Ophelia lay on her back, her entire body tense as a board.

Then, she felt it.

A warm, large, strong palm pressed against her back. Warm oil was poured directly onto her skin, making her flinch slightly. But the touch wasn't rough. Instead, that palm began to move with firm pressure, spreading the oil from her tense neck, down along her spine, to her plump buttocks.

"Breathe deeply, Ms. Fiona," Freyden's voice sounded calm above her. "Your muscles are like stone."

Ophelia tried to take a breath, but it was difficult. Because this man's touch—though through a seemingly ordinary massage—sent strange waves of sensation through her entire body.

Each of his pressures seemed to press not just on muscles, but on hidden points of pleasure in her body. When his thumb pressed the hollow at the base of her neck, a jolt of heat shot straight to the base of her thighs. When his palm rubbed her tense shoulders, the warmth traveled to her already hardened nipples, making them even more sensitive.

She tried to hold back any sound, but when Freyden started massaging the area just above her buttocks, a small groan finally escaped her lips.

"Ughn..."

The sound embarrassed her. But she couldn't control it. Her body felt like it was burning from within. Her already wet pussy throbbed even more, as if responding to every touch from this stranger.

If she thought clearly, Freyden's massage technique seemed ordinary—consistent pressure, regular movements. But somehow, in this man's hands, an ordinary touch felt like magic. As if every touch was directed to arouse her, not to relax her muscles.

"Please... try to relax, ma'am," Freyden said again, his voice flat. "It's hard to massage if you keep tensing up like this."

"I-I'm trying," Ophelia whispered, her face buried in the pillow. But it was futile. The harder she tried to relax, the more her body reacted. Cold sweat dampened her skin, a mix of anxiety and shameful arousal. Her pussy grew wetter, and she was afraid Freyden would smell her scent or—worse—see the dampness.

"Take a deep breath. Hold it. Then exhale slowly," Freyden's instruction sounded professional, but there was something in his tone... something that seemed to mock her distress.

Ophelia tried. She took a deep breath, held it, then exhaled slowly. But on the third exhale, something happened.

Freyden began massaging her buttocks.

His large, oiled palm kneaded her left cheek with enough pressure to relax the muscle, yet gentle enough to feel like a sensual caress. Ophelia bit the pillow, holding back a groan that nearly burst out. Her butt had always been a sensitive spot, and this man's touch seemed to know that.

Then, something worse happened.

As Freyden shifted to massage the back of her thighs, his hand—whether intentionally or not—brushed against her inner thigh. The touch was brief, but enough to make Ophelia's whole body shudder.

And as he drew his hand back, his fingers swept too close... far too close to the cleft of her buttocks, almost grazing the lips of her wet vagina.

Ophelia held her breath. Her body arched uncontrollably. She bit her own lip so hard she tasted blood. But it wasn't enough. The sensation radiating from that almost-touched spot was so powerful, so tantalizing, so...

Suddenly, without warning, her body exploded.

A wave of unexpected, shameful orgasm swept through her. Her pussy throbbed wildly, releasing fluid that soaked the mattress between her thighs. Her body arched, her legs stiffened, and a choked, long moan finally escaped her mouth.

"Ah—! Ahhh—!!"

She couldn't stop it. The orgasm came out of nowhere, just from a near-miss touch, from a massage that should have been ordinary. A few seconds later, she lay limp, panting, her body sweaty, and burning shame enveloped her.

Freyden stopped massaging. The room fell silent, filled only with Ophelia's heavy breathing.

"It seems you were very... tense," Freyden finally said, his voice flat but with a faint, sardonic note. "Usually my clients don't... reach climax just from a back massage."

Ophelia flushed crimson to her ears. She wanted to die. She had just orgasmed in front of a stranger, from a massage. And the most humiliating part—this was the first orgasm she'd managed to achieve in days.

All week, she had tried by herself, with her hands, with toys, but had never managed to reach satisfaction. Her body seemed to reject all normal stimulation. But this man's touch... for some reason, it worked.

She heard Freyden pour more oil, then his hands returned to her back, resuming the massage as if nothing had happened. But for Ophelia, everything had changed.

