Chapter Six
The next few days, we fell into a routine.
Every morning, I'd wake up sore in places I didn't know could be sore. My inner thighs ached. My pussy lips felt tender and swollen. My clit was sensitive to even the slightest touch. But none of it stopped me from showing up to Syx's office at ten o'clock sharp, ready for another session.
He'd have me lie back on the massage table, sometimes with my eyes closed, sometimes with them open and locked on his.
He'd start slow—his fingers tracing patterns on my inner thighs, his mouth finding my clit and working it with deliberate precision.
He'd bring me to the edge, right to that precipice where my body was screaming for release, and then he'd slow down, backing off just enough to keep me hovering there.
"Feel that?" he'd ask, his voice low and commanding. "That's your body telling you it's ready. You just gotta trust it."
But I couldn't. Every single time, just as I got close, my mind would kick in. I'd start thinking about whether I was doing it right, whether this was normal, whether something was wrong with me. And just like that, the sensation would slip away like water through my fingers.
I was frustrated as hell.
"Again?" I asked, my voice tight with irritation as Syx pulled away from between my legs for what felt like the hundredth time that week.
"Again," he confirmed, not bothered by my tone. "Your body's getting there, Nyne. I can feel it. You're getting wetter, your breathing's changing faster. You're making progress."
"Progress toward what?" I snapped. "I still haven't cum."
"You will," he said simply, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "But you gotta stop fighting yourself. Your mind is your biggest obstacle right now, not your body."
On day four, I was in his office when his phone rang. He was between my legs, his tongue working magic, when the phone started buzzing on the desk beside us. He ignored it the first time. The second time it rang, he pulled away slightly.
"Let it go," I breathed, not wanting him to stop.
But he didn't. He reached over and glanced at the screen, and I watched his expression shift. Something flickered across his face—something I couldn't quite read. He silenced it and went back to what he was doing, but the moment was broken. My arousal dipped. My mind started wandering.
"What was that?" I asked, even though I knew I shouldn't.
"Nothing," he said, but his jaw was tight.
"It didn't sound like nothing."
He pulled back and looked at me, his eyes unreadable. "It was a client. Nothing for you to worry about."
But I was worried. Or maybe I was jealous. I wasn't sure which, and I hated both feelings equally.
Later that evening, I confronted him about it in the kitchen while he was preparing dinner.
"So you have other clients here?" I asked, trying to sound casual as I chopped vegetables.
"I have clients everywhere," he said, not looking up from the fish he was seasoning. "That's how I run my business."
"On the island?"
"Sometimes."
"While you're with me?"
He set down his knife and turned to face me fully. "Nyne, we've talked about this. You can't catch feelings. I'm here to help you learn your body. That's it. That's all this is."
"I'm not catching feelings," I lied. "I'm just asking a question."
"Are you?" He stepped closer, his eyes boring into mine. "Because it sounds like you're upset that I have other clients. It sounds like you think you should be my only priority."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch gentle despite the hardness in his voice.
"Listen to me. I care about you. I want to help you.
But I can't give you what you're looking for.
I don't have love to give. I can make you cum.
I can teach you about your body. But that's where it ends. "
I nodded, even though it felt like he was breaking something inside me that I'd just started to put back together.
The next day, he called me into his office and told me it was time to try something different.
"I want you to touch yourself," he said, already undressing. "While I do the same. We'll be in the room together, but you're in control of your own pleasure."
I felt my cheeks heat up. "You want me to... masturbate? In front of you?"
"Yes." He was already naked, his dick hardening as he settled into his chair. "Come here."
I undressed slowly, hyperaware of his eyes on me. When I was naked, I sat on the edge of the massage table, my legs slightly parted.
"Closer," he instructed. "I want to see you."
I moved to the center of the table, lying back slightly, propped up on my elbows so I could see him and he could see me.
"Now touch yourself. Show me what feels good."
My hand moved between my legs hesitantly. I'd touched myself before, of course, but never like this. Never with someone watching. Never with someone I wanted so badly.
