I lift myself weakly up on my elbows from my recumbent position, and looking down between my splayed legs I see Ellie standing submissively at the bottom of the massage couch. Ellie. My new lover. Formerly my masseuse, nineteen, hot, and just a few minutes ago her skilful hands were straying to places most of us can only dream of when we're on the couch. Now as I look at her I can see that her face is still honey-slick from lapping me to a beautiful orgasm.
Normally I am slow to recover, like a volcano that has erupted with such power that only a little flame still burns in the core. Normally.
But then sometimes the circumstance and the experience combine alchemically and my orgasm simply transports me to another place, and I am transformed into an almost wholly sexual being, every whim and desire transfigured into an all-consuming need. Alchemy is dangerous. People get burned.
My eyes rest on Ellie. She is so sweet, five foot something with her chocolate-brown hair tied neatly back in a professional ponytail.
"Come here," I say softly, and she pads around to the side of the couch. "Thank you."
"My pleasure, miss," she says.
I reach my hand out lazily, to stroke behind her knee and then up, under the hem of her skirt. How many times have I lain here under the expert attention of a skilful masseuse and dreamed of reaching out like this? Even when they haven't been as hot as Ellie – and in truth none of them have – the combination of skin on skin and the way any massage steers teasingly close to intimate contact has always made the possibility of something more come into my mind.
"You're a bad girl, Ellie." My hand strays further up the back of her thigh.
"Yes, miss."
"But oh so good, too." I pause just where I would begin to feel her bottom.
"Thank you, miss."
"Seems only fair I should return the compliment, one way or another." I give Ellie's buttock the briefest of brushes over the cotton of her panties. "Would you like that, Ellie?"
