The door to the luxurious hotel room was shut tight, muffling the sounds of the outside world. Ophelia sat on the edge of the large bed, her fingers intertwined tightly. The clock on the wall told her she still had nearly half an hour before the masseur arrived.

Truthfully, she could have asked for a sooner time. But she needed this time. Time to think—or more accurately, to wage war with herself.

'This is insane,' her rational mind whispered. What you're doing is tantamount to betraying your family. Betraying your husband. Betraying Arianna, your own daughter. You are Headmistress Ophelia, the Blazewalker, a respected SS-Rank Hunter. Not... not some slut seeking illicit services in the dead of night.

Her mind drifted to her husband's face, the good man who had stood by her for years, who always supported her even when her career took priority.

Then to Arianna, her beautiful, confident daughter, who looked up to her with respect. What if they found out? What if this shameful secret came to light? Her reputation would shatter into pieces. Their trust in her would vanish.

She had called her husband earlier, with forced firmness in her voice, saying there was an emergency meeting and she'd be staying at a hotel near the academy. He had believed her, as always. That only made the guilt stab deeper.

'Just cancel,' her conscience urged. Pick up the phone, say your plans changed. Forget that ridiculous poster. You're strong. You can handle... this problem yourself.

But the moment she thought of canceling, a sharp, distracting heat crept up from her crotch, spreading through her thighs. A strange itch, a profound emptiness deep in her womb, made her body shudder. For the past week, this feeling had only grown worse. It was as if something was missing, something her body desperately needed, but she didn't know what.

'It's just a regular massage,' she whispered to herself, trying to convince herself. 'I just need to relax. Stress from the tournament, work, everything. I'm overthinking. It's just a massage.'

But she knew that was a lie. What kind of regular massage offered "special services for mature women" with an ambiguously designed poster and a phone number that clearly invited salacious interpretation? What kind of regular masseur would come to a hotel in the middle of the night, accepting only female clients?

She had even bought a ski mask at a sporting goods store that afternoon, planning to hide her identity. But as she looked at the black mask in her hand, a profound sense of ridiculousness washed over her. She would look like a criminal, or a crazy person. What was the point of hiding her face if her very demeanor was suspicious?

In the end, she tossed the ski mask into her bag.

'It's just a regular massage,' she repeated, the mantra growing weaker. Though deep down, she knew this wasn't a regular massage. And what was more terrifying, she didn't want it to be a regular massage.

A knock at the door made her heart stop for a moment.

Three knocks.

Ophelia jumped from the bed, her hands cold and sweaty. Her breath hitched. This was it.

"Y-yes?" she called out, her voice raspy.

"Massage service," a man's voice came from behind the door, deep and heavy, exactly as it had sounded on the phone.

Ophelia took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. She walked to the door and opened it.

And there, standing before her, was a man who made her gasp slightly.

He wasn't the old or shady-looking man she had imagined. This man was probably in his early thirties, with an athletic build clearly visible even through a simple long-sleeved shirt and black pants.

His shoulders were broad, his posture upright. His skin was a healthy tan, as if he spent a lot of time in the sun. The most striking thing was his face—sharp, with a strong jaw and a straight nose. His eyes were dark brown, narrowed with an observant, appraising gaze. His black hair was neatly trimmed, not a strand out of place. He was handsome, in a masculine, no-nonsense way.

But what made Ophelia feel both relieved and more ashamed was his expression.

The man raised an eyebrow slightly, his eyes sweeping over her body quickly, and focused on... the mask on her face.

Yes, Ophelia had ended up wearing the mask after all.

A simple black face mask covering half her face, from her forehead down to her nose, leaving only her wide, red eyes and her nervously bitten lips visible. She felt ridiculous, like a villain in a cheap movie, but it was for the sake of her dignity.

She couldn't let anyone know that Ophelia Blazinger, the SS-Rank Hunter, the feared Headmistress of Nine Stars Academy, was the woman calling a shady masseur to a hotel in the middle of the night. If this man knew her identity, if he intentionally or unintentionally spread this secret... it would be the end of everything.

