Having woken up with a tight neck, I decided to call the local massage spa, hoping to book the therapist who had previously worked wonders on me. To be honest, calling this place a “spa” is a bit of a stretch. It’s more a modest building with a small sitting area upfront and simple private massage rooms in the back. They don’t have fancy products or refreshing juices—just freshly licensed therapists looking for their start. For me, it’s perfect; I don’t need all the bells and whistles of a day spa, nor the attached price tag. The offerings are straightforward: a one-hour Swedish massage, or, for a few dollars more, an upgrade to deep tissue.
The woman who answered sounded like she could still be in high school. I explained my neck issue and asked if she could check the name of the therapist who had helped me before. She asked if she could put me on hold; I listened to her tapping away at the keyboard. When she returned, she apologized—Miss Sandy no longer worked at Cosmic Massage.
“That’s unfortunate for me, but I’m sure wherever she is now must be lucky to have her,” I replied. I asked if anyone was available for a one-hour deep tissue massage that afternoon.
More keyboard tapping, then she asked, “Do you have a preference for a male or female therapist?” I’d never really thought about it. I told her I simply wanted someone with strong hands who could help my neck. The conversation began to feel more like a chore than I was in the mood for; I considered calling back another day. But after a brief pause, she returned with good news—there was an opening at 4:00 p.m. I accepted.
Every woman knows that a professional massage calls for a little preparation. I drew a bath, shaved my legs, and thought it best to go ahead and shave everything. Lotion, a loose bun, and a light sundress completed the routine.
Walking into the 'spa' confirmed my suspicions—the young receptionist seemed no older than sixteen. She gave me a form and asked me to wait. I filled it out, indicating my areas of discomfort, but left the 'prefer to avoid' section blank. The waiting area was simple but smelled delightfully of eucalyptus. After a short wait, I noticed a young man with a man bun approach the counter. He was cute — maybe not breath-taking, but self-assured — and he definitely noticed me. We made eye contact, and I found myself hoping he was my therapist. He checked the schedule, smiled, and called my name, “Heather?”
“Yes, that’s me,” I answered. He introduced himself and asked if I needed the restroom.
“No, I’m fine. Thanks.”
He led me to a dim, warm room and invited me to sit while he reviewed my concerns. He noted my neck trouble, and I explained I must have slept funny. He asked if I preferred extra pressure. “Yes, the deeper the better,” I replied with a smile.
I slipped out of my sundress, folded it neatly, and climbed into the massage bed. Before leaving, he explained we’d start facedown. I adjusted myself, settling my face comfortably in the horseshoe headrest, gently shifting my breasts so I wasn’t lying flat on them—hoping he’d notice. A knock at the door. “I’m ready,” I called.
He entered, asking if the temperature was all right (it was—perfectly warm), with soft music—Tibetan chimes, perhaps—playing in the background. Gently, he pulled the blanket to my lower back and squirted oil from a belt at his waist—convenient, I thought. I closed my eyes, letting the scent of eucalyptus fill my senses.
His hands moved expertly from my lower back to my neck, easing muscle from my spine with just the right pressure. No hesitation, just a skilled, confident touch. He transitioned smoothly to my head, unpinned my hair, and let my locks tumble. The head massage was unlike anything I’d experienced; gentle tugs at my hair, not painful, just enough to make me imagine more. My mind wandered: what if we made love, slowly, with him pulling my hair…
He covered my back, then focused on my feet and legs through the sheet, gradually unveiling my skin. My anticipation grew. How high would he lift the sheet? Oil was dispensed; I was facedown, nearly naked but for my black lace panties. His hands explored my legs, inching closer to my butt, noticeably aroused as he brushed against the massage bed. Was he letting me feel that? Where would this go?
The thought of 'massage porn' flickered through my mind. I tried to mask just how turned on I was.
“Okay, Miss, I’m going to ask you to roll over.”
Nervous and aroused, my remaining personal space was my face, hidden in the horseshoe. “Here we go,” I thought. Topless now, I lay on my back, breasts exposed. I never opened my eyes or made a sound. He stood behind me, ran his hands through my hair, and pressed himself against my head. Then, while massaging my chest, he finally murmured, “You’re stunning.”
I couldn’t bear to open my eyes. If I did, reality might snap me out of this erotic haze.
He moved to my side, sliding his erect cock along my body, starting at my thighs. His touch lost some of its former professionalism, replaced by a nervous sexual hunger. I longed for this, spreading my legs slightly. Thank goodness my panties were black—no visible giveaway as to how wet I was. The air smelled of sex. He didn’t remove my underwear, but lingered at the edge where thigh meets hip.
Even more boldly, he touched my breasts, massaging and exploring with unashamed enthusiasm. I almost wanted to look at him. And then, abruptly, he draped the sheet over my body.
“I’m afraid that’s all the time we have today.”
I sat up, opened my eyes to dim light, sweat on his handsome face. Our eyes locked. “Do you have another client?” I nervously asked.
“Let me check. I’ll be right back.” And just like that, he left.
Alone, I covered my chest, adrenaline and questions swirling. What was I doing? What would happen? Surely, nothing sexual would actually happen. Still, I was both excited and anxious.
A knock at the door: “Come in.” He entered, grinning.
“We have thirty more minutes together before my next client.”
I said nothing and just lay back down, the sheet covering me. “Where should I focus for your last few minutes?” he asked.
I managed, “Can we just pick up where we left off?”
Eyes closed, I waited. Then came a gentle breeze as he lifted the sheet. “If I remember correctly, this is where we left off,” he said. Warm oil in his steady hands now, no nervousness. He placed his palms on my stomach; I inhaled sharply, then exhaled as he moved across my skin. Our breathing synced, building anticipation.
He cupped my breasts, sliding oil over them, then rolled me over, my face once again nestled in darkness.
He poured more oil and focused on my lower back, hips, and thighs. I lay in ecstasy, totally surrendered. My pussy throbbed with desire.
My legs were only a couple of inches apart which made it difficult to rub my inner thighs with any sort of pleasure. My eyes were wide open as I stared at the floor looking through that head rest. “This is it,” I thought to myself. I lifted my legs up one at a time and shifted them towards the outside of the bed. I laid there on my stomach, legs spread with only those little black panties.
He took the invitation. He glided his hands to my butt cheeks and slid my panties into the crack, exposing the skin of my voluptuous ass. There, he spent some time, kneading his hands in and out and again lifting my hips off the table as he went from left to right. I had never been touched in such a way.
I was imagining what he was seeing. Me, lying there with my legs spread open, my lips starting to be pulled to the outside of my panties, oiled up like a glazed donut, glistening.
He meticulously massaged the inside of my upper thigh, brushing his knuckles across my outer lips. There was no hiding my arousal. I am sure my panties matched the sheen of my skin. Slowly, he crept his was back down towards my lower legs. I saw his arm reach for the sheet on the floor. He placed it on top of my wanting body and neatly tucked me in all around my hips.
Without a word but with a gentle squeeze of my foot, he departed.
Had thirty minutes gone by? Were we finished? I almost hoped for more. It hadn’t quite crossed the line into full-blown sex… or had it? I didn’t care, but even now, I sometimes wonder.
My sundress clung to my oily skin. My hair was a mess. At the front desk, he handed me water and smiled. “Be sure to hydrate after your session.”
Still flushed, I hurried out, hoping no one noticed my state. My best friend, who’d driven me, waited in the car. “What took so long?” he asked. “I need a drink,” I told him. As he began lecturing about the importance of water, I sighed, “After this massage, I need a whiskey.”
