The Chamber of Aftercare glowed with a slow, seductive hum, like a lover whispering sweet nothings to your lower back. Every cushion, every misty tendril of perfume, every lazy swirl of whipped cream floating in midair—everything felt alive, sentient, and oddly invested in Henry's well-being. Or at least in the squishier parts of it.
Henry lay limp on the featherbed, eyes glazed over in blissful confusion, as the ghostly hands of his spectral masseuse slid expertly beneath his shimmering temple robe.
"Oof—wait, wait, slow down—my bounce chakra is still twitching," he mumbled, clutching the pillow beneath him as it purred.
Beside him, Climaxa arched into her massage, the smoky hands working her lower spine like a jazz saxophone solo made of moans. "This is divine," she sighed, one leg slowly lifting into the air like a suggestive antenna. "Ten out of ten… would sin again."
Henry tried to respond but only managed a gurgle that sounded suspiciously like "Thighs be praised."
