The Happiest Ending - Chapter 1

Chapter 1: The Cost of Release

LOOKING FOR A RELEASE

I hadn't come in almost four months. Not since the night I cried quietly in bed after finishing to a clip that barely even did it for me—some girl getting edged and ignored while her boyfriend played video games in the other room. I told myself it didn’t count. Told myself I was just tired. That things would get better when I met someone.

But I hadn’t met anyone. Not in person. Not online. Not even when I lowered my standards on those desperate late-night scrolls where you tell yourself you're just looking.

I wasn't ugly. Not exactly. Just… soft. Shy. The kind of guy girls call "sweet" right before they say you're not their type. I didn’t dress cool or talk smooth. And I certainly didn’t flirt the way Jake did.

Jake was my best friend. Jake was also a prick.

He was the kind of guy who got laid after parties by saying things like “you seem like the kind of girl who fakes it with nerds.” And somehow, they laughed. I never understood it. He said the quiet parts out loud and women still wanted him.

We were polar opposites, but he’d taken it upon himself to “fix” me over the years—dragging me to bars, making me try on his tighter shirts, convincing me to text girls back when I just wanted to delete the apps.

So when I admitted—foolishly, so stupidly—that I was going through a bit of a dry spell, Jake leaned back on his couch, cracked a beer, and smirked.

“You ever been to Bliss?”

I blinked. “What’s that?”

“Little spa downtown. Kinda place you don’t see on Yelp, you know? But I’ve heard things. Real things.”

I didn’t answer. He didn’t wait.

“Word is, you tip big, they finish you off real nice. No questions, no strings, just a little massage and a wink at the end.”

He grinned at me like he was doing me a favor. Like this was friendship.

“I mean,” he added with a sideways glance, “might even be a girl in there who’s into your… sensitive thing. Who knows? Tell ‘em you want what you got last time. They’ll know what to do with a little thing like you.”

I laughed. Nervously. Tried to play it off. But my ears were burning. And something in my chest—shame? arousal? both?—tightened when he said “little thing like you.”

I didn’t say I’d go. I didn’t promise anything. But the next night, after another restless evening scrolling past strangers who would never swipe right, I found myself walking down a side street I’d never noticed before, heart racing, palms sweating, eyes fixed on the dim neon sign blinking pink and white above the door:

Arriving at Bliss.

The neighborhood looked like it hadn't seen daylight in a decade. Rusted security gates curled up over darkened storefronts. A shuttered vape shop sat next to a payday loan place with bars on the windows. The sidewalk glistened—not with rain, but with that oily, questionable sheen that only appears in alleys and bad dreams.

I parked across the street, engine still running, and stared at the narrow building tucked between a pawn shop and a nail salon. Bliss, said the sign in fading bubblegum-pink neon. One of the letters flickered like it wasn’t sure if it should still be trying.

I sat there for almost thirty minutes.

Told myself I’d go in for the joke. For the story. For Jake.

Told myself I’d just ask about the price. That if it was sketchy, I’d leave.

Told myself anything to explain why I was sitting there, heart pounding, erection already swelling uncomfortably under my jeans.

Eventually, I killed the engine and crossed the street.

The moment I opened the door, I was swallowed by heat and perfume.

It was quiet. Almost too quiet. Low music played—something breathy and female, all sighs and whispered melodies. The air was thick with scented oil, like flowers left too long in the sun. And everything inside was satin. Dramatic warm colors that made skin look flushed and shadows look private.

The reception desk was just ahead, behind a curved pane of tinted glass. And behind that desk sat a woman who looked like she should have been running an estate in the Hamptons, not a brothel with dim lighting and happy endings.

She was older, maybe late sixties, with white-blonde hair pulled into a smooth chignon and flawless red lipstick that didn’t budge when she frowned. Her blouse was silk, black, with a pearl brooch at the collar and sleeves so crisp they looked starched. Not a wrinkle in sight. She gave off the kind of elegance that made you feel underdressed just for existing.

She looked me up and down once, and her mouth flattened.

“Welcome to Bliss. Do you have an appointment?”

I stammered. “Uh, n-no, I—my friend said I should—he said to tell you I wanted what I got last time.”

