Massage

...And at linebacker, #51, Brad Marshall! The crowd would roar, my teammates would shout and high-five as I ran through the gauntlet of players. The cheerleaders were tumbling and leading the applause, including one particularly shapely blonde, whom I married and divorced in the next semester. Those were the days...

The roaring has stopped, there is no crowd anymore and the only time I hear my name on the loudspeaker now; is when the office manager needs me to drive to some other facility and spend another night at some Holiday Inn, droning-on to a collection of middle managers that don't give a shit about my presentation. Ahhh success!

I just stepped gingerly out of the shower and limped over to the bathroom sink. This once-rock hard body no longer belongs to an athlete. Three years out of college and I have added fifteen pounds of fat cells and though my arms and legs are still thick and lined with muscle, any exertion causes strains and pulls that are only squelched by aspirin and alcohol.

This afternoon, trying to relive my youth, I worked out at the "spa" on the hotel's mezzanine level. At one time I could toss around lead at hundred pound intervals. These days, through painful experience, I know better- Unless two cute young women in leotards are doing aerobics and primping infront of the mirrors.

Then I had to literally roll up my sleeves and add two extra plates to every bar. Grunting for evidence and attention, I benched, curled, squatted and pressed way too much, way too often. As I lay on the bench recovering, with a towel over my beet-red face and my fingers checking my pulse, gasping for whatever oxygen was left in the room, I didn't even notice the two women leave the gym.

I slowly rose from my torture rack, and hobbled unsteadily towards my lifeline. A canvas bag with Gatorade, Advil and Ace Bandages. Thank God those two chicks weren't interested in a threesome or I would have died twice. Once from a heart attack and a second time from embarrassment. The way I felt at that moment, if Kate Middleton had wanted to fuck me and make me the future king, I would have passed, and looked for a wheel-chair to get me back to the elevator. It would have taken a dowel-rod, duct-taped to my cock to even appear aroused. A warm bath and a cold-pack were the order of the day.

So I take one more look at the pitiful lump of flesh in the mirror and stumble over to the bed. Room service, what a blessing! Could they possibly deliver an ice-bucket, a bottle of tequila, a medium-rare porterhouse and a masseuse. Not necessarily in that order.

Well it was too late for dinner, they don't

deliver alcohol and there is an ice-machine at the end of the hall. (SLAM). Fuck Holiday Inn! Fuck getting old! And fuck wherever the hell I am!

I was just about to jettison the less-than-helpful menu when I spotted a glossy ad for a "Sweedish-Style" massage. The insert pictured a stunning blonde woman with Nordic features; barefooted and in skimpy shorts and tee, standing astride an obviously satisfied customer in thick Turkish Robe and towel. Candles were lit, incense filled the room and hot stones and scented oils were placed delicately along the spine of some over-the-hill executive on a luxury yacht.

Okay, I know that eighty percent of it was a scam and the rest of it was a sham. And with my luck, some big Scandanavian named Lars would knock on my door and offer to blow me for two-hundred dollars.

But I was in throbbing pain; I was dejected, horny and alone in Bum-Fuck, Idaho. But I had a company credit-card and they owed me a bonus.

I called. A disembodied voice methodically ran down a list of do's and don'ts. Then they ran my numbers and checked availability. "It's already late tonight, all the girls are booked. Maybe we can try you on Tuesday?"

"What the fuck?! Are you out of your mind?! I'm hurting now! I just want a damn massage. And I'll be dead, Tuesday!"

"Oh, sorry for the misunderstanding. It appears that we do have an opening. We can send Inga in twenty minutes, she works for us on occasion and she is a certified therapist and uses ancient healing arts, blah, blah, blah..."

The bullshit was flowing freely but I was a fish on a hook. There would be no dinner without walking to a restaurant. And there would be no walking without some sort of rubdown. I'm sold, I agreed to everything. Yes, run the card. Okay, Inga would be fine. Yes, I'm already showered. I accept, I can wait twenty minutes, but please hurry. And tell Inga, I'll tip extra if she brings a bottle of "Patron." She laughed, I was deadly serious.

