A plethora of internet porn has led an entire generation of men to believe that every paid massage ends in sex or at least, a good handy. It's a fact that I have to contend with daily. The entire town passes by my parlor every day; they all know I'm here; they all think they know what goes on behind my curtain. Parades of men, some young, some old, come into my shop every day. There is rarely a ring on their finger, though I often see the tan lines on those who have removed them for the visit. I know that they come expecting something, and I know they leave dissapointed.
I can't tell you how many times I've been groped and had to throw a man out. I have a black list as long as my arm and a stack of restraining orders as tall as my desk. That's not to say of course that it doesn't happen, I've fucked my share of clients, but it's only ever on my terms. When a man comes in, well shaven, cologned up, and shaking, he leaves with nothing but a lighter wallet. But when a man comes in, expecting nothing but a clean massage, the cards may be in order.
It takes a very specific set of circumstances for my client to get his happy ending. When I'm in a mood, usually bad, maybe off of a break up or a rough couple of nights, his chances are improved. Sometimes the sex eases my mind. When he's hot, and I know when he's hot, he's nearly guaranteed. I've noticed that the athletic types like to come in before a big race or a game. I've developed a relationship with enough of them to know what's coming. I love to see their faces when they see me, the massage therapist they fucked, waiting for them at the finish line of their big marathon. It also helps their cause when I'm horny. When I'm on a sexual dry spell for whatever reason, I'm almost always amped up to play.
Oh, and when the man is married and comes for a massage with absolutely no intention of getting his dick sucked, I'm immediately turned on to him. Maybe it's my own failed marriage, but I love to be the wedge that drives apart a perfectly healthy union. I think three men have left their wives for me to date, but I have never left my boyfriend for them. I have a strict policy to leave all work sex at work - where it belongs.
This one met every requirement. I was depressed at the end of my last relationship, sex starved from months of him seeing another woman, hungry for my old man's cock, and in awe of the athletic build that just walked in: Mr. Jonathon Maxwell. He was a regular client, two kids, a wife, and the youngest football coach the local University had ever seen. He would come in whenever his team had a game against their biggest rival. I knew that those competitions always made him tense, more nervous than his players, and more likely to get him into trouble. This time, he told me, he was in even more danger of bursting under nervous pressure as he and his wife of three years were, of late, experiencing "troubles". When he walked in, I had already decided that I would relieve him of his nerves, but cause his marital problems to worsen.
"Remove all jewelry and put this on, please," I said, handing him the thin white robe, trying to remain businesslike. I intentionally gave him one of the smallest robes I owned, hoping to reveal as much of him as possible. While he was changing, I removed my clothes and slipped on my own, matching robe. This was something I only did when I intended to take it off. My breasts cascaded out of my shirt like white pools of water displaced by a gentle wind. Already, I could feel my face getting warm. I busied myself with my hair, letting my bangs fall straight across my forehead and tying the loose ends around my head in a long sweeping wave.
He came out of the dressing room with the ring gone from his finger and his clothes in a bundle. He was tall, a head taller than me, with a full head of dark hair. His face was sort of scrunched, but with a prominent nose and full lips. I could see the outline of his pecs through the robe.
"You can leave them in the room," I said, "they'll be safe."
As he turned around to drop his things, I noticed his ass, half hanging out of the too-tight robe. I giggled to myself a little as he bent over and his balls hung in plain sight. Then I led him to the table and instructed him to disrobe and lay the towel of his backside. I turned around politely, but watched him in the mirror.
I began the massage, pouring the oil onto his back and rubbing it in. I started with the breathing exercises, helping him into a relaxed, meditative state. I poured the oil on his legs, starting over, moving up the body. My fingers strayed under the towel, kissing the bottom of his ass--that was the start of the seduction. Then I moved to his broad shoulders and, while he could not see me, I slipped off my robe. It fell upon the floor and I kicked it away. I was naked. My breasts, large and creamy white, protruded from my chest, my fingers followed the single line of trimmed hair to the edge of my pussy
I begged him in my mind not to turn around. Seeing me naked now would ruin my chances. I cocked my head and swung one leg over his body, back safely into his blind spot. He could feel my knees in the small of his back, my shins disturbing the sanctity of his genital coverings.
"What are you doing?" he asked calmly.
"This," I said, leaning down to speak into his ear, the tips of my breasts brushing his oiled back, "is called a back massage, Mr. Maxwell."
"Yeah, but," he was unaware of my bare flesh touching him, "do you always do it this way?"
"Yes, shhhh. Try to relax."
He obeyed. They always obey. Even when they know something is off, they obey.