The relief from the orgasm lasted only a moment. Then, something deeper, darker, hungrier, stirred within her. An unmet physical need. That orgasm had been like scratching the surface—it released a little tension, but it only awakened a larger monster of lust inside her.

Her pussy still throbbed, but now with a painful emptiness. As if there was a hollow space inside her that needed to be filled. As if there was a specific shape, a specific size, that needed to satisfy it.

Ophelia lay there, her body growing hotter, her mind more chaotic. Every touch from Freyden now felt like torture. She wanted him to stop massaging and do something else. She wanted those hands not on her back, but between her thighs or on her breasts. She wanted his body to pin her down, enter her, fill that tormenting void.

Why isn't he doing anything? she thought with growing frustration. He must know I'm wet. He must smell it. Why isn't he breaking the rules? Why isn't he fucking me right now?

She almost regretted her earlier threat.

If only she had kept quiet, maybe this man would have taken the initiative. But now, because of her own words, he was being professional.

The massage continued. Freyden was now working on her legs, and when his fingers touched her calf, near her thigh, Ophelia almost whimpered again. She couldn't bear it. This was torture.

Finally, after an intense internal battle, the words burst from her mouth, choked by an unstoppable need.

"Do you..." her voice was hoarse, almost inaudible. "Do you... also service... the front area?"

She buried her flushed face in the pillow after saying it, unable to bear seeing Freyden's reaction. Her words were phrased as innocuously as possible, but their meaning was clear—she was offering herself to be touched there, to be satisfied further.

A pause. Then, Freyden's voice came, teasing.

"The front area, Ms. Fiona? You mean... the stomach? Or perhaps... lower?"

.

.

.

I looked down at this arrogant Headmistress with cold, cynical eyes. Behind the mask and the altered face of [Faceless Mask], my expression was completely hidden. I, now appearing as Freyden, savored the satisfaction of witnessing her helplessness.

Before coming here to meet Ophelia, my plan had been simple: get in, undress her, then plunge my cock straight into the pussy that was undoubtedly wet and waiting for me.

After all, that was clearly the only reason she had called—her body, locked only for my dick, was thrashing in need of the penetration only I could provide.

But on the way here, with Charlotte driving while sitting on my lap with my cock buried deep inside her, I changed my mind.

Fucking her right away would be too easy. I wanted to see her suffer longer. I wanted to see her, usually so powerful and haughty, reduced to whimpering from unmet sexual need.

So, instead of going straight to the hotel, I had Charlotte drive me to a 24-hour pharmacy that was still open.

There, we bought expensive, fragrant massage oil. I also had her stop at a clothing store to buy a simple black shirt and pants—something that made me look 'professional'.

I had even briefly considered bringing Charlotte into the hotel, having her hide in the bathroom or closet, and recording everything.

The image was tempting—having a recording of the most respected Headmistress lying helpless, moaning like a whore. But when I looked at Charlotte in the driver's seat—her face tired, eyes dazed, body still trembling from the abuse I'd just subjected her to, her mind undoubtedly foggy—I dismissed the idea.

She was exhausted. Besides, she still had to work at the Hunter Association tomorrow and manage the inter-academy tournament. Let her go home and rest. I still had plenty of time for other recording games later.

So, I released Charlotte with orders to go home and rest, then entered the hotel alone, with a fake identity and a new plan.

And now, here I stood, seeing the results.

Ophelia, the mighty Blazewalker, lay face-down on the hotel bed, trembling from the shameful orgasm she'd just experienced—just from a back massage. Her lust, which I had locked and reprogrammed, had truly exploded from mere ordinary touch.

"Do you... also service... the front area?"

When that veiled question finally slipped from her lips, a wide, cold smile stretched behind the mask of Freyden.

"The front area, Ms. Fiona? You mean... the stomach? Or perhaps... lower?"

I deliberately made her squirm. Made her have to say it clearly.

"U-umm... I mean... all areas," Ophelia answered, her voice barely audible, her face still buried in the pillow. "Y-you decide. The important thing is... all muscles get to relax."

"I understand, ma'am," I replied, my voice flat. "In that case, turn over. Lie on your back."

I watched her body move.

Slowly, with movements full of shame and anticipation, she turned over. Her eyes remained tightly shut, as if she didn't dare look at me. But she couldn't hide what was happening to her body.

And the sight... was magnificent.

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