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 have often see the tan lines of 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 its 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. Every man is so single minded. Even this one, married, not here for sex, can feel me coming on to him. He knows the sex is coming, perhaps subconsciously, but he knows, and he has no intention of stopping me for he wants it just as badly as I do.
I resumed my work as if nothing was different, now employing the use of my knees and elbows to knead out the knots in his rippled back. His skin had the tight waves of finely toned muscles that I was used to from some of my clients. I hadn't seen his chest yet, but it was bound to be just as strong.
"You work out?"
"Well, it's part of my job so, yeah."
"I can tell."
I saw the back of his neck redden in embarrassment. I poured more oil on him, this time I let it splash my breasts. I wet them, rubbing in the oil. Then I compressed them, pushing them along his back. He began to take notice that something was out of the ordinary.
"What are you doing?" he asked again less calm.
"Massaging your back, Mr. Maxwell" I said, "using my breasts."
"Does that make you uncomfortable?"
"Would you like me to stop, Mr. Maxwell?"
He hesitated. See?
"No, no I suppose not. This is normal right?"
"Right." Wrong, wrong. And he knew it was wrong. One of my hands was on the table between his thighs, I could feel his cock growing larger. Oh, that long cock had grown out to the edge of the towel. The towel had shifted, I could see the edge of his butt poking through.
I slid off of him, the towel slipped to the side, revealing to me his thigh.
He looked up, catching sight of me, naked, and pulled the covering back over himself.
He paused, unable to look away from me. At first he saw my eyes, shining out of my pale body like black diamonds, then he fixed on my great round, breasts.
"I--I'm sorry, I--why are you naked?"
"For the massage, Mr. Maxwell. It's best to have no restrictions," I smiled at him. I had him. I could see the longing in his eyes.
Now was his final choice. He could see through me now and leave or he could give in to his own temptations.
"Okay," he said, pretending to understand.
He put his head back into the table. I removed the towel from around his waist to see the great pink mountains of his ass.
"No restrictions, Mr. Maxwell," I said and in that moment my fingers found his dick. I poured oil over it. He said nothing.
"Turn over please, Mr. Maxwell."
He turned over on his back, revealing his lovely, muscular chest. I straddled him, leaning over his face and letting my breasts dangle before him, tantalizing, like a pair of plump overgrown apples.
"Do you want me?" I asked him.
"Yes," he said.
"I know you want me."
I sat back onto his pelvis, reaching around with my left hand to guide his dick into me. I felt his male adornment part me and fill me. It was stiff and hard and wonderful. I felt pleasure immediately erupt across my spine. I saw his face soften. I lay across his chest, kissing his visible muscles and feeling him gently pulsate his pelvis into my vagina.
I began to ride him, feeling my soft pussy receive his well oiled dick. I bounced off his pelvis, hearing the table creak beneath our weight. I knew it wouldn't break, I've fucked at least twenty men on this table twenty times over without it ever caving. He reached up and felt my breasts. He squeezed them, pinning them to my chest. He pinched them, I felt a gentle wave of pain mix with the hard surf of pleasure that rushed in through my pussy. I leaned over him, letting my undressed hair spill out around his face.
I could feel his breath on my lips. I could feel his mouth searching for mine. But I don't kiss clients. It has always seemed to personal for me. I was fucking him, riding him, now only for the pure eroticism of it. I could see his lust for me burning in his eyes as if they were the crown jewels of an Egyptian pharaoh. But I was only his courtess and not his queen. It was wrong for him to take me there. It was wrong and I loved it. I wanted more.
I turned to my side, barely still clinging to the narrow table. He faced me, holding me around the shoulders and swing one of my legs, lean and quivering, over his waist. His dick was in me again. I could d nothing but feel his hand dig into my wide, round ass, stare into his eyes, and melt in the warmth of the pleasure of our sex.
"Oh, Mr. Maxwell..."
There was nothing but our sex. The time we had there on the massage table was like a passionate eternity. It lingered on, out of Time, and distorted by the pain that will be forgotten and the unending stimulation that numbs your brain and stills your heart into a slow beating panic, a wild animal unbridled by happiness or love. There is only the heat of passion, the glorious act of sex.
During the tempest of his appointed hour with me, we tore apart my room. He took me against the counter on which I kept my lotions and oils. I emptied one across his chest, he knocked them to the floor. He put me against the wall beside the curtained window, my breasts flattened against it, his dick in me from the back. I grabbed the curtain in my fist and, without thinking, tore it down. The table was knocked over, a shield from the open window, behind which I lay on my back heeding the pleasure of the rhythmic pounding of my clients dick. There, on the floor and out of sight, he ejaculated, squirting his white load over my ass and onto the floor around me.
Then we lay upon the floor, his head buried between my thighs, until I reached my peak.
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