Chapter 2: Hands-On Training
The milkshake sat in Danny’s stomach like a warm, pleasant stone. The frantic anxiety of his first shift had melted into a buzzing, heavy-limbed calm. He helped Becky wipe down the counters in a comfortable silence, the only sound the squeak of cloth on stainless steel and the distant thrum of the freezers.
“You’re a quick study,” Becky said, rinsing her rag in the sink. “Once you stop thinking about it so much, you’ll be fine.”
Before he could answer, the back door swung open. Katie stepped in, shrugging off a light jacket. She’d changed from her work shirt into a soft, tight-fitting tank top the color of burnt honey. Her hair was down, a dark cascade around her shoulders.
“Survived initiation, I see,” Katie said, her eyes flicking to the empty, cream-smeared glasses. A slow smile touched her lips. “Good. The first one’s always the strangest.”
“He took to it like a natural,” Becky chirped, hanging her apron. “Now for phase two.”
Danny’s calm flickered. “Phase two?”
“Advanced training,” Katie said, her voice smooth. She walked past him, her shoulder brushing his arm. A faint, clean scent of lavender and something spicier trailed in her wake. “You can’t properly maintain the equipment if you don’t know the products. Follow me.”
Becky gave him an encouraging nod, her expression one of pure, guileless excitement. They led him into the heart of the back room, past the sacks of sugar and cones, to a dimmer, warmer corner near the humming stainless steel bulk tank. Here, a single bare bulb hung over a worn wooden table scarred with old knife marks and sticky rings. Two mismatched armchairs, upholstered in faded floral fabric, were pushed to the side.
Katie pulled a small, amber glass bottle from a shelf cluttered with cleaning supplies and old order forms. She placed it on the table with a soft clink. The liquid inside was thick, the color of dark honey.
“This,” she said, her fingers resting on the stopper, “is Mazzola Bust Oil. Imported. We use it on the brass fittings to keep them from seizing. Also,” her eyes met Danny’s, a playful glint in the low light, “it’s fantastic for keeping skin supple. Prevents chafing under the aprons. A workplace essential.”
Becky was already pulling the strap of her tank top down over one smooth, freckled shoulder. “It’s part of the closing routine, Danny. Self-care. You try to scoop ice cream with a stiff shoulder, you’ll wreck yourself by August.”
Danny’s mouth went dry. The warm fullness from the shake curdled into a knot of nervous heat. He watched, frozen, as Becky revealed the generous swell of one breast, the curve of it pale and heavy in the dim light. She poured a small pool of the oil into her palm, the smell filling the space—a deep, nutty aroma of almonds and something floral, like orange blossoms.
“The key is to warm it in your hands first,” she murmured, more to herself than to him, rubbing her palms together. Then she began to massage the oil into her own skin, her movements firm and circular, starting at the collarbone and working outward with a practiced, unhurried rhythm. Her head tilted back, eyes closing. A soft sigh escaped her.
Katie watched, leaning against the table, arms crossed. Her expression was unreadable. “See? It’s just maintenance. Like oiling a bike chain.”
Becky opened her eyes, her gaze finding Danny’s. Her cheeks were flushed. “Your turn. Can’t have you seizing up on us.” She nodded to the bottle.
Danny’s hands trembled as he picked it up. It was warm from Katie’s touch. He fumbled with the stopper, the scent now overwhelming, intimate.
“Not on yourself, silly,” Becky laughed, a low, rich sound. “On me. I can’t reach the proper angle on my own back. Katie usually helps, but she’s got a wrist thing. Right, Kat?”
“Tendonitis,” Katie confirmed without missing a beat, flexing her right hand. “Doctor’s orders. No repetitive strain.”
This was a coordinated play. Danny knew it in some distant, logical part of his brain. But the logic was drowned out by the pounding of his own heart, the close, sweet air, the sight of Becky’s skin gleaming under the single bulb.
“It’s just a technique lesson,” Katie encouraged, her voice a gentle push. “We all do it. It’s no big deal.”
Swallowing hard, Danny poured a little oil. It was slick, warmer than he expected. He stepped closer to Becky, the space between them collapsing. The hum of the bulk tank seemed to grow louder, a mechanical heartbeat.
“Here,” Becky guided, taking his wrist. Her fingers were strong. She placed his oil-slick palm high on the slope of her chest, just below her collarbone. Her skin was impossibly soft, warm, alive. “Small circles. Firm pressure. You’re working it in, not just smearing it.”
He obeyed, his mind going blank, reducing to the single point of contact. The texture of her skin under his fingertips, the resilient softness beneath, the heady smell of almonds and her own perfume. He moved in the clumsy circles she dictated, his other hand hanging uselessly at his side.
“Other hand, too,” Katie instructed softly from the shadows. “Balance is important.”