There was a beat. Her expression didn’t change, but something in her eyes did. A flicker of understanding—or judgment. Maybe both.

“Of course,” she said, as though she’d been expecting me. “Take a seat. You’ll be called shortly.”

I sat on the little pink velvet loveseat across from the desk. The cushion was too plush, too feminine. I sank in too deeply and felt ridiculous.

Then the girls walked by.

There were two of them at first. One blonde, one brunette. Laughing softly, whispering. Both in matching lingerie sets designed more for attention than for support: sheer bralettes with little satin bows between the cups, high-cut panties that dipped into V’s in the front and barely covered anything in the back. Their legs were long and smooth, wrapped in shiny, nude pantyhose that caught the light with every step. Each wore tall platform heels with ankle straps and soft little charms dangling near the buckle—like something out of a doll’s closet. Their robes were short, pastel satin, and belted high above the waist, doing nothing to hide what was underneath.

I swallowed.

Another girl passed by. This one with darker skin, long red nails, and a tight corset worn over her robe like it was part of the uniform. She adjusted it as she walked, tugging the laces just a little tighter. She winked when she saw me looking, and I immediately looked away, face burning.

I didn’t belong here.

I didn’t talk like Jake. I didn’t touch girls like that. I barely knew how to look at them without feeling stupid. And now I was surrounded by women who looked like lingerie models and smelled like warm sugar and heat, and I was sinking further into a velvet couch like I was being devoured.

“Room three,” the receptionist called, not even looking up. “Follow her.”

I looked over to see a new woman standing in the doorway. She was taller than the others. Tan skin. Smoky eye makeup. Glossy lips that curved into a smirk when she saw me.

“You’re cute,” she said casually. “Come on, baby. I’ve got you.”

My knees nearly gave out when I stood. She walked ahead, hips swaying, heels clicking. I followed like a dog.

The hallway was dim, lined with soft amber sconces. The walls were painted mauve. Everything smelled like lavender and sweat.

The room she led me to was small, softly lit, and unbearably warm. A massage table took up most of the space. A tray of oils and towels sat neatly at the side. Music played from a hidden speaker—slow, sensual, almost wet.

She closed the door behind us and turned to face me, arms crossed under her chest.

“So,” she said, taking a step forward, “First time?”

I nodded.

“Nervous?”

I nodded again.

Her smile widened. “Good.”

The Massage

She gestured to the massage table. “Clothes off, baby. Under the towel. Face down.”

I hesitated—just a flicker of uncertainty—but she arched a brow and added, “Unless you want me to help you undress?”

I shook my head quickly and turned away.

There was no privacy. No changing curtain. Just me, fumbling with my belt while she busied herself with the oil tray, humming some sultry tune under her breath like this was the most normal thing in the world.

My jeans got caught on my heel. My hoodie didn’t want to come off clean. I stripped down to my boxers and stood there awkwardly for a second too long before she turned back and gave me a look.

“All of it, sweetheart. You’re not hiding anything I haven’t seen before.”

My cheeks burned. I slid my underwear down and climbed onto the table as fast as I could, folding myself beneath the thin towel, face buried in the cradle. The vinyl was warm. Or maybe I was just flushed.

She took her time, starting with the oil. I heard the click of the bottle. The soft squelch of her warming it between her hands. Then her palms pressed into my shoulders, strong but soft, and the sensation was so immediate and intimate that I actually flinched.

“Relax, honey,” she cooed. “You’re so tense. Poor baby.”

Her hands glided over my back, down my sides, pressing into my muscles with practiced ease. But it wasn’t like any massage I’d ever imagined. This was rhythmic. Sensual. Like she was studying my body, not fixing it.

“You’ve got the softest skin I’ve ever felt on a boy,” she said after a minute, almost like she was talking to herself. “You shave your legs?”

I didn’t answer.

“You do, don’t you?” She laughed gently. “God, that’s adorable.”

I wanted to disappear into the table.

Her hands moved lower, spreading oil along the backs of my thighs. She kneaded them slowly, deliberately, letting her fingertips trace the seam where my ass met my legs. The towel slipped just a little.