Another endless loop of "Sportscenter" was playing on t.v. and I was reclining on the bed in only my tighty-whities and the hospitality robe. It was more like a fuzzy apron for what good it served. I could feel my aching body growing more stiff and immobile as I laid there. I had the uncomfortable notion that the parts of me I wanted loose and limber were rigid, while the part that should be erect was flaccid and lifeless. I was already hating every moment of this and then I heard the phone ring.

The front desk announced that I had a visitor on the way. This gave me just enough time to unlatch and open the door, and then like a beaten dog, I retreated to the comfort and safety of the bed. I proceeded to fall face-first into the quilt and almost smothered because I did not have the strength to clear room to breathe. I awaited my Danish Delight. There was a soft tapping on the door and I heard a lilting, sing-song voice say, "Hi, I'm Inga, and I'm here to make you feel good all over."

My neck and shoulders hurt so much that it actually took about three seconds to turn my head and face the door. By then, she had scampered past me, leaving only a hint of honeysuckle and a glimpse of white scrubs as I felt her brush past the bed and come alongside me. Again, I was facing the wrong way when I felt her warm hands readjusting my robe and repositioning my body on the small bed. She had surprisingly strong hands and she eased the robe from my torso and giggled abit at my undies. "You may keep those on if you wish, but I will be applying oil liberally and I will also be touching everything."

Her lovely accented tone disarmed me and the idea of a grown man in jockey-shorts, was plenty for me to lift my hips high enough for her to slide the offending garment down my legs and off.

Inga moved swiftly and hummed a tune quietly as she prepared to work. I heard vials and tubes being opened and candles set out and ignited. She began to sing something mellow in a slightly guttural language. Then moistened her hands with oil and started to dig into my delts and lats.

Whatever you may have been thinking about erotic, sensual foreplay, you can forget it. Her thumbs and heels of her hands, excavated my back and shoulders like I had just insulted her mother. I have had trainers from the football team twist and yank my limbs with all the grace of a hyena. And this was exactly the same, except that I was paying for the pleasure of it. The only thing missing was the stench of sweaty feet and the fragrance of stale cigars.

I was wincing in pain and grunting and yelping every time her talon-like fingers burrowed into me. "Ow, jeez that hurts. Can't you tell I'm sore all over?" I expected an apology, that is not what I got.

"Be quiet girly-boy! I'm trying to help you and you squeal like a baby." She only laughed in an authoritative manner and slapped her wet palm hard on my bare ass. "This is a terrible body, You're in awful shape. You need my help and you need it now."

I couldn't tell if she was joking or abusing me. And though I know I'm not in playing condition, I'm still built pretty well. This afternoon I was lifting over two hundred pounds before I hurt myself.

She snickered at me and plunged her finger into my shoulder then leaned her bony elbow into the small of my back. I tried to crawl into a fetal position and was preparing to yell-out my bank account number and mother's maiden name. I swear only water-boarding would be worse.

She continued her harangue as her hands roved up and down my naked, totally exposed body. "You Americans know nothing of exercise. This body is all wrong. You think large biceps are important or sexy. How foolish? You have big, lumpy muscles that do you no good."

I interrupted her to mention that I was fairly strong and could handle myself if needed. I was trying to brag and also playing for time, when she poked me again. She continued to humiliate me and added, "big muscles are useless unless you want to be an ox. You should be lithe and lean like a dancer, able to spring and lunge like a feline with flexibility and grace"

I started to belittle ballerinas and cats, when she jabbed something like an icepick in my hamstrings. "Ow! Holy shit! What are you doing to me?" I nearly rolled off the bed to escape her clutches. "Which death-camp did you work at, fraulein? How did you escape when we captured Dr. Mengele?" I felt like a piece of meat on the grill that she was basting in sauce and poking with a fork to see how blistered it would turn.

She laughed again, mocking me. Her delicate giggling only served to shame me as she remarked, "If you are so strong, why is this 110-pound woman reducing you to tears?"

It's true. I was sniffling and nearly crying. I had to show some restraint. I clammed-up and determined to offer her no more satisfaction by complaining or moaning. I tightly closed my eyes and tried to block the pressure I felt. I took in the aroma of cinnamon and chocolate in the room. I peeked once and saw that the room was lit only by flickering candles and could feel that my back and legs were warm. Inga did have a nice touch when I relaxed, I must admit.

