Sera was on the table. Face down. Naked. Her body was long. Lean. The muscles of her back were visible—the latissimus, the trapezius, the rhomboids. Her spine was a valley between two ridges of muscle. Her ass was round. Firm. The cheeks were tight from years of training. Her legs were long. The thighs were thick. The calves were defined. Her feet were bare—the soles calloused, the toes curling against the sheet.

Old Tomas reached out.

His hands found her back.

He began.

His fingers pressed into the trapezius—the large muscle that connected the neck to the shoulder. He pressed with his thumbs. He rolled the muscle. He found the knot—the one that formed from sword practice, from the repetitive motion of swinging a blade. He pressed into it. He held.

"Mmm..." Sera moaned. The sound was soft. Involuntary. The sound of a body releasing tension that it has been holding for too long. "Hahh..."

"Now," Old Tomas said. His voice was professional. Detached. The voice of a teacher instructing a student. "The trapezius. This is where every fighter carries their tension. The neck. The shoulder. You press here— with the thumb, not the fingers— and you hold. Do not rub. Do not knead. Hold. Let the muscle come to you."

Raven’s hand replaced his.

Old Tomas felt the weight of it—the difference. His hands were old. Calloused. Thin. Raven’s hands were larger. Heavier. The fingers were longer. The palm was broader. But the pressure was the same—controlled, deliberate, precise.

"Here?" Raven said.

"Deeper," Old Tomas said. "She has carried a sword for sixteen years. The tension is deep. You must reach it."

Raven pressed. Deeper. His thumb sank into the muscle.

"Ah—!" Sera gasped. Her back arched. Her shoulders lifted off the table. Her fingers gripped the sheets. "Hahh— Master—"

"Good," Old Tomas said. His voice did not change. Professional. Detached. He ignored the word "Master." He ignored the gasp. He ignored the way his granddaughter’s body was responding to another man’s hands. "Now the lower back. The erector muscles. They run along the spine. Press with both thumbs. Work downward. Slowly."

His own hands moved.

He demonstrated. His old fingers found the muscles along her spine. He pressed. He rolled. He worked the tissue with the expertise of forty years. His hands moved lower. To the small of her back. To the curve above her ass.

"The lumbar region," he said. "This is where women carry their tension. Not from swords. From standing. From walking. From the weight of their hips. Press here. Both hands. Circular motion."

Raven’s hands joined his.

Four hands on Sera’s back. Two old. Two young. Two human. Two something else. The pressure was doubled. The sensation was doubled. Sera’s body responded—her muscles softened, her breathing deepened, her back curved, her ass rose slightly from the table.

"Mmm... hahh... ohhh..." she moaned. The sounds were continuous now. Not the broken gasps of pain or fear. The soft, rhythmic moans of a body that is being touched by hands that know what they are doing. "Yes... there... please..."

"Now the ass," Old Tomas said.

His voice was still professional. But there was a tightness in it now. A strain. The strain of a man who is massaging his own granddaughter’s ass and is pretending that it is a clinical procedure.

His hands moved down.

They found her cheeks. Round. Firm. The muscle was dense—the gluteus maximus, developed from years of squats and lunges and sword work. He pressed. He squeezed. He rolled the muscle beneath his palms.

"The glutes," he said. "They are tight on fighters. Tighter than on any other woman. You must work them deeply. Use the heel of your palm. Press into the center of the muscle. Roll outward."

Raven’s hands followed.

His large palms covered her ass. His fingers sank into the firm flesh. He squeezed. He rolled. He pressed. The muscle yielded—slowly, reluctantly, the way a fighter’s body always yields, fighting even in surrender.

"Ah— hahh— Master—" Sera moaned. Her hips were rising now. Pressing back against the hands. Her body was responding to the massage with arousal that she could not control—the drug was still in her system, the aphrodisiac was still working, and the hands on her body were skilled and strong and relentless.

Old Tomas felt something.

On his fingers. As he worked the glutes. As his fingers traced the crease where the cheek met the thigh. A fluid. Warm. Slick. Not oil. Not sweat.

He knew what it was.

His face—behind the blindfold—went red. Crimson. The flush of a man who has just felt his granddaughter’s arousal on his fingers. Who has just felt the evidence of her body’s response to hands that are not his. Who has just realized that the massage is not clinical. That it has not been clinical since the beginning. That his granddaughter is lying naked on his massage table, moaning, her pussy dripping, while four hands work her body.

He continued.

Because he was a professional. Because he had been a professional for forty years. Because if he stopped now, the devil would win, and the devil winning meant the devil stayed, and the devil staying meant the devil kept fucking his granddaughter in his bathtub, and Old Tomas would rather teach the devil to massage than watch him fuck.

"Turn her," he said. His voice was hoarse. "On her back."

Sera turned.

She rolled over. Her body was flushed. Her skin was pink. Her breasts were heavy on her chest—the nipples dark, stiff, aching. Her stomach was flat—muscled, defined, the belly of a fighter. Her pussy was visible—dark hair, swollen lips, the cleft glistening with wetness. Her thighs were pressed together—not tightly, not defensively, but loosely, the way a woman presses her thighs together when her pussy is aching and she is trying to relieve the pressure.

Old Tomas’s hands found her thighs.

He worked them. The quadriceps. The hamstrings. The adductors. His fingers pressed into the dense muscle. He worked downward. To her knees. To her calves. To her ankles. To her feet—the calloused soles, the curling toes.

He heard her moans.

Soft. Continuous. Not from the massage—not entirely. From the hands. From the proximity. From the drug. From the body that was betraying her, that was responding to touch with arousal that she could not control.

"Mmm... hahh... please... I cannot... more..." she whispered. Her voice was broken. Fragmented. The voice of a woman whose body is on fire and whose hands—her own hands—are gripping the sheets and twisting them into ropes.

Old Tomas stopped.

He pulled his hands away. He stood. He faced the direction where he knew Raven was sitting.

"Just done fast," he said. His voice was tight. Controlled. The voice of a man who is holding on by a thread and knows it.

Raven chuckled.

The sound was low. Warm. Amused. The sound of a man who has been watching the old man massage his naked granddaughter and who has found the entire thing entertaining. Not cruel. Not mocking. Entertaining.

Old Tomas heard the sound of movement. Of leather. Of boots on stone. Of a man standing. Of a man walking.

He heard Sera gasp.

He heard the wet sound—the obscene, unmistakable sound of a cock being pressed against an anal. Of flesh meeting flesh. Of a body being entered.

"Your grandfather made you horny, isn’t he?" Raven said. His voice was close. Low. The voice of a man speaking into a woman’s ear. "What a bastard."

Old Tomas stood still.

His blindfold was on. He could not see. But he could hear. He could hear everything. The wet sounds. The slapping sounds. The moaning. The creaking of the massage table. The sound of his granddaughter’s body being used on the very table where he had tended a hundred women.

PAH—

"Ah—!" Sera cried. The sound was sharp. High. The sound of a body being penetrated. Of an anal being stretched. Of a cock—twelve inches, thick, dark—pushing into a hole that was not designed for it.

PAH PAH—