“And look at this cute little bottom,” she purred. “Bet you’ve been told that before, haven’t you?”

I hadn’t. Not once. But I didn’t know how to say that. So I stayed quiet, trembling under her touch.

She leaned closer, her voice just above my ear. “Tell me something,” she whispered. “When you came in here tonight… were you hoping I’d touch you like this?”

I made a strangled noise. Her fingers dug into my thighs, her thumbs pressing inward, dangerously close to places I was trying not to think about.

“Be honest,” she said, a little firmer now. “It’s okay. I like sweet little boys. The ones who blush when they are touched.”

Her hands slid up again, nudging the towel higher until I felt the cool air kiss the base of my spine. I was fully exposed back there, but she didn’t hesitate. Her oiled fingertips began tracing slow circles over the soft skin of my ass, making my hips twitch against the table.

“Mmm.” She let the sound linger. “So smooth. I swear, your body puts mine to shame. Bet you’d look gorgeous in a little satin set.”

I didn’t know if she meant it. If she was mocking me. But my cock was hard now—pressing into the towel, throbbing with every humiliating word.

I tried to shift, subtly, to hide it, but the motion only made the fabric drag across my tip. I bit my lip and stayed still.

She moved lower, her palms slick and warm, spreading oil over the tops of my thighs. Her touch was slow, lazy, indulgent. Like she was petting me more than massaging me.

And then she let one hand drift inward.

Her fingertips grazed the soft, vulnerable skin between my thighs and ass, her nails lightly dragging through the oil she’d smeared there. I stiffened—but she didn’t flinch. She simply kept going. Slower. Deeper.

When her fingers reached the cleft of my ass, she didn’t hesitate. She slid two of them between my cheeks, parting them like she owned the right to.

“Mmm.” Her voice was velvet. “So smooth. It’s like you waxed back here just for me.”

I hadn’t. I didn’t think I had. But maybe I had trimmed a little too carefully. Maybe I’d been hoping… something.

She pressed in again, this time with more intent. Her fingertips circled lazily around my hole—never touching it directly, just orbiting. Teasing. The pressure was maddening.

“Bet no girl’s ever played back here, huh?” she whispered, leaning over me like a secret. “Shy little thing like you… they probably never even bothered looking.”

I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. My mouth was dry, and my cock was aching against the towel.

She kept circling, slow, relentless. Oil pooled in the valley between my cheeks. Her touch was warm and rhythmic, tracing delicate spirals, never crossing that final line—but coming so close it made my whole body tense.

“You don’t need me to stroke it,” she murmured, as if reading my thoughts. “It’s already leaking, isn’t it?”

I made a choked sound. Her fingertip circled tighter, slower.

“Poor thing,” she crooned. “So easy. So soft. You’re like a little doll someone left out in the heat.”

She dipped just a little closer, the pad of her finger brushing the rim—pressing in, slowly but with intention. My hips jerked involuntarily. My cock twitched, untouched but unbearably hard.

“Would you like to finish like a good girl?” she whispered, her lips so close to my ear I could feel the shape of every syllable.

That was it. That was all it took.

I bit down hard against the padded cradle and came—violently, shamefully, untouched on the outside. My whole body shook, helpless and small, as my release soaked the towel beneath me. I could hear it. Feel it. Sticky and hot. My thighs trembled.

She didn’t say anything at first. Just let her hand rest between my cheeks, fingers still gliding gently over oil-slick skin like she was comforting me. Or claiming me.

Then she exhaled a little sigh.

“Aww,” she said softly. “That was quick.”

How did I forget that?

I don’t know how long I lay there, panting into the cradle, my body loose and weak and humiliated. Her hand was still resting on the small of my back—two fingers gently stroking like I was some soft little thing she’d just fed.

Eventually, she pulled away with a soft pat. I heard her slide her gloves off with a snap and the rustle of a tissue.

“You did good,” she said lightly. “You are cute. I wish I could keep you.”

I didn’t know what to say. I just nodded against the table, still face-down, still trying to piece myself back together.

When I finally sat up, the towel stuck to me in places I didn’t want to think about. I grabbed for my clothes quickly, clumsily, trying to shield myself as I redressed. My limbs didn’t seem to want to cooperate. Everything was too warm. Too slow.

