Willingness at the [m]assage parlor

The morning that my massage was scheduled, my partner wanted to practice her handjobs again.

She’s a quick and willing learner.  In 20 years of sexual activity, it was a skill she had never developed, focusing instead on her love of sucking cock.  And god, she is a talented cocksucker.

We’d gone lube-shopping some weeks before, looking for the ultimate blend of slickness and staying power.  The silicone lubes were working great, perfectly complimented by her spit and the wetness that always develops in her pussy when she’s pleasing my cock.  She’s a slut who loves to earn my cum, and I can’t believe my good fortune, because she’s *my* slut.

She spread the lube all over the head of my cock, and all up and down its shaft.  She knows, now, because I taught her, just how to work my head to make me squirm and moan and build the solid base of pleasure that she then uses to escort me so expertly to my orgasm.  I was so focused on the pleasure, but I couldn’t help thinking about her. I wanted her to do well, and I was excited for her to take her new skills and share them with other men. I thought about how turned on I would be when she reported back to me after those times that she was a good girl and she earned their cum, too!

But now I’m distracted, and I remember to let my thoughts go.  I think back to the meditation app I used to use, and I give my stray thoughts a little magic carpet ride away from my mind as I think “Peace,” and I breathe.  “Peace,” as she’s garnering the writhes and moans and reactions that she loves to get from me. “Peace.” She leans her chest into my cock, and gets that devilish smile of mischief and anticipation that she always gets when she knows she’s about to get my cum.  She’s focused now, and she’s working my cock with a purpose in mind. I feel the waves of pleasure building, and I feel the plateau that I know the waves won’t recede from now. “Peace,” I think, and I urge her with my eyes to keep going. She knows it’s time, and the waves of pleasure crest.  Cum spurts out of me, one burst after another onto her chest, her tits, dripping down slowly to her stomach. Her mouth is wide open in a proud, exuberant, but feral smile. She keeps stroking me, slowly, victoriously, loving the slickness of it all and basking in her success.  

She was a good slut, and she had gotten just what she earned. 

—

I had trouble finding the massage parlor.  The mapping app made things needlessly complex, but I was about to relax for an hour, and I was grateful for the opportunity.  When I arrived, I was greeted by my massage therapist – a stocky but muscular black man in comfy black clothing with a warm smile.  He looked over the clipboard, on which I had been fortunate enough to be able to circle “no” after every pre-existing health condition.  “Nice and healthy, that’s good!” he said, smiling shyly, as he gestured for me to follow him back to the massage room. He invited me to get undressed while he left the room, so I did, thinking about myself, feeling self-conscious, and wondering whether this massage would be as lackluster as the last one I had had.  I climbed onto the massage table face-down, and I pulled the blanket over myself.

I don’t wear underwear, so I was naked there under the blanket.  It’s strange being naked in an unfamiliar room, just waiting for a stranger to come in and start handling my body.  The lights are dim and an unctuous scent is hanging in the air, filling my nostrils with every breath, each longer and slower than the last.  I notice the music, which sounds just like the incense smells. I roll my eyes about it, snobbishly wishing for something better, but that’s the last time I think about it as it fades into the background of my perception.

The therapist knocks, and I invite him in.  He starts oiling me and rubbing me down, checking in about pressure after a few minutes, and I tell him I could use a little more – yes, that’s perfect.  The massage is such a welcome detour from my normal daytime routine, and the physical feeling is such a relief. I relax and let my mind wander.

Thoughts begin to form freely, churning around in my head, rolling over each other as they start to coalesce into something.  I’m thinking about my partner and the sexy things we’d done that morning, and things we’ve talked about doing in the future – the cocks she’ll stroke, the cum that will cover her tits.  The massage therapist’s hands feel so sure and deft and his touch feels like pleasure and release. I think about what it would be like to be offered a happy ending, how that exchange would go.  Would the invitation be coded, would it be direct? Are there discreet signs that a therapist gives to let you know that service is available? Are there discreet signs I could give to let him know that I’m interested in receiving that?  

“Peace,” I think.  I’m realizing that my hypothetical thoughts are distracting me from the very real, very satisfying physical experience I’m having.  “Peace,” and another breath. Mindfulness. Focus on the feeling. This is luxury. “Peace.”

He’s strong and confident with his touch, and I playfully decide that, however unlikely, I’m ready to consent to whatever he would want to do to me.  I feel silly for daydreaming about it, and for objectifying this man, but at the same time I feel relaxed, open, *willing*.

“Peace.”

I’m on my stomach still, and his hands are working the muscles of my lower back, inching downward.  That’s closer to my butt than I’ve noticed therapists being willing to go in the past.  

Oh, and he’s folded the blanket down a little.  It’s just a little butt crack, which is really no big deal.  I appreciate that he’s getting as low as decency will allow – I’m here on a Groupon, but he’s being as thorough as I’d hoped.  He’s a professional, and why let something as trivial as an inch of butt cleavage stand in the way of doing his job well?

He’s massaging my feet now, and it feels *so* good.  I love a foot rub.  Now my legs – I never realized how much attention my calves needed!  Up to the thigh, and I’m lingering between satisfaction with the feeling of being massaged so well, and the disappointment that I’m running out of leg – another step toward the end of an awesome, therapeutic experience.

