Note: This story is different than most of my writing, a bit of an experiment I guess. It is shorter than anything else I've written and is based on an actual experience in my life although it is 95% fiction. Hope you like it.
PAST IMPERFECT
The girl walked confidently into the bar. She strode up to the stool next the to guy on the end and sat down. He's an older guy, around fifty, about six feet tall, blond hair, blue eyes and a wide-brimmed straw hat shading his light complexion. Once seated at the bar, she removed her sunglasses and ordered a margarita on the rocks. When her drink arrived she smiled demurely at the man to her left as she raised the glass to her lips.
The guy she sat down next to and smiled at is me. I live alone in a small house in Florida, about four blocks from the Atlantic Ocean, and I walk down to this little place on the beach for happy hour on many weekday afternoons. I like the weekdays because there aren't so many tourists around. Weekends, forget about it, I stay home and drink rum and cokes on my back porch.
The bar is called The Sandcrab, and it's at the foot of A Street, right at the beach. It's a small place. It has a horseshoe bar with maybe a dozen stools and a few tables, all deuces and four tops. There are four huge ceiling fans and large windows wide open to the sea breeze. There are tables outside too, although I've never sat out there.
The girl next to me is a knockout. She looks Asian, maybe in her mid-twenties, with streaked brown hair down past her shoulders and greenish eyes. She's tall, maybe five-nine, and thin with medium-small breasts and a nice rear end. She's wearing white shorts and a red halter top and flip-flops. She has a nice tan and her skin is clean.
Usually, happy hour at the bar is just the regulars, retirees and surfer dudes, and the girl looked a little out of place. I must have seen her around town, I'm not sure, but something about her was familiar. As she sipped her drink I tried not to look at her, but I couldn't help sneaking peeks here and there. She caught me a couple times and flashed that shy smile.
"This tastes good on a hot day like this," she said to me, raising her glass and taking a gulp of her drink.
"Right, but you have to be careful with that stuff in this heat," I said. "That tequila can go right to your head. I had a bad experience with that stuff back in college and I haven't touched it since!"
"I know what you mean," she said as she ordered another. I ordered another draft beer as well.
We made small talk. She said she was studying physical therapy at the local college. She said she'd moved down from Massachusetts because the school had a national reputation for the program.
After we'd been talking for a while I realized we hadn't introduced ourselves.
"Oh, my name is Jack, by the way," I said. "Jack Daniels."
"Hi Jack, nice to meet you," she said. "My name is Emma Lee."
"Nice to meet you too, Emily," I said.
"No, no, my name is Emma," she corrected. "Lee is my last name."
We talked for a few more minutes, and when she finished her drink she rose from her stool. She said goodbye, it was nice talking to you, and I said the same. She headed for the door and didn't look back. But I didn't take my eyes off of her until she was out of sight.
For most of the next week I didn't see her, but then on the following Thursday afternoon I was sitting on the same stool when she came in and sat at the bar on the other side of the horseshoe. We made eye contact and we smiled at each other a couple of times but nothing was said between us. I was going to send her a drink but I was too slow. She had one drink and left.
Over the next couple of weeks I saw her three more times and we had conversations. She told me about her studies and I told her about my former career in advertising. We talked about a lot of things. She asked if I was married. I told her no, but that I had tried it once briefly and it got me highly irregular and I swore I'd never do it again. She asked if I had any children and I told her I did not. We talked about vacations. She asked me about the Caribbean, and had I ever been? I told her I had and named the islands I had visited. She told me about her life growing up in Massachusetts; her mother was a nurse which had sparked her interest in physical therapy. Then she surprised me.
"Do you like massages?" she asked.
"What do you mean?" I replied.
"I'm asking if you like to have massages."
I told her I'd only had one in my life and it was many years ago. After an awkward silence she spoke again.
"Would you allow me to give you a massage?" she asked.
"Huh?" I stammered. "You want to give me a massage?"
"Sure," she said. "It's part of my studies. We have to learn all that stuff, and we need victims...I mean subjects...to practice on."
We both laughed. She told me it was free, she had to practice, why not me? Naturally, I accepted. She told me where and we set the time. I asked her if I needed to do anything to prepare.
"Come as you are," she said. "But wear your boxers!"
---
When I showed up she greeted me at the door. She was wearing light blue scrubs and a big smile. She grabbed my hand and led me to a small room.
"You ready?" she asked.
I said I was. She told me to strip down to my shorts and lie face down on the table and she'd be back in a jiffy.
The room was small, maybe ten by twelve, with the massage table in the center. There was a table, two chairs and a partition to stand behind while undressing. I hung my clothes on hooks on the lavender walls. Then I got onto the table and waited while taking in the herbal aromas and listening to new age music.