Her hands were calloused and firm but moved deftly from my neck, down my spine, over my ass and all the way from my hips to my toes. I felt an all-over tingle that I can't describe and my insides were turning to mush. She played on my body like a musician at a grand piano. Her humming resumed and the squishy sounds of her fingers running along my ribs and arms was intoxicating. I found myself trying to hum along with her. After a short while, I almost forgot she was there. I trembled and felt a shudder ripple through my body as if a great wave pulsed beneath my flesh. It subsided and I seemed to melt into the mattress.

I actually thought she had tucked me under the covers and left the room. I may have dozed off or merely imagined that the time flew by. I heard her European-intoned cadence from far away, like a dream. "Are you feeling better, now? That spasm washed all the poisons out of you. Those knots and lumps have disappeared and the fresh, healing blood will begin to flow." Inga gave me a friendlier pat on the backside this time, and said that I could turn over now.

Like coming out of a trance, my movements were sluggish and my head was foggy. I leaned on my elbow and spun my hips around preparing for the aches and balkiness I was used to, and then nothing,- - nothing hurt. My arm flexed, pushing my 260 lbs. into gear and my hips rotated smoothly, without those Rice-Krispees noises that normally accompanied the motion. My eyes were still closed but not clenched. My body felt loose and my limbs light and agile. A soothing smile spread across my face. I realized that I had to not only thank her abundantly, but also apologize profusely and tip her generously for acting like such a pussy.

It was at this point that I remembered that I had not even seen her yet. This Nordic goddess had worked her magic fingers all over my naked, compliant body for fifty minutes and I could not have picked her out of a lineup!

In my mind, and in between punishments, I had pictured a Heidi-type. Long sun-washed blonde braids, pink cheeks on alabaster skin with blue eyes like deep, still lakes. She probably had a dozen siblings and wore leiderhosen while living in a cabin on a mountain. She said "Ja," a lot and had a fourteen foot-long horn that echoed from The Alps when she yodeled.

Her warm, oily hands were groping the large muscles of my quads as I shyly eased my eyes open. The first thing I noticed were the lean arms that gripped my thighs. Her long fingers danced with each twist of her wrists, and the strong coils of sinew flexed in her highly-defined forearms. She wore a white tank-top exposing powerful muscles in her shoulders and neck that were obviously the source of all the pressure she could bring to bear.

Like a camera slow-panning upward, my gaze finally fell upon her face and I was astonished. Her eyes were just now coming up to meet mine and they were as dark green as the deepest pine forests. Her expression, formerly stern and deliberate at her work, now broke into a wide, toothy smile with small laugh lines at the edges of her mouth.

Then I saw the wisps of silvery hair escaping the ponytail at the back of her neck. It took me another second studying her features and skin before I came to the conclusion. Inga was not a young girl. Her skin was not at all wrinkled, but worn from the wind and sun. Probably from a lifetime of playing and working outdoors. The crinkles at her eyes and cheeks were from living, not aging. I was stunned. I could not have guessed her age. Anywhere maybe from thirty-five to sixty-five. Her body was weathered but supple and firm. She was the definition of good health and natural sexiness.

Her smile widened and she visibly relaxed as she read my mind. "Are you thinking that an old lady should not have ben able to torture you, so? I have been giving massage since before you were born and I know the parts that need pressure and the spots that cry out for caress. Today though, only the young girls with big, fake tits get the appointments. They're nothing but cheap harlots." She added derisively.

Her eyes followed my gaze to her chest. The tank top she wore was drenched in her sweat and lathered in the scented oils she had applied to me. Inga had no need for a bra and did not wear one. On her frame, I would estimate she was a 32B. The friction from the material and the moisture on her breasts caused the outline of her nipples to stand out clear and firm. And they looked just fine. She smiled demurely when she discerned that I was checking her out.

She poured alittle more oil into her palm and briskly ran her hands together allowing some oil to drip onto my thighs and my exposed crotch. Thin rivulets of oil slid along my limp cock and small drops formed and puddled in my dark, curly pubes.

Like a true professional, she averted her eyes and proceeded to knead the warm liquid into my thick, thigh muscles. She worked her strong digits along my legs, rubbing and soothing every inch of my firm upper legs. I tried not to stare or think about the sexual nature of the motion, but this is like trying to not think of pink elephants. I began to feel a stirring in my loins and a rumble brewing in my gut.