She didn’t look away.

Just leaned against the counter by the door, arms crossed, watching me.

“Don’t take it so hard,” she said with a grin. “You’re adorable when you cum. Kinda… desperate.”

I wanted to crawl inside my clothes and vanish.

When I finally stepped back into the hallway, the light out there felt brighter. Sharper. Like the walls had tilted slightly, like the floor was slanted in a direction I didn’t understand yet.

I gave a little nod to the masseuse, murmured something like thank you, and headed for the front desk.

The receptionist was still there, sitting like a queen behind her curved pink desk, reading a hardbound book with no title on the spine. Her pearl brooch caught the light. Her lipstick hadn’t smudged a millimeter.

She looked up as I approached and closed the book with a delicate snap.

“Room three,” she said crisply. “Forty for the standard, seventy-five for the… tip.”

I reached for my wallet. And froze.

My back pocket was empty. I patted my other pocket. Nothing. Jacket? Nothing.

I went cold.

“I—I had it,” I stammered. “I must’ve—I just—”

Her expression didn’t change. She simply tilted her head and said,

“You came here without money?”

“No! I mean—yes, I had it. I swear. I parked right outside, I came straight in, I—”

“Perhaps you left it in the room. Or in your car.”
She didn’t blink. “You may check. But if you step outside, we call security. We don’t like runners.”

I blinked. “Wait—no, I’m not—I’m not trying to run, I just…”

“It happens,” she said smoothly, cutting me off. “More often than you’d think. Men get a little overexcited. Forget their wallets. Leave their dignity on the table.”

Behind me, somewhere down the hallway, I heard a soft laugh.

“I can pay you,” I said quickly. “I’ll come back. Or I’ll transfer—do you take Venmo?”

Her smile was all teeth.

“No. We take cash, credit, or service.”

That last word made my stomach drop.

“You came here asking for what your friend got, didn’t you?”
She arched a perfectly sculpted brow. “Well. He paid.”

I stared at her. My skin felt too tight. The air too warm again.

She opened a drawer and pulled out a clipboard. Slid it across the desk.

“You may work off what you owe,” she said, in a tone that made it sound like a formality. “One shift should suffice.”

I stared at the form—there were blanks for a name, a signature, a line that just said SERVICE AGREEMENT in crisp, serifed font.

“Work?” I asked, voice cracking slightly.

“Yes.” She looked at me like I was simple. “You didn’t think we just let boys like you waltz off without paying, did you?”

I flushed. “I—I can sweep. Or, I don’t know, clean rooms. That sort of thing. Just something simple.”

That was when she smiled. It wasn’t kind.

“Of course. We’ll provide the uniform.”

Something about the way she said it—precise, amused—made my stomach clench.

“Can I just wear what I have on?” I asked quickly. “I mean… if I’m just cleaning up, I don’t really need…”

Her laugh was quiet, clipped, devastating.

“Oh, no, darling. That won’t do.”

She turned in her seat, pressing a little button beneath the desk.

A soft chime rang in the back hallway. A moment later, the woman from before—the tall masseuse with the sultry smirk—appeared in the doorway again, holding something folded in her hands. Silky. Pink.

“This one’s yours,” the receptionist said, not even looking up. “He’s eager to serve.”

Paying my Debts

She led me down the hallway without a word, the pink bundle cradled in one arm, hips swaying like she didn’t even notice how high her heels were. I followed like I had a choice, barefoot and uncertain, every step bringing me deeper into this strange, perfumed underworld.

We passed rooms with closed doors and soft sounds—moans, laughter, whispers in languages I didn’t recognize. I tried not to look.

At the very end of the hall, she opened a door and gestured for me to enter.

The room was bright. Brighter than the others. The walls were lined with mirrors. A vanity glowed softly beneath a row of lit bulbs. On one side sat a rack of hanging satin robes and lingerie—pastel pinks, creamy whites, pale lavenders. On the other side, a set of drawers labeled with neat little tags: Wigs, Corsets, Hosiery, Toys.

I stopped in the doorway.