I started slow, my fingers finding my clit and moving in small circles. It felt different when I was doing it—less intense than when Syx's mouth was on me, but also more intimate somehow. More mine.
"That's it," Syx murmured, his hand wrapped around his dick, stroking slowly. "Don't rush it. Just feel it."
I closed my eyes, trying to focus on the sensation, but I kept opening them to watch him. His chest was rising and falling faster. His jaw was clenched. He was watching me like I was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"Keep your eyes on me," he commanded softly.
I did. And as I watched him stroke himself, as I felt the building pressure between my legs, something shifted. My mind quieted. The constant chatter that usually pulled me away from the edge went silent. There was just me, my body, and the man watching me like he wanted to devour me.
The pressure built and built, my breathing getting faster, my movements getting more urgent. Syx's strokes matched my rhythm, and we were moving together, connected by nothing but our eyes and our need.
"That's it, baby," he whispered. "Let it happen. Don't fight it."
And I didn't. For the first time in my life, I felt it—that wave of pleasure that started at my core and radiated outward, making my whole body shake.
My back arched off the table. A sound escaped my mouth that I didn't even recognize as my own.
My pussy clenched around nothing, my hips thrusting up into my own hand as the orgasm rolled through me.
"Fuck," Syx groaned, and I watched as he came too, his cum spilling over his hand as he continued stroking himself through his release.
When it was over, I lay there trembling, unable to move, unable to speak. I'd done it. I'd actually fucking done it.
Syx cleaned himself up and came over to me, pressing a kiss to my forehead.
"Welcome to the other side," he whispered.
But as I lay there in the aftermath, something shifted inside me. It wasn't just about the orgasm anymore. It was about him. The way he looked at me. The way he touched me like I mattered. The way his voice dropped when he said my name.
I was falling for him, and I knew it was a mistake.
Over the next few days, we continued our sessions. My body became more responsive, more willing. I learned to recognize the signs of my own arousal—the way my hips would slow grind, the warmth that would spread through my core, the sensitivity that would bloom across my skin.
But with each session, with each orgasm I achieved, the emotional stakes grew higher. I found myself wanting more than just his hands and his mouth. I wanted his attention. His care. His love.
One morning, after a particularly intense session, I lay in his arms and felt the weight of what was happening.
"Syx," I whispered.
"Yeah, baby?"
"I'm falling for you."
He went still. His arms tightened around me for just a moment before he pulled back to look at me.
"Nyne," he said, his voice careful. "We talked about this."
"I know what we talked about," I said, my voice breaking slightly. "But I can't help it. You make me feel seen. You make me feel like my pleasure matters. Like I matter."
He cupped my face in his hands, his thumbs brushing across my cheekbones. "You do matter. But this—" he gestured between us, "—this has an expiration date. You know that."
I nodded, even though it broke something inside me to do so. I knew the rules. I'd agreed to them. But my heart wasn't listening to logic anymore.
"I know," I whispered. "But I needed you to know anyway."
He kissed my forehead, and I closed my eyes, trying to memorize the feeling of his lips against my skin, knowing that soon, this would all be over.The next few days, we fell into a routine.
Mornings were for talking and talking education.
Afternoons were for sexual exploration. Syx touched me for hours each day, learning my body and figuring out what made me respond most strongly.
He discovered that I was most sensitive on my clit when he licked and sucked on it. That I liked firm and fast licks, rather than slow ones. Also having my nipples played with while he touched me intensified everything. Another thing, I love when he talks nasty to me.
"You got a wet, pretty pussy," he'd murmur as his fingers stroked my pussy, creating a creamy coating around them.
Oddly, I found myself getting comfortable with him and more willing to communicate what felt good and what didn't. I learned to recognize signs of my own arousal. For instance, whenever Syx is fingering me and I'm enjoying it, my hips would slow grind and my body would feel warm and tense.
Turning over a new leaf I guess, Syx wanted to try something and I was okay with that. After breakfast, which consisted of an omelet and dry mangoes with coconut water, Syx told me to meet him in the office, again once more.