I [F] Hired Another Woman For Sensual Massage…

Part 1 of a story about hiring another woman for sensual massage.

I tend to write with a lot of build and anticipation. Patience is required. Sexy parts demarcated if you must skip ahead. Full story is posted on my profile <3

~

Inside me was a pit. In the pit were cold coals, bits of bark, unholy, dampening wetness; things unsuitable for fire and longing. Instead of longing, I cultivated emptiness. I felt sorry for my pinked and bloodied heart.

“Eventually, you’ll feel different,” Violet tried to reassure me, her tender hands always half-soothing, half-making tea.

Since I had known her, I had been in mourning. First it was the loss of a pet, then it was the loss of a family member, then it was a move, then it was anything that caused the slightest bit of inconvenience. The exhaustion of survival had set in, and I had lost something I didn’t think possible: my own body.

I had always been a sexual person, discovering self-love at a young age, playing discreet games of husband and wife with my childhood best friend, her insistence on playing wife causing no issues for my desire to be husband, to be the one that touches and takes care. The husband that prioritizes his wife’s pleasure, but finds his own in the soft caress of her hip, her back, the wiggle of her toes against mine under the covers. Games occupied me through puberty, until adolescence set in, and the weight of real discovery presented itself. Suddenly, I was the one to be touched, to be fondled and oggled and played with, to receive. Sometimes without regard for my own pleasure. I stumbled through the learning curve, taking turns with boys and girls alike, looking for the source of ultimate pleasure.

I learned with little grace, but stored the wisdom of each encounter in my body. In adulthood, I was a ripened peach, ready to be split open and devoured. I found sex in everything. Gliding my hand down the creamy pages of a new notebook; stroking the soft blanket wrapped around me in my reading chair; the sweet stickiness of caramelized onions wrapped around my tongue; the whisper of wind in the leaves.

But loss is a funny thing. Grief is, too. Somehow, somewhere, I lost my body. I lost my sense of wonder. Nothing elicited that spark of excitement. Everywhere I looked, I found nothing but disinterest. At first, I tried playing husband again: being only a giver seemed to be a good way to try to reconnect with my body, to feel joy through giving it. My fingers pumped carefully in countless women, knowing always where and when to curl to bring them to that elusive lake of relief, melting snow-capped secrets into small moans. When they tried to reciprocate, I said no. I became good at No. I became an expert in No. And still I felt nothing. I opened their mouths to let saliva drip into eager throats, each moment passing with resounding refusal: I am not here like you are, I am not part of this. I am simply giving you what I cannot get.

Violet would try to wield her friendship in many ways to help me: caretaking, sympathetic ear, tough-love, occasionally, a kiss. We even tried our hands at each other, sleepily licking each other’s necks and teeth like kittens, finding sweet familial comforts above all else.

“I don’t think I’ve had an orgasm in like, a year,” I told her.

“No wonder you’re miserable,” she shot back.

“Well I wouldn’t say I’m *miserable–”*

“I would.”

“Fuck. Ok, maybe you’re right.”

The realization that I had maybe, accidentally, let my pathetic depression seep out and show itself, its tough little face wound up like a prune, was embarrassing. I hadn’t meant to be so obvious; it’s more humiliating when people can see your misfortune. I thought maybe I could fix it, maybe if I was just a bit more intentional I could get back into my body, step through the veil of darkness into the wet, warm light of orgasms. I knew it would be a difficult task.

First I tried new sex toys. I ordered every kind under the sun: butt plugs the size of my fist, thrusting dildos, suction vibrators, nipple clamps. Each one more beautiful and interesting than the last, but still not efficient at elevating my heart rate, sending pulsing shoots of energy down my spine, spilling puddles in my sheets. Nothing resembling true satisfaction.

Next, I tried simplifying. Abandon all the fancy and expensive gadgets and get back down to business, the old-fashioned way: sheer grit, pornogaphy, and a clean hand. I flipped through vintage Playboys, erotica blogs, cam sites, mainstream porn. Gangbangs, romantic, lesbian, MILF, gay men (why not?), MMF, MFM, FFM. Forced bi. JOI (directed at people with parts I don’t have), Cuckholding. Cheating fantasies, public sex, kidnapping. Everything always felt too performed, too mechanical. Even the sweet stuff, the tender and intimate stuff, was too removed from my own desires. Artistic pornography was a step closer, but still left me wanting more.

**(Sexy Stuff)**

Eventually, I stumbled upon a genre I hadn’t heard of before: massage porn. The first video caught my interest because it focused so intently on the hands: stroking up a smooth thigh, tunneling around oiled breasts, finding delicate swirls of hair to glide over. The fingers looked so poised and elegant, like submarine explorers navigating a secret underwater world, on the surface of skin serenley glowing from the excess of massage oil. My clit jumped. This could work.

