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A Sensual Massage Turns Sexy

by Elle A. Wild 25 days ago in fiction

So much for professionalism

photo source: https://depositphotos.com/144286823/stock-photo-sexy-woman-on-spa-salon.html

This work of erotic fiction is intended for adults 18+.

I’d scrolled past the discount code on one of those apps a couple of times and had thought about it, but the price for the ‘discounted’ massage at the swanky spa was still pretty steep.

I’d had a long day — a long week — at work though, and the idea of that massage kept slipping into my thoughts.

I was tense and cranky and sore, and by god, I needed it. I needed it.

So I shelled out the money and called the spa. They just had one appointment left that evening and it was with a male practitioner. Normally, I’d request a woman and save any chance of awkwardness, but I was desperate.

When I arrived and the front desk pointed me toward my masseuse, a little ‘Ohh’ slipped out of my mouth before I could stop it.

Was this man a bodybuilder? A model on the side? Jesus fucking Christ.

I thought of his hands on me, controlled by those strong muscles, and nervous butterflies filled my torso. I swallowed. What was wrong with me? I was an adult, and he was a professional, and I was being inappropriate.

He led me to the room where he left me alone to disrobe. I took off everything until I was only in my panties, considered it a moment, and told myself not to be a baby.

I placed them with the rest of my clothes and then slid under the soft white sheets. As soon as I’d put my face into the headrest, I felt better, more relaxed. This was a good decision.

“Lisa,” he said, and his use of my name felt so personal in this space, “What can I help you with this evening?”

“Um.” I considered lifting my head but was afraid I’d blush if I looked at him. “I’m just so tense from work. Just… everywhere. I’m looking for the most relaxing set of things you can do.”

Was that specific enough? Probably not, but I didn’t know what to say to these people. My trapequad needs loosening? Please.

“No problem,” he said, his voice deep with a hint of honey to it. “Relaxing, we can do.”

He put on some sort of calming music with the sound of rain running through it, and then he placed a hot towel on my back, rubbing me gently through it.

“Mmm,” I heard myself say, and I then cringed at myself. It had obviously been too long since I’d had a massage.

He chuckled softly. “The hot towel is good, isn’t it?”

“Mhm,” I said, embarrassed.

Eventually, he removed the towel and placed the sheet higher on my back. Then he began to stroke me over the sheet, his hands moving all the way from my neck, down my back, over my ass (goodness!), and down all the way to my feet.

I sighed. I couldn’t help it. It was perfection.

He repeated this process a couple of times, and it felt so incredible, I couldn’t imagine how it’d feel when the sheets were pulled down. But I didn’t have to wait long.

When he went in on my neck and shoulders with those strong hands and their long fingers, I groaned.

“I’m so sorry,” I said from my headrest. “You’re… so good at this.”

Again, he chuckled. “Don’t be sorry; just enjoy it.” He added, “It’s supposed to be pleasurable.”

Why did his voice have to be sex on strings?

I allowed myself a little more freedom with my vocals after that. It didn’t seem to bother him, after all. And really, it was his fault.

When his hands smoothed down my sides and grazed my breasts just above where they touched the sheet, I thought at first I’d imagined it. Wishful thinking?

But when it happened again, I knew it was real. Was he supposed to touch my breasts? Was that allowed?

I supposed I didn’t mind. It did feel good…

When he moved down to my lower back, his thumbs digging into tender places while his fingers wrapped around my hips, I felt the distinct impulse to grind against the table.

I didn’t do it, but god, those thumbs — they almost made me.

From there, he moved down to the bottom end of the table, sliding the sheet a bit to the side, and bringing a hot towel to my foot, which he began to knead.

“Ohhh,” I let slip from my mouth.

“You like that?” he asked.

“Yes.”

When the towel cooled, he continued on my foot and moved slowly up my ankle, massaging my calves with expert movements. I hadn’t known they were sore, but something about the way he unlocked those tiny muscles sent this electricity right to my clit.

