Before me lay Ophelia Blazinger, completely naked. A body not as tight or as young as her daughter Arianna's, but all the more captivating for the maturity and experience it radiated.

A woman who seemed at the peak of her adult beauty, though technically she was fifty-one years old—yet there wasn't a single significant wrinkle or sign of aging. Her SS-Rank power clearly kept her physique in prime condition.

Her breasts were large and full, perfectly shaped, spilling to the sides with an elegant weight. Her nipples were a dark red, hardened and standing erect, as if awaiting touch. Her stomach was flat, with a dramatic waistline curving into her wide hips.

And between her pale, smooth thighs lay a wild, thick forest of fiery red pubic hair, burning like a flame. Through that dense thicket, I could catch a glimpse of her glistening pink labia, slightly parted as if taking a breath.

She was offering herself. Completely. Unconditionally. And she had no idea the man standing before her was her own student, the one she'd always looked down upon.

When would I ever get another chance like this? To bring this arrogant headmistress to her knees without her even knowing, to make her whimper like a cheap whore, all while I remained a stranger?

Ophelia squeezed her eyes shut tighter, biting her lip. I could read her thoughts: she was hoping—even craving—for me to just attack her. To jump on her, rip away the last shreds of her dignity, and satisfy the wild need clearly burning inside her.

But I wouldn't give it to her. Not yet.

I took the bottle of oil again, pouring some into my palm. I rubbed my hands together to warm it, then placed my oily palms on her stomach.

She gasped sharply, her body arching slightly. But I began to massage with consistent pressure, circular motions focused on her abdominal muscles. I deliberately avoided her sensitive areas, concentrating only on the job I was supposedly there to do.

I could feel the frustration radiating from her body. Her stomach muscles tensed with disappointment. She wanted my hands lower. She wanted to be touched there. But I continued calmly, as if oblivious to her desires.

"Please... relax, Ms. Fiona," I said in a flat, professional tone. "You're still too tense."

Ophelia sighed, a sound full of disappointment and desperation. Her hands clenched at her sides. I could almost hear her mind screaming: 'Touch me! Touch my pussy! Don't just massage my stomach!'

But I kept going. I moved to her chest. My oily palms came to rest on the sides of her large breasts, then began kneading in motions that were supposedly to loosen pectoral muscles. But my touch on her full, sensitive breasts was clearly more than just therapeutic massage.

I squeezed them gently but firmly, feeling their softness and weight fill my hands. My fingers found her hardened nipples, and deliberately, I began to knead and roll the sensitive tips.

"Ah—!" Ophelia gasped, her hands grabbing the sheets and clutching them tight. "T-that's... a bit..."

"Does it hurt?" I asked, pretending not to understand.

"N-no... not hurt... just... sensitive..."

"I understand. But this area often holds a lot of tension. It needs to be released."

And with that excuse, I continued toying with her nipples. I pinched them, pulled on them, rolled them between my thumb and forefinger. Each touch made her body shudder, and her gasps grew more uncontrolled.

She tried to hold back her moans, but it was useless. Choked little sounds kept escaping her lips every time I gave her nipples extra attention.

Then, finally, I moved down to the area she'd been waiting for.

My oily palms slid lower, tracing the line of her hips, and finally... came to rest on her inner thighs.

Ophelia immediately drew in a sharp breath, her body tensing like a bow. Her eyes flew open, looking at me with a mixture of hope, fear, and unbearable need.

I didn't touch her pussy directly. I only massaged her inner thighs, with slow, deep strokes, each time coming close but never actually touching her wet, exposed lips.

"Please..." she finally whispered, her voice breaking with need. "Please... touch... there."

"Where, Ms. Fiona?" I asked, pretending not to understand while my thumb was just a centimeter from her clit.

"Here..." she raised a trembling hand, pointing to her own crotch. "So tense... please..."

"I understand."

And finally, I touched her.

My palm covered her entire pubic area. I felt her thick, damp red hair, the heat radiating from her pussy, and the wild pulsing coming from within.

I began massaging with circular motions. My middle finger deliberately slipped between her slick labia, finding her small, hard clit.

"AHHH—!!!"

Ophelia screamed. Her body arched off the bed, her hands gripping my arm tightly. Her eyes were wide with shock and explosive pleasure.

I didn't stop. I kept massaging, kept rubbing, kept stimulating the most sensitive spot. My other hand roughly kneaded her breast, pinching her nipple.

I treated her not with gentleness, but with the roughness she needed—roughness that matched the sadomasochistic fetish displayed in my [Eye of Desire] status. Combined with my [Lustful Touch] skill, which had been active this whole time, it drove her arousal even higher.

"Yes! Yes! Don't stop! Don't you dare!" she cried out, no longer caring about dignity or volume. She just wanted to come. She needed it.

And I gave it to her.

I sped up my movements, pressed harder, and within seconds, she peaked again. Her body shuddered violently, her pussy clenching wildly under my hand, and a clear fluid gushed out—a squirting orgasm that soaked the sheets beneath her.

"AH-AH-AHHH—!!! FREYDEN—!!!"

She screamed my name—my fake name—like a prayer or a curse.

But I didn't stop. As the tremors of her orgasm began to subside, I immediately resumed stimulation. I rubbed her sensitive, post-orgasm clit, pushed two fingers into her hot, wet pussy, thrusting in and out rapidly.

"Wait—! That's too—! Ah~! I just—!" she protested, but her voice was weak, and her body was already responding again. "Ah! Ah! No—!"

She reached a second orgasm in less than two minutes. This one was stronger, longer. But I was still not satisfied.

