I didn’t go there expecting anything more than a massage. I had tension in my shoulders, stress deep in my lower back, and something heavier I couldn’t quite name coiled low in my belly.

The spa was quiet, clean, and dimly lit—soft instrumental music floating through the air. I filled out the short form at the front desk and waited, my robe tied loosely at the waist, heart already beating a little faster than I cared to admit.

When he walked in, everything stopped.

He was tall—so tall his head nearly grazed the top of the doorway. Broad across the chest, arms thick and veined under the sleeves of his charcoal gray shirt. His skin was a warm, honeyed brown. And then I saw his eyes—icy blue, bright and unreadable. When he spoke, my skin prickled.

“You ready?” he asked, his voice low, deep, and commanding. I nodded without a word.

He led me into the room, and I followed like I didn’t have a choice—because something in his presence stripped me of all thought. I laid down on the massage table, face down, the towel draped over my hips. My robe slipped off easily. I was naked beneath it, skin warm against the soft leather surface of the table. I felt exposed, vulnerable—but something about it felt right.

Then he touched me.

His hands were warm, slow, and strong—starting at my shoulders, pushing into every knot like he owned them. His palms dragged down my spine, firm and deliberate, until they reached the base of my back. He lingered there. Pressed. Circled.

I bit my lip. His touch was professional… until it wasn’t.

When his hands slid lower, onto the curve of my ass, he didn’t ask permission. He just gripped. Deeply. Possessively. And I let him. I moaned quietly into the table, my thighs instinctively pressing together.

He moved between them.

I felt him part them with a confident touch, and I opened. For him. Without resistance. His fingers brushed the inside of my thighs, closer… closer… until they found the heat pooling between my legs. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t speak. He just started rubbing slow, deliberate circles on my clit—like he already knew exactly how I needed it.

I gasped. My hips bucked slightly, but his other hand pressed firm on my lower back, keeping me grounded.

I was dripping. Shaking. The buildup was fast, overwhelming, and I didn’t want to stop it. His fingers worked me expertly, rubbing harder, faster, until my body shattered. I moaned into the air, body convulsing with a climax so raw I forgot where I was.

But he didn’t stop.

He slid his fingers lower, spreading me open gently, his breath warm against my skin. “turn over,” he said. His tone wasn’t cruel—it was calm. In control. And I obeyed.

I turned onto my back, breathing hard, curls clinging to my face. My legs were still open, trembling. My breasts rose and fell with every breath, nipples hard and aching for more. His eyes swept over me—hungry, focused.

“I’m not done with you yet,” he said.

And when he lowered himself between my thighs, I realized neither was I.

He knelt between my legs like he’d done it before, like he’d been waiting for this moment just as long as I had without ever saying it. His hands slid up my thighs again, slow and firm, parting me with intention—not like he was asking, but like I was already his to devour.

The first stroke of his tongue made my eyes roll back. It was slow, thick, and wet—dragging upward from my entrance to my clit in one long, deliberate motion that made my back arch off the table. He moaned into me. Moaned. The vibrations made my legs tremble. His hands hooked under my thighs, locking me in place, holding me wide open while he feasted.

There was nothing timid about him.

He sucked my clit between his lips, flicked it with his tongue, circled it like he wanted to drive me insane. And he did. My hands flew to my breasts, fingers curling around the soft flesh, squeezing, needing something—anything—to ground me. I could barely breathe. My body writhed against his mouth, chasing the edge, teetering so close I could taste it on my tongue.

“F—fuck…” I whispered, head tilted back, thighs trying to close around him—he pushed them open wider. He didn’t slow down. He gripped tighter.

Then he slipped a finger inside me. Thick. Skilled. Crooked just right.

My walls clenched around him, hips jerking as he sucked my clit and fingered me in perfect rhythm—each movement timed like a song only he could hear. My vision blurred. My nails scratched across the massage table. I came hard, a wave crashing through me so violently I cried out without shame.

But he wasn’t finished.

He pulled back, licking his lips, eyes dark with hunger as he stood. I watched as he unbuckled his belt slowly, never breaking eye contact. My body was still pulsing from the orgasm, sensitive, spent—but the moment I saw the outline of his cock beneath his briefs, I felt that hunger rise up again inside me like a second wind.

