A woman lies face down on a massage table, legs slightly apart, feet relaxed. Camera is positioned low, at the foot of the table — looking straight up along her body, from behind. Her pale white skin glistens with oil — the full curve of her bare ass fully exposed, the shadow between her cheeks, the soft swell of her hips, the inner line of her thighs catching the warm amber light. She wears nothing below the waist — her thin black string thong has just been ripped off, lying crumpled on the floor. Oil drips slowly down her spine, pooling at the base of her back. Her head is turned to the side — not visible from this angle — but her body tenses, shoulders tighten, fingers curl into the towel. A sharp gasp escapes her — breathless, startled. Behind her, the massage therapist’s hands hover just above her skin — frozen mid-air. The room is silent. Warm. Heavy. No filters. No music. Just the slick sheen of oil. Just the space between her legs. Just the moment she realized, she’s not safe.