"Everyone has their own tastes, I suppose," the man said suddenly, his voice flat, but with a hint of amusement in it. "Though my clients don't usually... prepare as if they're about to rob a bank."

Ophelia flushed behind her mask. Her shame peaked.

"I... I just want privacy," she replied, her voice trying for firmness but failing.

The man nodded, as if accepting that explanation. "May I come in? Or shall we converse at the door?"

"Ah, sorry. Come in."

The man stepped inside, carrying a small black bag. He closed the door himself, locking it with a firm click. The sound made Ophelia flinch slightly.

He placed his bag on the small table near the bed, then turned to her. "So, how should I address you? A pseudonym is fine."

"Fiona," Ophelia answered quickly, the first name that popped into her head.

"Ms. Fiona. Good. I'm Freyden." He nodded, then his eyes swept over Ophelia's still-rigid frame. "You seem very tense. Hard day at work?"

Freyden.

The name echoed in her mind for a moment.

"Y-yes. A lot of pressure." Ophelia swallowed. "Sorry for calling you so late."

"It's fine. I do cater to these hours." Freyden gave a small smile, and it made his sharp face look a bit warmer.

Ophelia felt his words were loaded with meaning. She tried not to think about it.

Her mind drifted instead to a more embarrassing direction. Would he really just give her a massage? Or... would he have sex with her? The question was disturbing, making the heat between her thighs grow more intense.

She could even feel the dampness beginning to seep through, moistening her panties. But she couldn't possibly ask something so shameful. 'Sorry, does your service include sex?' No. Impossible.

"So..." Freyden broke the silence.

"Are you ready? Usually, I ask clients to get undressed and lie face down on the bed. I'll use a special oil to warm up the muscles."

Ophelia nodded, but her body didn't move. A final thought crossed her mind, the last vestige of self-preservation instinct. She turned, trying to use the remnants of her authority even while wearing a silly mask in a hotel room with a strange man.

"Listen," she said, her voice louder, trying to sound authoritative. "I called you for a massage. Only a massage. If you try anything else—anything at all—you will regret it. I'm... I'm not a woman you can mess with."

Freyden just looked at her, his expression unchanged. "I understand, Ms. Fiona. This is business, not personal. I'm a professional. If you feel uncomfortable at any time, say the word, and I will stop."

His calm, professional answer only confused Ophelia more. Maybe she had misjudged him. Maybe this really was just a regular massage service that happened to be... ambiguously marketed.

But then why was her body reacting like this?

"Alright," she finally sighed. "I'll get ready. Please... turn around."

Freyden nodded, then turned to face the window, giving her privacy.

Ophelia began to undress. Blazer off, then shirt. Bra off. As she removed her skirt and panties, her eyes glanced at her underwear. A dark, obvious stain was visible on the black lace. Her cheeks burned. She quickly grabbed tissues from the bedside table, wiping her intimate area hastily, trying to erase the embarrassing evidence, then hid the damp panties under her pile of clothes.

Now she was completely naked. The cool, air-conditioned air touched her skin.

She glanced at Freyden's still-turned back, then quickly lay face down on the soft mattress. She closed her eyes, trying to calm her racing heart. Her large, heavy breasts spilled to the sides, her red nipples hardened from a mix of shame, cold, and arousal.

"I'm... ready," she said, her voice small.

She heard Freyden's footsteps approach. Then, the sound of a bottle opening, and a warm, herbal aroma filled the air. A soothing scent, but it only made her body more alert and... even hotter.

Freyden looked down at the naked body before him. His eyes, hidden from his client's view, narrowed with a mix of disdain and cold triumph. Inside, a voice of contempt echoed.

'Hah, what a hypocritical bitch,' he thought, scoffing inwardly. 'Just a regular massage, you said. If you really just wanted a massage, why not use a towel or keep your underwear on? You slut. It's obvious you just want to get laid.'

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