He leaned over me, one hand pressing into the table beside my head, the other guiding himself between my legs.

“You take direction so well,” he murmured, his voice low and rough like thunder behind silk. “Let me see how well you take me.”

Then he pushed inside.

Thick. Deep. Stretching me inch by slow inch until I couldn’t tell where the pain ended and the pleasure began. My lips parted in a silent moan, my hands gripping his forearms as he bottomed out, buried in me completely.

“Good girl,” he growled into my ear.

And then he started to move.

He moved slowly at first, letting me feel every inch of him. My body stretched to accommodate him, every nerve lit up like a fuse. He filled me so completely I couldn’t think—just feel. His thrusts were deep, deliberate, grinding against the tender spot inside me like he already knew where it was.

I clung to him. Fingernails dragging across the hard planes of his back. Legs wrapped around his waist. My body opened for him like it had been waiting to be used, claimed, bred.

He groaned into my ear between thrusts, rough and unfiltered. “Gonna fill you up… fuck, I’m gonna breed this pussy.”

He didn’t know.

He didn’t need to know.

That word alone shattered me.

I came again, harder than the last, my body squeezing around him, overwhelmed by the heat of his voice, the weight of his body, the claim he was making without even realizing what it meant to me.

The table creaked under us as he picked up the pace, one hand gripping my hip, the other sliding up to palm my throat—not choking, just holding, reminding me who was in control.

“Look at me,” he said, breath hot and ragged.

I tried. My eyes fluttered open, dazed and wet, and met his. Those icy blue eyes were locked on me, wild and hungry, like watching me unravel only made him harder.

He drove deeper. Harder. My breath stuttered. Moans spilled from my lips with every thrust, louder than I meant them to be, but I didn’t care. My body was his rhythm, and he played it like an instrument he’d mastered in another lifetime.

“You feel that?” he growled. “That’s what happens when you stop holding back.”

And I couldn’t. Not anymore.

My orgasm hit me like a freight train—sharp, fast, and raw. My walls pulsed around him, and I cried out so loud, without even realizing it. My body trembled beneath his, flushed and slick with sweat, lips parted as my breath came in short, desperate gasps.

But he didn’t stop. He wasn’t done.

He flipped me effortlessly onto all fours, guiding my hips back to meet him, and entered me from behind with one long, devastating thrust. My back arched. I moaned loud and unfiltered, cheek pressed to the table, hair wild around me.

His hands gripped my waist tight. “You were made for this,” he groaned, slamming into me again. “You need this.”

And he was right.

The sound of skin meeting skin echoed through the room, mixed with my whimpers, my pleas, my surrender. He pulled my hair, just enough to make me gasp. Slapped my ass hard, then rubbed it where the sting bloomed. I was his now—open, used, and loving every second of it.

When he came, he buried himself to the hilt, groaning deep and low as his release spilled into me. His fingers dug into my hips, and for a moment, we just stayed like that—connected. Ruined. Quiet.

And when he pulled out, breathless and spent, he leaned down to whisper in my ear.

“Next time,” he said, voice dark with promise, “you come just for me."

He left me there, trembling—my body still humming with aftershocks, skin flushed, thighs sticky and sore in the best way. My heart pounded against the silence, the air thick with sex and something unspoken.

I rolled onto my side slowly, every nerve stretched thin and satisfied. My curls clung to my skin, my chest still rising and falling in slow, shaky waves. I didn’t speak. I didn’t need to.

He came back with a warm towel and cleaned me gently, silently—his touch soft now, careful. Reverent. His eyes no longer devouring me, but studying me like a man who’d just unlocked something sacred.

“You okay?” he finally asked, his voice softer now—but still deep, still him.

I nodded, barely able to form words. “Yeah. More than okay.”

He smirked just a little, then leaned in. His lips brushed the shell of my ear, slow and deliberate.

“Next time,” he whispered, “I want to see how you taste while you're bound and blindfolded. You think you can handle that?”

A shiver shot through me—hot and heavy. I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

But I knew I’d be back. He knew I'd be back.

And today, I'm walking out of here a completely different woman.