I turned over. The paper sheet was ruined and the towel was under my hips and I didn't care.
He poured more oil and warmed it between his palms and started at my collarbone, and did the whole front properly — properly, like a man who meant it — shoulders, sternum, arms, hands, each finger, and the oil made everything gleam under the strip light.
Then he got to my t**s and did them like a massage, cupping and lifting and working the base with his thumbs, and my n*****s went so hard they hurt.
"These are tense," he said.
"They're not—"
"They're very tense." He rolled one between his fingers and pulled, and I arched off the table. "See?"
He played with them for a long time. Long enough that the radio changed songs. He'd work my t**s and then go away and come back, down over my stomach,
