Page 11 of Black Light: Cured

Massage therapists are only good for two things—relaxation and happy endings.

They need to stick with what they’re good at, but instead, they’re far too wrapped up in anecdotal

evidence to see that they cause more harm than good. So many of them prey on innocent people,

convincing them that they’re ‘healing’ them, when all they’re doing is getting these poor saps addicted

to the endorphins, serotonin, and dopamine high, compelling them to come back for repeat business.

Hell, just give me a belt and I’ll do that for free. I won’t charge those bullshit prices to get your

blood pumping. It’s all just a big scam, and I for one can’t wait to prove that this little snake charmer

is just a charlatan clothed in the rags of faulty education while passing it off as embroidered robes.

Either way, stripping this sub of her mask will be an even bigger bonus than stripping her body

bare. Though, granted, with what she’s wearing, there’s little left to the imagination. Without sparing

another glance at Heather, I simply leave the cash and walk over to their scene.

The moment I stand, her eyes track me. Unable to resist, I flash another smile at the trussed-up

sub, thrilling in the way she seems utterly focused on me. I wish it was solely because of my good

looks, but I know she’s aided by the high of subspace. No matter. Soon enough, it will be me bringing

her to that place.

As much as I want to interrupt, to kiss those luscious lips, I know club protocol well enough to

keep my distance. Instead, I prowl around their scene, keeping my eyes locked onto her swaying body.

Her head turns in slow motion as she tries to follow me, but all too soon I dip out of her range of

motion.

Nodding over to Dillon, I motion for him to keep working as I admire this submissive’s body. Her

ass is to die for, and the way he’s framing it with the ropes is pure perfection. The wild mane of hair

ripples down her back, teasing the edges of her panties, drawing my gaze once more to the delectable

swell.

Her body is toned, muscled, but not from going to the gym. She doesn't have those markers.

Instead, she’s lean, lithe, like a dancer. No doubt, she’ll credit her massage job as the reason she’s in

such good shape, but I know there’s more than that. I’ve seen other massage therapists that simply let

themselves go. No. She does something else, something on top of swindling money out of poor saps

and giving them a good nap in return.

Sliding back around, I pull up a seat and unashamedly stare at her. Her body quivers as Dillon

continues to wrap his rope around her willing body, and for a moment I’m tempted to move in close