The massage room is quiet, and dark too under the velvet blindfold. Lying face down the towel is light across your exposed back and down to cover your red thong. The air that caresses your skin is gentle and warm. Your breathing settles and your mind tumbles with the day's events: your daughter bundling into your bed unfeasibly early all bounce and love and impossible energy, the drive to work, the first client of the day, the barren small conversation with the boss you think of as 'The Pig'. This is your time now and you sigh as the first tendrils of relaxation thread themselves through your muscles. In the darkness sounds are accentuated, the click-click of the air conditioning, the slow, muffled bump-and-grumble of traffic somewhere far away, the muted laughter of the reception staff......
Your mind returns to that special secret place that warms you and you think of your cyber lover. You smile when you remember his reaction this morning when you described yourself on the massage bed in nothing but your 'naughty knickers'. Time with him is so easy. He has this
manner
, a beguiling bundle of laughter and flirtation which is compellingly sexy. He is unashamed of his constant arousal and articulate enough to make the prospect of a sexual encounter seem real, vivid and compelling. Fragments of this morning's conversation come to mind and you feel the warmth spreading in your abdomen.
There is the faintest click of a door opening and the air on your exposed shoulders flutters momentarily. Footsteps approach and you scent aftershave - today it is to be strong fingers and a directive approach. The surface of your skin sensitises itself in anticipation. There are unhurried sounds of preparation, the opening of oils and the arranging of towels. The footsteps approach and fingers gently reposition the towel to half way down your naked back. With exquisite care he lifts your hair and exposes your neck, then the sound of oils being applied to his hands. His first sweep starts at your neck, traverses your shoulders and the exposed skin of your back. A pause, more oils being applied, and the second sweep begins at the top of your thighs down to your calves and ankles. More oils and then he begins work in earnest on your toes and feet. The heat bubbles up from his fingers and you sigh with contentment. As the strong fingers begin a firm, elegant kneading of your calf muscles your mind returns to your online conversation of the morning and once again you feel the heat in your groin. 'Fuck', you think to yourself, 'that man knows how to turn me on'. The thought stimulates an undeniable stiffening of your centre of pleasure. As the fingers work up to the backs of your knees, you abandon yourself to thoughts of your lover and the Paris afternoon he has created so vividly for you. You can almost smell the boulevards and the cafes, see the half-light of the street where he proposes a heavy kiss, sense his warm breath in your ear as you exchange intimacies in the bistro, and feel his fingers working you under your micro skirt beneath the table. In your mind the fingers of the masseur become your lovers' and the liquid fire begins to flood between your legs as the fingers harmonise with the fantasy and move to your upper thighs.
Involuntarily you widen your stance a fraction and the fingers follow, oiling the inside of your thighs and working closely to your apex. You are momentarily grateful for the biology of female sexuality which enables your arousal to be concealed, although that makes you think of your lover's anecdotes about being caught out in public with an erection, and you smile. The fingers are working dangerously close now and you have a momentary concern that you are close to that point where your wetness leaks and the scent of your arousal will betray you.
It is precisely at that point that a finger strays and brushes directly over the place where your swollen clit is straining against your thong. Shame and electricity flush through your body, tautening your nipples and your throat. You are caught in the moment - should you protest? Should you adjust your body to deny another opportunity? But the shock and the fear of an embarrassing scene paralyse you. You realise you are holding your breath, waiting,
waiting
as the fingers continue their rhythmic sweep, waiting to see if the encounter will be repeated.
It is.
Once again a flush of shame jags through your body. Once again the moment passes before your paralysis can be overcome.
The hands finish work on your legs and you hear more oils being applied. Has the awkward moment passed? You don't want to make a scene but you can't do nothing. You feel the towel being removed. This is normal but, in the confusion, has the faint resonance of a sexual gesture. You realise you are holding your breath.
The hands resume, but on your upper back. As the pressure of the massage recommences, you realise how taut your nipples have become and the constant frotting against the towel on the massage table is beginning to send flashes of electricity from them to your definitely swollen clitoris. Your body may be relaxed but your mind is on full alert now -
