chill raising faint goosebumps along her skin where the lotion still glistens.

The masseuse steps back from the table.

“All done,” she says softly.

Riley hears the quiet shift of fabric as the woman moves somewhere near the side of the table, giving her just enough space for the warmth of her presence to fade slightly.

Then the woman speaks again, her voice calm, almost conversational.

“So,” she asks gently, “are you ready for some relief, Meatgirl?”

Riley stays where she is on the table, the warmth of the lotion still clinging to her skin while the air of the room cools everything the masseuse’s hands had just warmed.

Her eyes open slowly.

The woman stands nearby, calm and patient, like this part of the routine is no stranger to her. There is no rush in the way she waits, only the quiet expectation that Riley will answer when she is ready.

Riley’s throat feels dry.

“You’ll feel better after,” the woman says.

“It’s good for Animals to leave the tension behind before Processing.”

Riley swallows once before managing a small nod.

The masseuse studies her for a moment, making sure the answer is genuine and not just nerves forcing Riley to move her head. When she seems satisfied, she steps closer to the table again, her movements slow and deliberate.

“Good,” she says softly.

Her voice carries the same professional calm she’s had through the whole massage, though something about the tone shifts slightly now. Not colder. Not cruel. Just practical, like a procedure moving into its next stage.

“Relax,” she tells Riley.

The woman adjusts Riley’s position slightly on the table, guiding her with gentle pressure so she lies the way the masseuse needs her to. The motion is casual, practiced, the way someone might reposition a client during any other part of a treatment.

Then the masseuse leans closer.

“You’ve been wet for a while,” she murmurs. “Horny little Meatgirl. Let’s take care of that.”

For a moment nothing happens. She hears the faint rustle of fabric, then the quiet shift of weight beside the table. The room feels smaller now, the air warmer near her hips where the masseuse has moved.

Then she feels breath.

Warm.

It brushes across the most sensitive part of her body, soft and slow, the kind of heat that makes her stomach tighten before she even fully understands why. Riley’s fingers curl against the edge of the table as her breath catches somewhere in the back of her throat.

She squeaks in pleasure, her hands covering her face.

A moment later something softer replaces the air.

A slow, deliberate movement.

Riley’s hips twitch before she can stop them.

The sensation is unmistakable even if she can’t see it. A gentle pressure, the faint glide of something warm and alive moving against the center of her body, careful and measured in a way that makes the nerves there flare awake all at once.

A tongue.

Her back arches slightly.

The masseuse works patiently, the same calm professionalism she showed during the massage. Riley’s body reacts the way bodies often do when touched like that. The woman doesn’t comment on it. It’s simply part of the treatment.

Warm breath again.

Then that soft movement returns, slower this time.

Riley bites down hard on her bottom lip as a shiver runs through her stomach and down into her legs. Her breathing grows uneven despite the way she tries to control it, each inhale deeper than the last.

The woman pauses briefly.

“Relax,” the woman says kindly. “Most girls are tense the first time.”

The warmth returns again a second later.

And Riley feels her body react before she can think about stopping it.

Riley feels the tension building long before she understands what it means.

It starts low in her stomach, a tight knot that slowly winds itself tighter with every slow movement she feels between her legs. The warmth there deepens, spreading outward through her hips and down her thighs while her breathing grows uneven despite the way she tries to steady it.

Her fingers curl against the edge of the table.

The pressure builds and builds, the sensation coiling tighter inside her until it feels like something in her body is pulling itself toward a breaking point she can’t stop.

Then it happens.

A sharp gasp tears out of her before she can swallow it back, the sound echoing softly in the quiet room as the tension snaps loose all at once. Riley’s back arches slightly off the table, her breath catching hard in her chest while the sudden wave of relief rolls through her body.

The sensation finally fades, leaving Riley limp against the table, her body still trembling in the aftermath. Her chest rises and falls unevenly as she tries to steady her breathing, the last shivers working their way slowly out of her muscles.

She barely notices the movement beside her at first.

The masseuse lifts herself from where she had been working and crawls up along the table with an easy, practiced motion. When Riley finally opens her eyes again, the woman’s face is close above her.

Her lips glisten faintly.

Before Riley can react, the masseuse leans down and presses a warm kiss to the trembling Meatgirl’s mouth. The contact is slow and deliberate, lingering just long enough to feel intentional before the woman pulls back again.

“Well done,” she purrs softly.

Her voice carries the same calm satisfaction someone might use when praising a job well finished. One of her hands brushes lightly along Riley’s side as she speaks.

“Good Meatgirls like you deserve rewards.”