The Masseuse: An orgasmic epic

I had initially posted this in hopes of recreating the memory in some fashion on /r/dirtypenpals. But, after some suggestions, I’ve realized it’s really more a story. Something that I hope you all can enjoy here.

**—–CHAPTER 1: THE ORIGIN—–**

It all started when I accepted an invitation to be my friend’s groomsman. I was but a simple un-defiled man. Hadn’t even stepped foot in a strip club. Oh, but things were going to change. Next came the bachelor party invitation. Where you ask? Montreal. Oui, Montreal. I was hesitant at first. I was only vaguely aware of my friends propensity for strip clubs, prostitutes and the like. I’m worried what is going to happen and if I’m even going to be down to party. I tell him that I’m not sure I can make it. Plans and such… He doesn’t buy it.

> “Don’t worry, you’re in good hands. You don’t want to miss out buddy. Your life will change.”

My life will change? That’s quite a statement. I put it out of my mind for a month or so until the groom texted me.

> “You still have time.”

Given the current circumstances of my life: I just left my job and broke up with my girlfriend. I found myself booking my ticket and hotel room. Time to turn this stagnancy around.

Before I continue, I must mention that I’ve always had a fantasy of an unexpected sexual experience with a masseuse. A soft touch, a caring demeanor, a sweet relaxation. So, fast forward to my first day of the bachelor party. The guys take me to a massage parlor. This is clearly a happy ending type massage parlor. It’s apparent from the glowing neon sign, displaying the words **Erotic Massage.** I felt like I was in the movie Blade Runner. The sign illuminating half our faces as we sat in this sticky, slightly damp, dark lounge. I’m nervous, unsure, excited. Sweaty.

> “Oh it’s cool you go first.”

My co-bachelor party attendees get taken off one by one until I’m the last one on the couch. Shit, it’s my turn. This isn’t the interesting part. Everything goes as expected. Nothing to write home about. I felt dirty afterwards. But then we went for poutine so whatever. Sleepy poutine dreams that night.

So the next day we all meet up. Montreal bagel. It’s pretty fucking good. I’m from NYC… trust moi. If you are ever in Montreal, go get one, you’ll be grateful you put up with this story so far. The guys decide they are gonna look for some night time entertainment. I feel conflicted. I’m not morally opposed to the guys partaking, but I’m not sure where I stand. So I pass. I totally square it up. I go for a walk. I’m out sight seeing and I pass by a massage parlor called “Ooh Paris.” Well, Ooolala. I like the sound of that! French accents are très sexy. I get a coffee. Contemplate… fuck it!

**BEST DECISION OF MY LIFE!**

**—–CHAPTER 2: THE BEST ORGASM OF MY LIFE—–**

I walk up the stairwell to the parlor and enter a very bland room. Two doors at opposite ends with a grey tweed couch in the center. It looks like a dental office. I’m already regretting this choice. But, before I can get up and leave, an older lady comes in.

> “Bonjour monsieur!”

I’m looking around at 1… 2… 3 security cameras. This is the DMV of massage parlors. What have I done? She holds her finger up in case I didn’t understand. She peaks behind the door, motions her arm and one at a time five of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen come in clad in lingerie. They all make flirty eyes with me. I’m a bashful child. I’m pretty sure I’m blushing. One girl smiles at me. *Ding ding ding!* I’m the biggest sucker for a smile.

> “Who would you like to be your masseuse?”

Choice was easy.

With my last shred of decency, I ask her name.

> “Marrrrrie”

The loveliest french accent I have ever heard. That R drags in the air. In my ears. She’s a petite brunette, sparkling green eyes, cute turned up nose and the smile of Aphrodite. She walks over to me, glides her arm out. It levitates. She leads me, holding my hand. It’s so soft and warm. We enter the room and she motions toward the shower. It’s a big shower area. I hop in and start washing myself. I look around the room. Decor is very french. Gold trim everything. Suddenly, I hear the shower door open. I’m trying to peer through the waterfall in front of my eyes. Blurry vision. I can’t handle anything near my eyes. I don’t even put eye drops in directly. I pool it on my eye lids and then open my eyes allowing it to flood in. She begins washing me as she hums a song. It’s beautiful, her voice. I’m recall lost memories of myself as a baby. It’s surreal. When all is done, she drys me off. Hasn’t skipped a note. I’m awestruck.