I know it doesn’t make sense, but I swear to god, the way he was grasping my calves made me unbelievably needy.

He moved the sheet to the side again, exposing more of my leg.

It occurred to me that the sheet might be getting wet underneath me. Would he notice? Could he?

His hand moved, brushing the underneath part of my knee and sending a shiver up me, as he moved his hand to my thigh.

As he massaged, I felt myself rocking slightly against the table. What the fuck was wrong with me?

He moved the sheet again to expose my ass.

One hand slid up to massage my ‘glute,’ and the other trailed up the inside of my thigh, getting dangerously close to where I realized I wanted it.

His hand on my ass dug in deep, while the one on my inner thigh was soft.

I knew I was wet and that wetness had to be spreading. Could he see the spot there beside his fingers?

He just barely grazed my outer labia and I gasped before he replaced the sheet and moved back down to my feet to start the whole process on my other leg.

I was more vocal this time. I couldn’t help it. Each perfect movement of his hands had me moaning. He didn’t chuckle anymore at these outbursts — he was expecting them.

I realized I could hear him breathing, and his breathing was fast — just because of the exertion or something more?

When his hands returned to my glute and upper thigh of the second leg I was tingling in anticipation. Would he again slide his fingers past places he shouldn’t?

Instead, he switched to one hand on each ass cheek, his thumbs burying themselves in my inner thigh, oh so close to the crease that connected to my pussy.

If I wasn’t imagining it, they seemed to be moving closer with every sensual circle.

And then I felt it — they grazed my outer labia. Both of them. They moved forward underneath me so that they got more, starting to massage the space between my vulva and my entrance.

As his hands worked, my own juices mixed with the massage oil, so that he was massaging me with my own wetness.

And then it wasn’t just his thumbs. His hands were reaching under me, stroking, pulling, massaging. It was a sensation like I’d never experienced, and all of the blood in my body was flowing to that area.

I was moaning audibly for him.

“You like that?”

“Mhm.”

And then as his left hand massaged my vulva, a finger on his right hand slipped just inside my pussy. It was gentle as it started to trace little circles on my front inside wall.

“Oh fuck,” I said aloud.

“How’s this?” he asked.

“Perfect.”

His circles inside me slowly became more insistent, and I began to press against his hand, that godly feeling of my g-spot being massaged releasing any remaining inhibitions.

But he took his time with it, letting the sensation build as my legs shook on the table.

Finally, he asked, “Do you want the release?”

“Yes,” I moaned.

His hands synced up, sped up, and suddenly the delicious tension that had been building just in my core moved out of my control.

“Oh, my godddd…”

His capable fingers moved me through the most intense orgasm of my life, the entire area between my legs taking part, my full body trembling and shaking on the table.

Somehow he extended it longer than I thought was possible, and when the spasms finally started to slow, I felt the release of tears start to slip down my face under the headrest.

It wasn’t bad crying. It was just a full, blissful release.

He washed his hands and moved up to my neck and head where he gave me the most perfect head and neck massage that could possibly exist, sliding his fingers through my hair as he went.

It was just what I needed to let go of the last of the tension in my body and sink into full relaxation.

When the quiet timer went off, he ran his fingers through my hair once more, and then smoothed his hands down my full body as though sending the last strands of tension away.

I felt like a jello person, unsure how I’d ever get up.

“Rest awhile,” he said. “There’s no rush. I hope you were satisfied with everything.”

“Oh, yes,” I managed.

And when he left the room, rest is exactly what I did. I laid there while replaying in my mind the perfection I had just experienced. Those hands… God, those hands.

If one thing was certain, it was that I would definitely be coming back, and I knew just who to ask for.

The only question was, could I get more of his body involved next time?

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fiction

Elle A. Wild

Elle A. Wild is a city girl who loves writing character-centric sexy stories that surprise even herself.

Elle writes from a perspective of female empowerment and pleasure, and if you’re not into that, well, she’s probably not for you.

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