He lifted his other hand, applying it to the opposite side. Now he was framed before her, his hands working over the upper curves of her breasts. He was terrifyingly aware of the swell rising beneath his trembling fingers, of the deep cleavage a mere inch from his knuckles. He kept his eyes fixed on a point on the wall behind her, on a faded poster for a butterfat conference from 1997.
Becky watched his face, her breathing slow and deep. “Good. That’s it. You’ve got a gentle touch.”
Katie moved then, coming to stand just behind Danny’s shoulder. He could feel the heat of her. “See how the skin drinks it in?” she murmured, her voice close to his ear. “It’s all about absorption. Nourishing what’s underneath.”
Her hand reached around him, not touching him, but pointing. Her finger traced a line in the air just above where his hands worked. “The pectoral muscle supports everything. You want to encourage tone, circulation.” Her words were clinical, but her tone was anything but. It was a low, intimate vibration that traveled straight down his spine.
Becky’s eyes fluttered closed again. “Mmm. He’s a natural, Katie.”
Danny’s movements became slightly more confident, driven by a desperate need to do this correctly, to not offend, to disappear into the mechanics of the task. The oil warmed further between their skin, creating a slick, frictionless plane. His thumbs accidentally brushed the sensitive curve where her breast began its full, heavy ascent. She didn’t flinch. She exhaled, a long, contented sound.
“That’s the spot,” she whispered. “Right there. Just… gentle.”
Time distorted. The humming machinery, the scent, the heat, the overwhelming tactile reality of it all blurred into a single experience. He was no longer a college kid in a back room; he was a participant in a strange, secret ritual.
Finally, Becky’s hands came up, covering his. She stilled him. Her skin was slick with oil. “Perfect. See? Workplace safety.” She smiled, her eyes lazy and satisfied. She pulled her tank top strap back up, the fabric clinging instantly to the oiled skin, becoming nearly translucent.
Danny stepped back, his arms falling to his sides. His hands glistened, fragrant and alien. He felt dizzy, unmoored.
Katie handed him a clean, dry towel. “Good job, trainee.” Her smile was small, knowing. “Now you know. It’s all part of the service.”
Becky stretched, the movement expansive and unselfconscious. “I feel brand new. Thanks, Danny. You’re officially one of us now.” She winked. “Ready for your next shift?”
He nodded, unable to form words. The shake, the oil, their easy, commanding presence—it was a current pulling him from a shore he could barely remember. He wiped his hands on the towel, but the smell of almonds clung to him, a sweet, persistent ghost.
As he pushed open the back door into the cool evening air, the ordinary sounds of the street felt like a shock. He glanced back once. Through the window, he saw Katie leaning against the table, saying something that made Becky throw her head back and laugh, the sound muffled by glass. Becky’s hand rested on the amber bottle, her thumb stroking its side.
Danny turned and walked home, the taste of the special shake still a phantom on his tongue, the feeling of warm, slick skin imprinted on his hands. The quiet awkwardness of his old life seemed to wait for him in his small apartment, but it felt thinner now, like a costume that no longer quite fit.
The quiet awkwardness of his old life seemed to wait for him in his small apartment, but it felt thinner now, like a costume that no longer quite fit. He scrubbed his hands twice with abrasive soap, yet the ghostly scent of almond oil and orange blossom lingered in his nostrils, a perfumed anchor to the creamery’s back room. Sleep, when it finally came, was a deep, dense pool, and he sank into it without resistance.
His dreams were not narratives but sensations. The warm, yielding pressure of Becky’s skin beneath his palms returned, but the texture changed, becoming his own. He felt a strange, full ache in his chest, a heaviness that was both foreign and deeply satisfying. In the shifting dark, his own hands explored the new curve and weight, the same nutty oil making his skin gleam under the single bulb.
Becky’s voice filtered through, not from beside him but from within him. “You’re a natural. See how it drinks it in?” The weight increased, a pleasant, pulling fullness. Then Katie’s murmur, cool and approving. “Nourishing what’s underneath.”
He looked down in the dream logic and saw the familiar curve of Becky’s freckled cleavage, but the hands smoothing oil over it were his own, attached to his arms. The shock was visceral but not frightening; it was a completion. The deep, satisfying warmth of the special shake spread from his core, feeding the new heaviness, making it swell.
“Just gentle,” the Becky-voice sighed from his own throat. “All that room to grow.”
He woke with a jolt, his heart hammering against his ribs. The room was dark, the sheet tangled around his waist. He threw a hand to his chest, pressing hard against his sternum. It was flat, bony, familiar. A cold sweat coated his skin, but the phantom sensation of lush, oily weight persisted, a tactile echo. He lay there, breathing heavily, the dream’s details fragmenting but its core feeling lodged deep in his muscle memory—a haunting, impossible fullness. The digital clock glowed 4:17 AM. The apartment was silent, but the memory of the creamery’ hum felt louder.