She turned, holding the bundle between her palms like a sacred offering.

“Arms up,” she said.

I blinked. “What—what is that?”

“Your uniform.”

It unfolded in her hands like a spell: a silk teddy, blush pink with lace edging, soft triangle cups, and a plunging neckline that dipped all the way to the navel. The back was barely more than a thong, held together by delicate crisscrossing straps. She laid it on the vanity stool and pulled open a drawer without looking.

“Step out of your clothes. Now.”

My body hesitated, even as my hands moved. Something in her voice made refusal feel impossible.

As I stripped, she worked quickly. Pulled out a tight white corset—boned, glossy, and terrifying. Laid out a garter belt with tiny heart clasps. A pair of sheer, thigh-high stockings that shimmered like liquid under the vanity lights. And finally: heels.

Not just heels. Platforms. White with pink soles, glittering ankle straps, and little heart charms that matched the garter belt. The kind of shoes I’d only seen on porn stars.

“You’re going to look precious,” she murmured, walking behind me.

The corset came first. She slipped it around my waist, pulled it tight, and began lacing with expert speed.

“Breathe in,” she said. “Tighter. Good girl.”

My ribs compressed. My spine straightened. I gasped.

“Look at that waist,” she purred. “I told you that you were built like a doll.”

The teddy came next, sliding over my skin with sinful ease. It clung in all the wrong places—tight at the hips, snug between my cheeks, the lace brushing against the sensitive underside of my cock. Which, shamefully, was already starting to stir again.

“You’re hard already?” she laughed. “God, you really are easy.”

The garter belt clicked into place around my cinched waist. She rolled the stockings up one leg at a time, smoothing them slowly, taking her time as her fingers traced the shape of my calf, the softness of my thighs.

She made me step into the heels—tight, tall, ridiculous. I wobbled immediately.

“Aw,” she cooed. “Baby’s first heels.”

I didn’t know where to look. The mirror. The floor. Her.

She pulled out a wig— blonde, softly curled—and sat me at the vanity. Her nails clicked as she adjusted the straps, tugged it tight, and began to paint my face.

Powder. Liner. A little blush. Gloss.

“Hold still.”

It was surreal. A blur of brushes and perfume. Her fingers in my mouth, tugging my lip down to gloss it. A gentle tsk when I flinched.

And then she stepped back.

“Stand.” I did.

“Turn.” I obeyed.

“Good girl.” I didn’t correct her.

The reflection in the mirror didn’t look like me. Or maybe it did. Maybe it was the part of me I’d ignored for too long—the one that always lingered too long in the lingerie aisle, that trimmed too carefully, that liked how nylons felt, even if I never admitted it.

I felt… wrong.

I felt seen.

I felt hard again.

And then a quiet ding echoed through the room.

She looked at her phone. Smiled.

“That’s for us,” she said. “Your first appointment is here.”

I froze. “Wait—what? Appointment?”

“Mhm.” She reached for a perfume bottle and spritzed it gently over my thighs. “Don’t worry, baby. I’ll stay with you. I’m your trainer tonight.”

My heart was hammering. “No—I mean, is this real? This is—this is a joke, right? Jake put you up to this?”

She smiled, syrupy and cruel. “Who is Jake? No baby girl, I am in charge now.”

She took my hand—dainty, limp, glossed—and began walking me down the hallway.

Each step was a performance. The corset forced my back straight. The heels forced my hips to sway. The teddy slid with every motion, brushing my cock through the silk with maddening softness. The air kissed my thighs between the tops of my stockings and the edge of the lace.

I could hear laughter behind closed doors. I could smell oil and perfume and something male.

My legs trembled.

This is just a prank. He’s gonna open the door and laugh and say gotcha. He’s going to film it and show everyone and I’ll be embarrassed for a week and then it’ll be over. This isn’t real. It can’t be real—

We stopped.

Room five.

She opened the door.

“After you,” my trainer said softly, with a hand on the small of my back.

Heels clicking. Heart racing. One door away from his fate. But is it a cruel prank… or just the beginning of his new career?

Chapter One was my gift to you. For the next appointment, you’ll need to join the VIP list. You’re not going to leave him alone in that room, are you?