Mister Masseur: her response to The Full Body Massage Experiment

A naked woman is massaged by a sexy masseur.Dear Dirty Masseur X,

You know I do like to be touched.  Also, isn’t it every woman’s dream to be painted nude by some attentive master? I just think of the hours – the days! – it would take, and you slowly getting to know my every single curve, and me getting all sleepy and languid and just letting you look forever. But I’m being coy, aren’t I?  You’re sitting there awaiting your very official report, and this time I don’t think you’ll be disappointed, sir.  I’m letting myself go.  Because…well, why not?

Thank you for offering to find me a masseur for this “experiment” (was it you you had in mind?), but I chose to call a young man that a gay friend of mine has often raved about.  He comes to the house, and although I don’t guess the young man is gay himself (more on that to come), this friend of mine has praised the massages he gives with enough of that twinkling enthusiasm of his that I’ve always assumed they often end happily.  I played innocent on the phone when I asked for his number…but then my friend knows I’m not so innocent! I don’t mind. If he imagines I’m up to something, he’s got enough dirty secrets of his own that he would never talk about mine.

I’d scheduled the meeting with the masseur (say that word ten times and you’ll start to feel horny) for around sunset, and when he arrived the light was beginning to fade out the open windows (I should also note that my husband was out at the gym, just as I had known he would be.  I’d like to do it again with him around someday, but this time I didn’t want too many logistics crowding up my mind. He can handle it, I’m sure).  The masseur was about twenty five, with dark skin, black curly hair, and a nice smile (with astonishingly white teeth).  He wore a long-sleeved collared white cotton shirt untucked over baggy brown pants tied with a drawstring in a material that looked like linen.  There were sandals on his feet, and he was carrying a canvas bag.  He didn’t seem intimidated by the prospect of being alone with me and looked completely professional.  But he did smile and say he was pleased to meet any friend of [my friend], at which point I felt a hot flash between my legs.

I led him into the bedroom, where I had laid a towel over the covers, and where it was beginning to grow dark.  “I’ll be right back,” I said – a bit too girlishly, maybe, which made me realize just how nervous I was to be alone with this man. Your Chinese balls (I’ve discovered one of your obsessions!) were firmly in place when I came out of the shower wearing only my towel. I’ve been tanning naked on the terrace, I’ll have you know, and doing lots of yoga in preparation for swimsuit season, and so I just felt delicious. Really I was dying for the masseur to see me naked (I considered asking if he could paint), and I was so glad I had the massage as an excuse to strip. Funny how certain normally frowned-upon behaviors become acceptable in certain situations, isn’t it? A massage is always sexual, but we agree to pretend that it’s not about sex. Want more philosophy? Didn’t think so.

Back in the bedroom the masseur was standing there waiting for me. He had brought his own little CD player, I realized, and there was soothing ocean wave music playing, which made me giggle a bit to myself. He had also lit candles on the bedside tables, which made me giggle even more (and also came in handy for the light, considering I was about to show off my ass and didn’t want him to miss the nuances!).

“On my stomach on my back?” I asked the masseur. “Let’s start with you on your stomach,” he said, and I turned slightly to unfasten my towel and let it fall to the chair beside me. That was so he could get a good look at my ass. Oh delicious me. Then I turned to face him and stood there for a moment so that he could see everything. His eyes moved almost imperceptibly down to my breasts, and to my stomach, my pussy, my legs (my red painted toes!). If he was shocked by my complete nudity, he didn’t show it. My skin tingled, and my nipples were instantly hard, and I didn’t mind if he saw that either. Then I lay down on my stomach, and he covered my ass (sadly) with the towel.

I’d say I’ll skip to the good part, but what came next was the good part too. His hands were smooth and strong, and I began to focus on why he was there in the first place as he moved up each leg with long, firm strokes. It’s so wonderful to become aware of your body like that. I began to dream as he neatly folded over the towel, one side at a time, to dig into the muscles of my derriere with his fists. He could see right up into my crotch, I knew, but the normality of that excited me tremendously. And kneading my upper thighs, he got tantalizing close to brushing my moistening lips. Then the back and the neck – delicious again – and the last of the tension ran out of me. I was just a body, Mr. X. I was just a body with this man’s strong hands moving across it. When he broke the hum of the music to tell me to flip over, I did as I was told, and there was no towel to cover my aroused breasts, though in the moment that didn’t seem unusual or inappropriate. The masseur was remaining perfectly professional, and I wondered if I had misread my friend’s recommendation. Or maybe if I’d had a cock? Hell, I was beginning to get so melty and gooey I would have strapped one on if that would have helped!

So the feet, each little painted toe, and then back up the legs, wonderful really, so that I was slipping away again and simply happy to be receiving such a magnificent working over. Then back to the tops of my thighs, and I felt that the towel had crept up to reveal at least a few hairs of my sparsely decorated pussy. He was getting even closer this time, so that when he got to the second thigh I realized through a haze of pleasure that my butt was clenched and I was  pushing my groin towards his touch. When he made no move to greet this part of me, I realized half consciously that I had begun to moan ever so slightly. The masseur wasn’t paying any attention to my arousal, and my body wanted him to know!

Then before I could even realize what was happening, his finger had slipped over to brush my clitoris, and I sighed and moaned and let my ass unclench until I melted back into the bed. Then brushing became stroking, and then his finger actually slipped inside of me as I moaned even more, now in harmony with his fingers. Pushing the towel completely off of me, I threw caution to the wind and grasped his wrist so that I could feel his fingers dipping into me, and as I looked down at him kneeling beside me on the bed (even just that image was an erotic wonder), I saw that his cock had lifted his pants straight out in front of him. He was as silent and as diligent as ever, paying it no mind, and just as I thought of grabbing the thing, that’s when he discovered your Chinese balls.

Ha! What shocked me the most was that he wasn’t shocked at all. He just looked at me curiously. I nodded Yes!, and then he threaded a pinky through the string and gently pulled them out as I bit my tongue with pleasure and fumbled and scratched at his wrist.

“Mr. [Friend] warned me about you,” the masseur said with a gentle smile. The ice was broken, the moment was clear, and I spread my legs as far as they would go and watched as he slid two fingers then three inside of me, stroking faster and faster with his thumb pressed to my clit. His other hand was at my breast massaging it slowly as that thumb flicked across the top of my nipple. Within a minute I was screaming in orgasm and bucking across the bed as if I’d been hooked up to electricity. For a moment I worried the neighbors had heard…but then I’m a bit of a screamer and they’ve heard it before. For a moment I worried what my husband would think…but then I have a sneaking suspicion that he would have watched the whole scene with a hard-on of his own.

Truthfully I didn’t want to let this man go. I wanted to convince him to stay and fuck me, and then I wanted to be screaming in another orgasm as my husband walked through the door, which would likely mean another orgasm. But the masseur (masseur, masseur, masseur!) looked so satisfied with the job he had done, and so unaware of what a beast he had with him in the room (on her bed!), that I decided to save something for the next time (and there will be a next time, Mr. X, with or without you).

And now I’m just exhausted – pleasantly but completely, from head to toe – so it’s off to bed for me. I’ll dream of your hands all over me. Wouldn’t that be nice?




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