The towel slips early, and Helena just exhales. Alise moves like she’s painting with her palms — soft, steady strokes across bare shoulders, collarbones, hips. The light’s golden, almost too warm, and you can hear the oil drip before you see it.
No talking, no music. Just quiet tension, breath catching in Helena’s throat. This isn’t the start of a massage. It’s the start of something else.
🕯️🌫️🤲