When I left there an hour later I felt like a million bucks, looser than I'd ever felt in my life. I thought, damn, this chick is wonderful, and she's just learning! I savored the memory of her strong hands gliding over my body, kneading my muscles, fingering my tired flesh. She had started with my head, something I hadn't thought of. She spent a good amount of time on my head, my hair and my neck, which seemed to relax the rest of my body, removing my tension and nervousness. Then she gradually worked her way down to my feet, and then she told me to flip over and she worked her way back up. She didn't say much, but at one point she asked me why I didn't usually get massages. I told her I'd always been afraid I'd get aroused, and then embarrassed, especially if a pretty girl like her was doing the job. "It's only natural," was all she said.
I didn't see Emma for a while after that, and believe me I watched for her. I was at The Sandcrab almost every day hoping she'd walk in. I thought about how pitiful I was: a fifty-year-old fart missing seeing a twenty-some year old girl. As if I'd really have a shot. Shit, I'm just a nice old man to her.
----
One afternoon about three weeks later she strode into the bar, a big smile on her face. She walked right up to me, kissed me on the cheek and sat down next to me. I ordered her a margarita and we talked, catching up. She told me how busy she'd been with school. She drank her margarita quickly and ordered a second. When she finished the second one she asked me to take a walk with her on the beach.
It was a bright, sunny day. We both wore shades, and as usual, I wore my wide-brimmed hat. As we were walking Emma told me how nice it had been meeting me and getting to know me over the last few weeks. We walked south for a few blocks, chatting about various things, then turned and headed back toward the bar. The subject of the massage came up and I again told her how much I appreciated it and had enjoyed it, and how I had felt so loose for days afterward.
"Maybe it's time you had another one," she said.
"Oh, Emma, you don't have to do that."
"I know I don't, but I'd like to. We'll have to do it at your house, though. We're only allowed to bring someone in once for free, after that they have to pay."
I told her I wouldn't mind paying.
"I'm doing it because I want to, Jack, not for the practice. You can buy me a margarita."
I bought her two over the next hour or so as we talked and laughed about a number of topics. When we parted we set the date for my massage for three days hence, a Saturday afternoon. She said that she didn't have a massage table of her own so I should just lay down some cushions and blankets on the carpet and to have a small pillow handy for my head. When we said goodbye she squeezed my hand and kissed me on the cheek.
----
I had the floor all ready when she arrived with her bag of goodies. She looked beautiful...barefoot with blue jean cutoffs and her smallish, braless titties poking through the fabric of her tan t-shirt. She told me to strip down to my boxers and lie face down, and I did as instructed.
I could hear Emma sifting through her bag and she fiddled with her phone and soon soothing music was softly playing. Then I heard her opening bottles of lotions and oils as I lay there anticipating her touch. Then I heard her slimy hands rubbing together and felt the drip of warm oil on my neck and back. Her strong fingers started on my neck and scalp, my tension eroding and relaxation seeping through me. She worked her way southward, working the muscles in my upper, then lower back. She paused for a moment as she moved behind me, repositioning, and then I felt the hot oil on the back of my legs and her hands soon followed, kneading my tired old runner's muscles, a pinch of pain here and there due to my sciatica, working over my calves and ankles to my feet. Then she spoke for the first time.
"Let's get these shorts off," she said as her hands latched onto the waistband of my jockeys. "Lift up."
This was unexpected, but I raised and she pulled them off. Then a liberal amount of oil was squirted onto my buttocks and flowed into the crack of my ass. She worked my cheeks, piercing digs with her long, talented fingers, groping and pinching and spreading them, the warm fluid tickling into my asshole. Next I felt her spread open the rim of my sphincter with one hand, and then I felt the tapered tip of one of her plastic bottles enter my ass. She squeezed the bottle and a warm oily stream shot into my asshole, and I emitted a pleasant groan.
I was already getting hard when she said, "I'm going to massage your anus, too. That's something I could never do at the clinic at school."
Her long finger eased into my ass. First an inch, then out. Then two inches, out, in, more in, out, until her whole finger was inside me and I felt her knuckles pressing on the cheek of my ass. She moved her finger in a circular motion, the displaced oil sloshing out of my asshole and dripping down my leg. She then started poking me, that fucking finger going in and out, in and out as I moaned softly in pleasure.
I found myself pushing my ass toward her, wanting more, and my cock was now rock hard from being assfucked and from grinding it on the blankets beneath me. She stroked me over and over, her slimy, slithering finger probing and finding every square centimeter inside my ass.
