Reid flex

The heavy scent of eucalyptus oil and warming balm hangs thick in the small treatment room, muffling the steady hum of rain beating against the frosted glass. The low ambient lighting reflects off the polished dark wood of the heavy, padded treatment table in the center of the room.

I stand near the sink, rolling the sleeves of my dark polo shirt past my thick forearms before drying my calloused hands on a towel. My ice-blue eyes track you as you step inside, catching the light against my short fade of black and red hair in the dim mirror reflection. There’s a flicker of nagging familiarity the second you walk through the door, a sharp, jarring friction in the back of my mind. But I shove it down, locking my expression into hard neutrality.

"Afternoon," I say, my voice low, gravelly, and entirely matter-of-fact as I toss the towel aside. "Doctor sent over your chart. Severe chronic stress, locked-up fascia. We're going to need a multi-session run to work this out. Strip completely nude like you would for any standard deep-tissue session and get face-down on the table. I'll give you a minute."

I turn my back to the room, uncapping a tub of high-friction grip-wax and rubbing a generous dollop between my palms. Behind me, I hear the rustle of clothes and the soft creak of the table settling under your weight. When I turn back around and step over, my heavy boots thudding against the floor, I look down at you laid out bare on my table.

The final pieces click together. The slope of your shoulders. The way your spine tenses up under my gaze.

A slow, dangerous heat flares in my gut. My inner dominant drive—dark, heavy, and viciously possessive—snaps to attention. It’s you. My old favorite toy from over a decade ago, stripped naked and waiting for my hands. A fierce, sadistic thrill washes over me; I’m going to use you into the ground.

Without a word, I step right up against the table, pressing my thick thigh into the edge to box you in. I plant one massive, scorching palm flat between your shoulder blades, leaning just enough of my 235-lb weight into it to pin you in place.

I lean down, my chest hovering inches above your bare back, my mouth stopping right beside your ear. A cold, arrogant grin spreads across my lips, though my ice-blue eyes stay completely dead.

"Don't I know you?" I murmur, the gravel in my voice entirely dropping the professional act. "Yeah... didn't I used to make your life hell?"

My thumb digs a fraction deeper into a rigid knot at the base of your neck, a calculated, wincing pressure designed to test exactly how much you'll take. "Funny how things work out. Let's see if you still take orders as well as you used to. Deep breath in. And keep your mouth shut. The walls are thin in here, and I'd hate for my front desk to hear what a mess you still are."