A Training Session

Capri needed money badly. Immigration papers don't pay for themselves, and Toronto winters sting harder without a job. She walked into the massage parlor hoping for anything. Rayveness took one look at her and smelled fresh meat. The woman was no stranger to girls who claimed they could knead muscles when really all they knew was how to fold towels. She offered Capri a free training session. Right then. Why wait. Rayveness stripped down without ceremony and stretched out on the heated table, skin already gleaming under the low amber lights. Capri poured oil into her palms, uncertain but willing. Her first strokes were too soft, too safe. Rayveness corrected her. Deeper. Use your body weight. Let the heels of your hands sink in. Capri listened. She shifted, adjusted, then pressed harder, dragging slow lines from Rayveness's shoulders down the long slope of her back. Something clicked. Capri's touch turned confident, rhythmic, almost teasing along the inner thighs. Rayveness felt it. Heat pooled low in her belly as those careful fingers worked higher, circling, finding the exact spots that made her breath hitch. Capri might have arrived without experience on paper, but her hands already knew what a woman's body wanted. Rayveness's hips lifted just a fraction, an invitation. Capri pressed her advantage, slick fingertips gliding over slicker skin. Rayveness let out a low sound, somewhere between approval and surrender. Capri kept going, learning the terrain of Rayveness's body with every stroke, every deliberate sweep of her thumb. She was a natural. The kind who could make a client forget they ever walked in tense.