Sitting, only because you're being propped up. Otherwise, you'd fall, you're so. . .um. . .not all there, I suppose. Weak? Sedated? Don't know what to say. Quite a few grams of what warm oil to expect poured lavishly over your shoulders? Rose? Jasmine? Alyssum? Sandalwood? Magnolia? Some mixture you can't identify? Applied so delicately by someone who can absolutely, literally, completely crush you in every sense of the word in seconds.
Luxurious, unknown, heavenly scent.
Before you sits one in deep concentration, scrutinising your face; not that you can see that one. Your eyes are closed. There's no way they could be anything else right now.
The study ends. A hand grabs the hair in back of your head and pulls you forward. You couldn't fight back if you wanted to. You just let go, and allow yourself to be positioned to suit the uncommonly modified one in front of you. You do only what is expected in the unspoken demand, as you weaken further, being drawn out in a soft, gentle, feathery, rhythmic hold that becomes more powerful as the moments draw out for a seeming eternity; as pleasure and pain become one. The one behind presses himself against you, and you can feel the sheer power in every muscle; yet know it will never be used against you.
His satin touch works the oil into your shoulders, chest and abdomen.
It's too much. You can't get away. Nothing that is happening can be stopped. But it is. At the border, with the last thing you were expecting taking you to your own event horizon, frozen in and out of time.
*****************
Now did what I implied actually happen?
Uh. . .mayyyyyyyybe. I suppose that's for me to know, and you to never find out.
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