> “Please lay down mon amour.”

She is completely dry. She was just in the shower with me? HOW? No fucking clue. French technology.

I lay down, and she starts giving me the most sensual massage. I’m not even thinking sexual thoughts. I’m just floating on a cloud. Goosebumps, shivers, a relaxation I’ve never really experienced. She’s casually talking to me about Montreal sightseeing, the weather, my job, siblings… etc. I am struggling, grasping at my ability to talk; to get words out. I am that relaxed. I was relax drunk. Relax wasted. She’s whispering in my ear, nothing sexual. She talks about her trip to NY. She knows I’m on the verge of passing out. She knows I’m not even really sure where I am at this point. She says

> “Aww am I boring you? Why don’t you turn over?”

I barely squeeze out,

> “not… am relax.”

It was like waking up the moment she commanded me to turn over. Now, when a guy wakes up, there are certain parts of his body that wake up a little more excited than others. I’ve got morning wood. Only, it’s not morning and I wasn’t sleeping. What in the hell buddy?

> “Oh, I guess I wasn’t boring you after all.”

She laughs. I’m embarrassed. I have no words. Just a silly grin. I look stupid. Whatever, I’m in Australia, it’s cool. She’s rubbing my chest, my thighs and then… woah those are my balls. My muscles contract for a second, but holy fuck does it feel good. She giggles. My body just melts. Blub, blub, blub. I’ve lost motor control.

Then she starts doing some crazy two handed jerking technique. Developed by ancient monks and passed down only to the most promising artisans of the hand job. I fucking hate hand jobs. They are 85% terrible. Painful. Dick ripping, soul crunching, violence on my cock. 14% of them i’ll make it through, but I’ll need a week to recover. But this, non non, this is the 1%. It’s like a mouth within a mouth. Two mouths giving me a double-blow/hand-job. I’m convulsing. I’m doing everything in my power to control my body. I can’t. She notices how I am clearly not able to handle this. She leans over, whispers in my ear.

> “Relax baby, it will feel even better.”

I do as I’m told. What is this? Her technique changes. She’s a ninja-wizard. She somehow creates a sort of vortex around the head of my penis while stroking my shaft. I usually pride myself in having pretty good orgasm control. Not today. I’m losing this battle… fast. It’s a downward spiral, Alice in wonderland, Lucy in the sky with diamonds and holy fuck, I’m exploding, imploding. I’m the birth of the universe. I’ve been in prison for the past 30 years. I know cause she remarks,

> “Wow, you’re really backed up eh?” (Canadians).

I’m totally not. I got a hand job the day before. I had sex shortly before I came on this trip. Fucking buckets. She doesn’t miss a stroke.

I am paralyzed. I can’t move a muscle. What’s my name? She smiles at me, I can only stare. My facial muscles are not responding. My body is rebooting. Running diagnostics. Eyes… check! Nose… check! She laughs nervously,

> “I hoped you had a good time.”

I’m screaming inside my head. GET TO THE FUCKING MOUTH BRAIN. Sorry, I just need to finish diagnostics on the left arm, right arm, left leg, right leg, ears, skin, nipples…… etc etc. She’s looking at me as I grunt. Primitive. I want to proclaim my love. I LOVE YOU MARIE. I fucking can’t. I imagine us running off, living in the country side of Quebec. Baguettes and croissants. We run a farm-to-table bed-and-breakfast. It’s a Nicholas Sparks novel. I am the happiest I have ever imagined. I can’t say anything. She awkwardly cleans me up in silence. I’m drooling. This is a nightmare.

She tells me she’ll be back shortly. I lie there for a good five minutes. My body finally gives me the all clear. Great… I hop in the shower. Wash my sadness down the drain. She comes back, I give her everything I have on me.

> “Oh, it’s too much!”

No it really isn’t. I am a changed man. I can’t contemplate orgasms anymore. I tell her about how it was the best orgasm I’ve ever had. She kisses me on the cheek. I get flashbacks of the bed and breakfast. She hugs me and escorts me out. I go back the next day. She’s not in. It’s my last day in Montreal. I return home defeated. I can’t enjoy sex for the next month. I try desperately to recreate this moment. I have not been successful. It is but a bittersweet memory. It’s been three years. I am still a shell of a man.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/4icwxu/the_masseuse_an_orgasmic_epic