I looked at her, this arrogant headmistress, lying helpless, her body sweaty and trembling, her face hidden behind the ridiculous mask now streaked with tears and saliva.

And this was only the beginning for her.

What would her expression be, I wonder, when she learns all of this was done by the student she's always ignored, looked down upon, even allowed to be bullied? I'm intensely curious.

But for now, let her suffer in ignorance. Slowly, when the time is right, when she's completely dependent, when she can no longer live without my dick, then I will reveal my identity.

And at that moment, her ruin will be complete.

"Based on the massage earlier, especially around the breast and... lower regions," I said, maintaining the image of a professional masseur even though my hand was still wet with her fluids, "it seems you are indeed experiencing very severe tension and frustration lately, Ms. Fiona. It appears you haven't had adequate release for a long time."

Ophelia stared at me, or rather in the direction of my voice as her eyes were still teary. Behind the mask, her jaw was tight, her teeth clenched.

'Why isn't he doing it? Why isn't he taking off his pants and just ruining me?' her mind screamed.

Her physical need seemed to have reached its peak, but I was deliberately withholding.

"If you feel it's enough and you're satisfied," I continued, wiping my hands with a small towel, "I'll pack up my things and accept payment. The standard service, one hour, comes to a total of—"

"Not yet," Ophelia cut in suddenly, her voice hoarse but firm. Her trembling hand shot out, grabbing my wrist with a strong grip. "I... I'm not satisfied."

I stopped pretending to pack up. "I can provide an extended massage, perhaps focusing on the legs and arms—"

"Not a massage!" she cried out, then caught herself, taking a deep breath. Her voice dropped to a need-filled whisper. "You know what I mean. Don't... don't pretend."

Inside her, a fierce battle raged. The man before her—for some reason—was the only source that could satisfy the terrible hunger in her body.

For the past week, nothing else had worked. Not her husband, not her own hand, not any toy. But this stranger's touch, just with a simple massage, had already made her explode twice. Imagine if he actually... put something in.

She had already acted pathetically. Already begged. Already licked the last remnants of her own dignity by asking to be touched there. But that feeling, that burning need, was stronger than anything.

And for a moment, she forgot everything—the betrayal of her husband, the risk to her reputation, the fact that she was Ophelia the Blazewalker. Her dying body, which felt like it would shatter if not satisfied immediately, took over.

She took a deep breath, and as she exhaled, her arrogant demeanor returned, though this time wielded for a deeply shameful purpose.

"What is your rate for... complete service?" she asked, her voice regaining some authority, though the context made it absurd. "I'll pay double your massage rate."

I looked at her, then shook my head slightly, pretending to hesitate. "I'm sorry, Ms. Fiona. I only offer therapeutic massage services. 'Complete service' as you mean... that's outside my professional scope."

Ophelia snorted, her red eyes flashing with a mix of disappointment and anger. "Don't be a hypocrite. We both know why I called that number on the indecent poster. Why would you come to a hotel at midnight? You know exactly what I want. And you... you clearly know how to please a woman."

She paused for a moment, then she grabbed her bag from the floor, pulled out a luxurious leather wallet, and took out a black credit card.

"Triple. Three times your massage rate. Now, please... don't waste any more of my time."

I stood still for a few seconds, as if seriously considering. Then, I sighed, as if giving in.

"Very well," I said slowly. "Since you are a client in... dire need, and since you are willing to pay handsomely, I will make an exception. I have one special, very rare massage technique, usually reserved only for special clients. This technique involves... the use of my special therapeutic tool."

"Special therapeutic tool?" Ophelia frowned, but her eyes were already shining with hope.

"Yes," I replied as my hands began to undo my pants buckle. "A tool designed to deliver deep pressure and the most fundamental release of tension. I call it... Deep Tissue Penetration Therapy."

As I said that, I pulled down my zipper, then slid my pants and boxers down together.

And my fully erect cock—thick, long, veiny, with a reddened tip already glistening with pre-cum—was presented before her.

Ophelia's breath hitched.

Her eyes widened in disbelief.

It was... big. Very big. Clearly over eight inches long, thick, with prominent veins running along the shaft. Compared to her husband's average cock, it was like comparing a soldier's sword to a war god's blade.

Instinctively, her pussy clenched, producing more wetness. But on the other hand, a flicker of common sense made her think it was impossible. Impossible that she could take it.

I stepped closer, letting my erect cock hover right before her masked face. Its scent—a mix of masculinity, a hint of musk, and the smell of pre-cum—filled the air between us.

"The first technique is oral and throat massage," I said, my voice flat like an instructor's. "This will help relax the muscles of your jaw and throat, while also providing initial hormonal stimulation to prepare your body for the core therapy."

'Damn, how can I say things like that with a straight face? I guess I really do have a talent for this lewd stuff.'

Ophelia fell silent.

She stared at the large cock now only a few centimeters from her nose and mouth. The smell... strangely, wasn't disgusting. It was alluring. Arousing. But...

'How dare he,' she thought, anger beginning to boil.

'How dare this lowly man point his genitals at my face. I am Ophelia the Blazewalker. One of the world's strongest Hunters. I have never even used my mouth to service my husband's cock. It's beneath my dignity.'

A deep sense of humiliation began to take hold. She was no streetwalker. She was a woman of high standing. And this man, this sleazy masseur who didn't even know who she truly was, dared to offer—no, command—her to perform such a lowly act.

The fire of anger began to blaze in her chest, momentarily driving away some of the sexual need. Heat energy, the fire power that was her signature, began to gather at her fingertips. She could burn this man to ashes in an instant. She could destroy him for daring to insult her like this.

"You... Who do you think you are, daring to offer... such shameless service to me?"

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