Massage Slip

It sounded clinical when I signed up.

Practical massage therapy experience -- supervised by student professionals. Free for university volunteers. Limited spots available. That's what the flyer said. I figured, hey, why not? My shoulders ached after midterms. It would be like a real treatment. Harmless. Controlled.

I hadn't expected two girls. Definitely not two barefoot girls in white T-shirts and tight athletic shorts, standing in a clean, quiet room with a massage table and a clipboard.

-- Hi, come in! You're... Luke, right?

The one holding the clipboard smiled. She was the tall one. Soft eyes, freckles, dark blond hair tied in a loose braid. Her name tag read JENNA in handwriting that looped like it had a personality. She looked kind. Calm. Professional.

The shorter girl leaned against the cabinet, chewing something and watching me. Tan skin, black hair in a messy bun, lips slightly parted like she was always about to laugh. Her name tag said BRI -- all caps, sharp letters.

-- You can just set your stuff on the chair and undress down to your underwear. Then face down under the sheet.

I nodded, muttered thanks, and stepped into the room fully. The door stayed open an inch.

-- Don't worry, Jenna said gently, noticing my glance. Policy requires the door cracked since we're technically student practitioners. For safety and all.

I nodded again and turned away to undress. I could feel both of them not looking -- deliberately -- as I folded my clothes. Socks, jeans, shirt, all placed on the chair in the corner. I kept on my navy blue boxer-briefs. Not fancy. Loose fit. Not made to be seen.

I lay down on the table, face buried in the padded ring, arms at my sides. The sheet felt warm against my back, but my legs were already cold. I could feel air moving near my thighs -- the room was quiet, save for the occasional shuffle of bare feet on the tile.

-- We're going to start with some light work on the upper back, Jenna said from behind me. I'll talk you through the pressure, and Bri's just here to assist if I need anything.

Her hands touched my shoulders. Warm. Oily. Stronger than I expected. She kneaded into my neck slowly, using her thumbs to push tension down toward my spine. I exhaled, trying to relax.

-- So, Luke... any particular injuries? Previous physical therapy?

-- Uh... no. Just bad posture and stress, I guess.

She hummed.

-- Mm-hmm. Pretty tight here. And lower trapezius feels underused. Classic student desk body.

That made Bri snort softly from somewhere near my legs.

-- Desk body. Love that.

I tried to chuckle, but it came out nervous. Jenna's hands kept moving. She adjusted the sheet slightly, tucking it under my arm, then sliding it further down.

-- I'm going to expose a bit more of the lumbar area, okay?

-- Y-yeah. That's fine.

I could feel the sheet pulling lower, down toward the waistband of my underwear. Her hands worked across my lower back now, thumbs pressing just above my hips. My thighs instinctively clenched.

-- You okay?

-- Yeah. Just... sensitive.

Jenna smiled softly, but didn't say anything. Her fingers glided further along my side, almost brushing the edge of my briefs. She adjusted the sheet again.

Then it happened.

A slight pull. An innocent tug. Just enough to lift the sheet off my right hip -- and suddenly, it was gone. My ass was exposed. Fully. I flinched, but stayed still.

And I knew -- I knew -- the way I was laying, my dick had slipped down between my thighs. It wasn't hiding anymore. It was hanging.

And they saw it.

Silence.

Then a pause too long to be accidental.

-- Oh... uh, Jenna? Bri said.

Jenna gently laid the sheet back in place, but not fast enough. I felt the heat rise in my neck like a fire alarm.

-- Sorry! she said quickly. I didn't mean to-- I just needed to reach your iliac crest and I--

-- No, no, it's fine, I said, voice muffled by the face ring. It's okay.

It wasn't okay. Not even close.

I could hear them shifting behind me. Whispering. A stifled breath that sounded like a held-in laugh. Then Bri again -- trying too hard to sound neutral.

-- So, um... is that, like, a... normal flaccid presentation?

Silence.

Then Jenna's voice. Soft. Almost analytical.

-- I mean... yes. Technically. But it's, um... definitely on the... lighter side.

My face burned.

They weren't mocking me directly -- not yet. But their words had the texture of gloves: soft on the surface, but you could feel the pressure underneath.

-- Hm. Not much hang, huh? Bri said.

Jenna cleared her throat.

-- Bri--

-- What? I'm being clinical!

I wanted to disappear.

And then, worse than everything -- I moved. My dick twitched. A small pulse. Not from arousal -- from panic, maybe. Or awareness.

-- Oh my god, Bri whispered. Is it... trying?

Jenna tried to keep her tone even.

-- It's... changing.

-- That's adorable.

I buried my face deeper into the cradle. My breathing was all wrong -- shallow, uneven. I felt like I was vibrating. Not from touch, not from pleasure, but from that electric humiliation that sets in when you know -- really know -- that two girls have seen every inch of you, and are talking about it like you're not even human.

Their voices floated above me like notes in a clinical report.

-- Definitely responsive, Bri said. Like, hypersensitive. That twitch was almost reflexive.

Jenna was silent for a moment, then spoke as if she were trying to redirect a class discussion.

-- Okay, we should keep going with the actual protocol. Posterior thigh mobilization.

She reached under the sheet and gripped the inside of my right leg -- gently but firmly -- lifting it slightly to rotate the hip. I flinched again, but didn't resist.