My focus zeroed in on her tits. Inga leaned forward and they swayed lazily under her loose shirt. They hung like ripe fruit tempting me to pluck them. I was captivated as the tops of her globes seemed to beckon me. And though I could not see her nipples, the imprint they produced on her shirt was hypnotic.

Her chest muscles rippled whenever her arms moved and her tits seemed alive as they pulsed with each movement. It dawned on me that I was fantasizing about her and I caught the big smile on her face, this time with a mischievous sparkle to those emerald orbs. I surveyed it all clearly yet failed to notice my booming erection standing straight up, literally right between us.

"Ah," she said with a very martial tone. "There's a big soldier ready for combat." She smiled again, the light wrinkles appearing at the corners of her lips and her devilish eyes shone in the candle light. I was fascinated and totally enthralled.

I have never been with an older woman. Here I am naked, covered in oil, with a hard-on protruding like a flag pole. Jocks are studly! We demean and defame women. We take sex whenever and wherever we want! That's the image. I lived it. I liked it.

Shit! I'm a quivering mass of jelly. My cock is hard and my mind is pudding. I don't know if she is vamping me, coming on to me or baby-sitting an overgrown client. I don't even know if I want my cock erect, (I have never had that thought in my life.) This is the most embarrassment I have ever felt! I am at her complete mercy, praying that she won't bust out laughing.

Inga carried-on, massaging her warm oil all over my chest and shoulders. She dug her hands into my stiff joints and kneaded the tendons and ligaments of my pecs and biceps. Her body hovered over mine as she worked, with her thin cotton tee absorbing the oil and sweat from both our bodies. Her scent was intoxicating and her easy attitude about physical contact with a naked stranger was alluring. I could see clearly now down the front of her shirt and her body shone with sweat. Those tits danced bewitchingly before me and I fought the urge to grab them and squeeze them. Her silver hair spilled from their ribbons and formed a glittering halo around her face. The white pants she had on were also absorbing sweat and oil as she never stopped rubbing, tugging and pulling at my compliant flesh. My erection rose enough to cast a shadow on my belly.

When Inga's hands worked down to my abdomen, I tried to secretly suck-in my gut. My sorrowful six-pack these days, were shaped more from beer than sit-ups. Her hand slapped me hard across the solar-plexus, I let out a gust of air and an apologetic sigh. She glanced at me quickly and said with a laugh, "men are the same everywhere, vanity knows no boundaries." Her every movement and touch released endorphins from my lumpy body, and after the initial shock to my system, I began to feel reenergized.

It was at this point that she stood up and proclaimed, "now for the finishing touch." In one fluid motion she yanked the sodden t-shirt over her head and smoothed her platinum locks. Her tits stood out firm and pink, with rosy nipples. Her entire body had a sheen to it and her ribcage and abdominals were clearly delineated. Her chest, shoulders and arms rippled tantalizingly as she drizzled a new ointment into her palms. She rubbed her hands, releasing a fruity aroma. "You did not think that I would put you through such tortures and leave you frustrated and aching, did you?" Her smile grew wide and she languidly stroked my cock with a warm, sweet lubricant. "I hope you like the flavor of pomegranate, I do." Her long strokes sent shivers through my body and with her other hand she cupped my balls and fondled them delightfully.

I could do nothing but moan and shake. I offered no resistance and supplied no assistance. My only motion occurred involuntarily and from deep inside me. A tremendous energy was forming like a hurricane from my groin. Rising then like mercury in a thermometer into my ball-sac and up the shaft of my granite-hard cock. My hands were clenched into tight fists, the fingertips white. My quads stood solid and my feet curled. My cock was thicker than I could remember and a tremor was shooting through me. My back arched. My butt tightened and I craned my neck to watch her.

Inga pumped me with her right hand. It glided repeatedly along the length of my pole. The oil easing her way, with just enough friction to send sparks to my 'nads. Her hands rumbled over the blue veins and at the tip, she let her fingers flick the thickness of the mushroom head. I could smell the scented oil and feel the heat generated by her pistoning action. Inga looked me in the eye for a brief second and gave me a startlingly lewd and seductive leer. She moved almost on top of me and her pumping motion became furious and intense. Her tits smacked together and she pressed my cock into her cleavage and the lube traced a path on her chest.