Marcus reached for a clean, white towel draped over a nearby equipment rack. He stepped back into Trent’s space, the looming blue of his suit contrasting sharply with the performer's vulnerable, oiled frame. With slow, rhythmic strokes, Marcus began to wipe away the performance oil and the salt of the night's sweat. He started with the shoulders, moving down the massive deltoids and over the thick, brown hair of Trent’s pectorals.
"You know, kid, I think this is one of my favorite parts," Marcus said quietly, his eyes fixed on the way the towel moved over Trent’s unresisting frame. His voice was conversational, yet it carried a chilling edge. "It always amazes me how this simple act of cleaning manages to ignite you even through the depth of the trance."
As the towel brushed over the sensitive skin of Trent’s lower stomach and moved toward his lap, the biological response was undeniable. Despite his mind being completely vacant, Trent’s body reacted to the touch. His member began to throb, thick veins bulging along the shaft as he hardened rapidly under the friction of the cloth. Within seconds, he was fully and fiercely erect, the rigid length pointing straight out in a state of absolute, skyward defiance.
Marcus finished the task, wiping the last of the oil from Trent's powerful thighs until the skin took on a clean, matte finish. He stood back, admiring the sight: the massive performer slumped in a deep, hypnotic sleep, yet sporting a rock-hard, pulsing erection that seemed to have a life of its own.
Marcus took the towel and draped it casually over Trent's broad shoulders, much like a trainer would for a prize fighter at the end of a grueling match. He looked at the towering, unconscious man, the clean lines of his muscles, and the monumental arousal on display with a look of profound satisfaction.
"Perfect," Marcus whispered. "Absolutely perfect."