Warm oil dripped on my bare back, and I sighed. I forgot Leon, I forgot Marcus. I forgot the kids.Sorin’s hands were the only things in my universe, and for the next fifty minutes, he made it so.He locked the wheels, used the straps to hold parts of my body down as he twisted others using stretch bands, rods, bars that were connected to the ceiling or hand-held. He bent me backwards, flexing muscles I didn’t even remember having.I groaned, gasped, and cried out more than once.He only ever paused to get more oil or to get me to release.The man should have been a straight-up medical doctor.The best, or maybe worst, part about Sorin and his team. They didn’t use anything but their hands. Tools, toys, equipment, sure, but that was it. They didn’t cross the line, but they may as well do that, too, given the responses from their clients’ bodies.When we were done, I had come thrice, and, most importantly, my side had stopped hurting.
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