…but, ok, so he’s folding the blanket up a little. He’s getting everything he can out of my hamstring, awesome!

…and the blanket goes up a little more. Willingness washes back over me! 

…but this is a professional person doing a thorough job, and why shouldn’t my butt get the attention it needs – the glutes do so much work when I walk.  

…and I want him to take whatever he wants from me, to give me the opportunity to say “Yes!” 

…but he won’t, because that’s ridiculous, and why am I even thinking about that anyway?  “Peace,” I think, “peace,” with each breath, sinking back into mindfulness, watching thoughts float by, sending them on their way again with my mantra.  “Peace.”  

My butt muscles are grateful for the attention they’re receiving, and this massage would totally have been worth full price.

The therapist replaces the blanket over my butt, then my legs, and he invites me to turn over. He leaves the room briefly to give me the privacy people expect to receive in order to do that comfortably.  

Then, he knocks, and I invite him back in.

The massage goes on, and I’m lost in it.  Why don’t I do this more often?  

The tops of my legs are the last area to get attention, I know.  My body is running out of undeveloped real estate, and, surely it’s been an hour by now?

At the top of my left thigh, I know we’re at the end.  He’s working the last fibers of muscle where my leg connects to my pelvis, and I’m savoring this like the last sip of a hypnotically alluring glass of wine.  Where is the border of this last of my muscle groups? Inching closer, closer to my groin, this must be the end.

…and a little closer.

Any second it’ll be over.

…but he’s really close…to…

My mind flashes with alarm and a twinge of embarrassment, I realize I’m starting to get hard under the blanket.  I hope he doesn’t notice. But he’s a professional masseuse, this is how he finishes massages, and if I’m getting aroused due to the proximity, then I’m not the first.  And, besides, it’s not like I can control it. And he knows that. And if he notices, he’s internally laughing it off. But I’m under the blanket. Still concealed by the blanket.  Saved by the blanket.

…and a little closer.  Is he…?

*Willingness*.  

In an instant, embarrassment and concern trickle off of me like I’m emerging from a pool.  I hope he gets closer. *Please* get closer.

I think I feel the air on my cock, just a little bit anyway.  The blanket shifted slightly, can he see it? He’s moving his fingers upward, then downward where my thigh meets my groin, and, oh my gosh, did he just brush my shaft a little?

This is an accident.

…but it can’t be an accident.

He definitely just brushed against the shaft.  *Is brushing* against the shaft.  Keeps brushing, and I realize my heart is pounding.

*Willingness*.

He’s using multiple fingers as he strokes the underside of my cock, and I can feel the air of the room all around it now.  He oils his hand some more, and strokes gently again. Up, then down, and then up. He’s wrapping his hand around me now, and this is really happening.  I can feel my heart thumping in my chest, and I wonder for a moment if it’s audible, if he can hear my excitement. I’m sure he can hear my breathing. I give myself the slightest push up into his hand – I want him to know for sure that I want this, and that I want him to be in control of it.

Thoughts come racing in again – about what I think about what’s happening, about what I’ll tell my partner, about how I’m definitely coming back here *really* soon.  I’m not present enough to be sure, but I think I can perceive him taking his pants down.  What? I don’t care. “Peace,” and I breathe. He has one hand on my cock, and one hand on his, and he’s stroking both of us as he leans forward, farther forward.  “Peace,” I think, focusing on the anticipation, and I breathe. “Please,” I’m thinking as he, ever so gingerly, puts his wet lips onto the head of my cock, lingers there, and I savor the slickness and the intimacy and, “Peace,” but my heart is going to explode.

He’s taking more of my head into his lips, and out, and in again.  “Peace,” because this is maybe a dream? But it feels unfathomably real.  His mouth bobs up and down on my cock, his lips so slick and gentle, and my pleasure is building, building…

He’s stroking himself still, and he’s savoring my cock with each new pass of his mouth over my fully engorged head.  *Willingness*.  The feeling echoes in my mind as I think to reach out to touch him, but I stop myself.  This is for me. Another breath, precum leaks into his mouth, and I hear him stroke himself harder.  Waves start to form in my body, small, then larger and larger. I’m unconsciously thrusting into his mouth now, and then I cum, spurting once, twice, three times, and the waves of pleasure wash over me.  I’m relaxed, and I’m ecstatic, and the waves are receding. He keeps his mouth on me, now full of my cum. He strokes, strokes, strokes, and now I know he’s releasing too, cumming right onto the massage table.

There are a few beats of quiet while we sit in our respective afterglows.  I realize my gratefulness, and I tell him “Thanks.”

“Mutually enjoyable,” he replies, stifling a smile.  “I’ll give you some privacy so you can get dressed. I’ll be waiting for you at the front desk.”

At the desk, he debriefs me like I’m any other client.  He’s handing me coupons and explaining the best strategy to use them, and a business card with his hours.  Am I ever coming back? I don’t know. I tip him in cash, thank him again, and head for the elevator. Before the doors open, I take out my phone and text my partner.  I can’t wait for the heart-eyes emoji in her reply.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/cir9de/willingness_at_the_massage_parlor