-- We'll need to expose more of the leg, she added, like she was asking permission but not really waiting for it.

The sheet shifted again. My ass was fully uncovered now. My thighs, too. I felt a cool breeze brush the exposed skin between my cheeks. I could feel how small I was -- how soft, how exposed, how everything about me hung awkwardly under my body like an apology.

Then Bri stepped closer.

I heard her voice, nearer now -- near my hip, near my dick, too close:

-- Sorry, just doing a quick visual alignment. Jenna said to double-check glute symmetry.

Her finger touched my upper thigh. Not the dick -- never the dick -- just the skin near it. Still, my cock pulsed again. Not full erection. Just another humiliating twitch.

-- There it goes again, she whispered.

-- Bri, stop--

-- What? I'm literally observing.

She let out a low whistle, not mocking -- worse -- entertained.

-- You poor thing. This is, like, the most attention it's ever gotten, huh?

I wanted to speak. To defend myself. To leave. But my body felt heavy. Pinned.

-- You're okay, right? Jenna asked gently.

I nodded into the cradle.

-- Yeah. I'm just... it's a little...

-- Vulnerable, she said.

-- Exposed, Bri added. Very exposed.

I felt something then -- fingers adjusting the waistband of my briefs. Not to cover. To peek. Just a tug upward that turned into a tiny, mocking wedgie. The fabric lifted slightly, revealing more skin below.

-- These aren't very supportive, Bri commented. Not much room for growth.

She paused.

-- Not that that's a problem here.

I clenched the table, my erection now more than a twitch. Still small -- so small -- but definitely hard. Pressed forward between my thighs, useless, trapped.

-- Jesus, Jenna muttered.

Not cruel. Just surprised.

I wished she'd been cruel. It would've been easier than her pity.

-- Luke... do you want to stop? she asked softly.

But before I could answer, Bri chimed in:

-- Or do you want to finish the session... like this?

I couldn't speak.

She giggled -- giggled -- and I heard her walk away toward the counter, leaving me there, fully exposed, hard, half-wedgied, and flushed to the bone.

Then Jenna lowered the sheet. Not to cover me. To rest it gently over my back like I was a patient again. As if nothing had happened.

As if I wasn't lying there with my tiny erection curled under me like a bad joke.

-- We'll stop here, she said quietly. Thank you for volunteering.

I stayed still as they walked to the other side of the room. I could hear them whispering. I couldn't make out words. But the rhythm -- the laughter -- was unmistakable.

When I finally got up, my legs shook.

I dressed in silence, hands fumbling with my waistband. My dick was still hard, somehow. Still pulsing. Still small. Still remembering.

As I stepped out, I heard Bri's voice through the door, hushed but not enough:

-- Should we mark him down as "micro"? Like, officially?

Jenna laughed. Not cruel. Just tired. But it landed like a slap.

-- He marked himself.

The door clicked closed behind me. And I couldn't walk fast enough.

The hallway outside the massage lab was cold. Brighter. Every footstep I took felt like it echoed too loudly, like the sound was announcing what had just happened behind me. I kept my eyes down, focused on the floor tiles, trying not to imagine how I must've looked -- walking out with a half-limp erection still trapped sideways in my underwear, cheeks flushed, neck stiff with shame.

I reached the stairwell and leaned against the wall, exhaling for the first time in what felt like forever. I was sweating. My briefs stuck to me uncomfortably, the fabric still twisted from how Bri had yanked them up to look. A thin line of sweat trickled down my back.

I didn't even know what to call what happened. It wasn't sexual -- not exactly. But it wasn't normal either. It sat somewhere in between: a perfect storm of touch and silence and glances and words that didn't have to be cruel to cut deep.

"Micro."

That word repeated in my skull like a bell. Even if she'd said it softly, even if she'd meant it like a joke -- it landed. It rooted. And worse than the word itself was the certainty behind it. They didn't guess. They knew now.

Knew what I looked like at my most vulnerable.

Knew how little there was.

Knew that even that could twitch and harden under the right kind of shame.

I replayed the moment again. Jenna's fingers adjusting the sheet. The cold air brushing under my ass. The way my dick had just... hung there, small and still. And Bri's breath, close to my hip, her finger pressing not quite there, the whisper when she said:

-- Oh wow, it's trying.

It hadn't even been a joke. She was genuinely amazed. Like she'd spotted a tiny flower trying to grow out of a crack in concrete. Curious. Slightly impressed. Deeply condescending.

I looked down at myself. My jeans felt too tight now -- not from arousal, but from the aftershock. My cock had wilted, shrunk back into its usual self. But it wasn't hidden. It felt like it knew what had just been seen.

I couldn't stop my hand from brushing over it. A soft squeeze through denim. Just to remind myself it was still there.

Still small.

Still real.

Still theirs.

The image burned again -- my reflection in the cabinet mirror, the angle at which I knew they'd seen me. From behind. Legs apart. Soft, exposed, twitching like I was saying thank you with every helpless pulse.

And the worst part?

Somewhere beneath the shame, beneath the ache, there was still a spark.

A warmth.

Not pleasure. Something darker.

I stood up straight, adjusted my hoodie, and walked to the exit. As I pushed the door open, I heard soft voices down the hall. Jenna. Bri. Laughing again.

-- Do you think he knows how small it looked?

-- Oh, babe. He knows. That's why he came.

The door closed behind me.

And I didn't say a word.