She’d been tricked.
Thinking by behaviors around her that she was getting treatment by a woman turned into full-blown panic when a man walked into the room once she was undressed.
While he worked to depth some zones desperately needing help to relax, any form of actual enjoyment was replaced by survivalism.
The feeling taking over her awareness was horrid as the man kept making mouth noises, his stomach kept gurgling too loudly as if he were sick, and then his wet, squishy-sudden repeat farting releases wrecked the music’s soothing ambience.
Meanwhile, one of his hands would dissappear from her body and go off on its own prospectively unsavory wanderings throughout the session.
The indescreet-discreet “accidental” pressings of his male member against her side here or there made her mood even more distressed.
(Was it a parlor of “happy endings?!)
In hindsight, she ought to have stopped everything from the very beginning and walked away, thereby avoiding prevailing inner conflict plaguing her now – even days later – that some of what he’d done had actually benefitted her.
Candid Corvid Productions 