My hands absentmindedly snaked down my belly and into my panties, as intent as a lighthouse beacon illuminating the dangerous shores. My fingers tickled the outside of my hole, stringing sticky juices to my clit to warm her up, slowly creating a gentle spiral around and around the aching head, at times forcibly removing my finger so I didn’t get too worked up yet. I watched the video with laser focus: hands grasped around a soft waist; I slip the tip of one finger inside myself. A tongue flashes across the nape of a neck, bejeweled with a sweat bead in a small spiral hair; I add another finger and curl them up. An elbow digs into the soft muscle on a smooth back, ending its journey with a quick caress of the ears; I moan. I pull my fingers out to impatiently push my t-shirt up and find my nipple, using my own wetness to bring it to attention. Back in my pants they go, my free hand now able to use the scent of my own pussy to harden my nipple, tweaking it gently as I bridge my hips into my hand. Still concentrating on the video, I pump my fingers in and out of myself, a consistent rhythm that keeps getting thrown off due to the terrible angle – this is why other people can be helpful, I guess, I thought to myself. One step at a time. Frustrated, I plunge my hand into my toy drawer next to the bed, and hurriedly wrap my hand around my prized glass dildo, relief flooding my still-working wrist instantly. I reposition, my hand now free to continue teasing my clit, my other hand coaxing the cool dildo inside me. I am hardly able to stop myself from wriggling down into it, gasping as the tip hits my g spot.

The video has progressed from PG massage. In time with my hand, the masseuse spreads the woman’s oiled legs apart, presses her fingers into the inside of her thighs. Lightly strokes the outer labia, spreading the lips apart with utmost care. The woman being massaged tenses ever so slightly, her clit facing up toward the commanding hand. I speed up my finger. The masseuse uses the palm of her slick hand to tease the woman’s clit. I watch it harden. I’m so close. I almost have it – and then I lose it. I persevere. The dildo is harder to keep in the more excited I become, my ankles twisted together, clenching my pelvis so tightly the toy almost pops out. The masseuse slips one hand in the woman, using the heel of her hand to grind against the clit, and using her other hand to cruelly caress one hard nipple, beckoning it to harden and beg for her. I pump the dildo harder. I feel the soft interior wall of my pussy push back and I let slip a tiny yelp. Suddenly, with no warning though I had been working at it for some time, the orgasm hit me. One huge tidal wave, crashing through my breasts, my legs, my knees, my calves twitching. My back spasms against my mattress, I almost hid my head on the wall behind me. It settles into me and another one hits, a little smaller but still mighty, the kind that you think you have time to run away from before your sneakers get wet, and end up drenching half your jeans. The proof puddles around my ass, beginning to soak into my sheets before I have time to remember the word “towel.” I realized I’ve screwed my eyes shut, and haven’t seen anything but grainy black dots in a few seconds. The focus required was monumental, and I am exhausted.

Thus began a blossoming obsession with massage porn. On any given evening, one could be sure to find me panting and breathless in a heap of my own juices, my sheets requiring near-daily washes. My dreams were filled with the scent of coconut oil and sweat. I woke up with my hands on my clit regularly. Months passed like this, feverish orgasms I shared with nobody, still lonely and not fully satisfied, but throbbing all the same. I learned what I liked: artistic, erotic videos, close-ups, slo-mo, girl-girl, sometimes sensual MFM. I didn’t like: vulgar, fast transitions, massages that went from sweet to the standard deep-throat choking in seconds. What kind of massage is that if the masseuse gets all the reward? It didn’t feel very zen anymore. These preferences posed problems; there are only so many videos that are artistic and perfect. I scoured all the free sites, all the paid ones. I ran up my credit card watching other people receive the pleasure I dreamed of.

Spring had come to reprieve me of the winter hibernation in my wet sheets, and walking outside had become joyful once again. I decided to go to my favorite bakery, to bring croissants and coffee to Violet. I had been, regretfully, neglectful, turning down her invitations for tea in favor of furiously masturbating. Flaky pastry seemed like a good enough apology. Swinging down the sidewalk with my waxy paper bag and coffee cups, I felt a content I had been missing for some time. A gentle breeze lifting my skirt brought a smile to my face; the flirtatiousness of a changing season tempting me with ease.

As I approached Violet’s apartment, I noticed, for the first time, a curious shop with blacked out windows and a neon side. *Paradise Massage,* it said, and it hit me all at once that this was one of those “happy ending” establishments you hear about so much, almost as a joke. As if they aren’t real. Wouldn’t it be so much easier if I were just a man, I thought. I could just go get a happy ending massage and call it a day. Done and done. I grumbled about this to Violet, woefully lamenting about my lack of a penis, how this was basically another form of oppression toward women, only half-joking.

“I mean, couldn’t you just…go get a happy ending massage, too? Is there some rule against women?” Violet, ever-insightful little cherub.

“I’ve never heard of that.”

“Sure, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. I bet there’s a lot of stuff you’ve never heard of and don’t know about.”

“How dare you,” I sheepishly replied, knowing she was right. When I got home, I typed it into my Google search bar:

*Happy endings*

*Happy endings for women?*

*Can women get sensual massage?*

*What is a happy ending for women?*

*Lesbian happy ending*

*Lesbian massage Seattle*

And on like this. As it turned out, sensual massage was offered by many talented and sexy women in the city, and it appeared that several were also friendly to women. My nipples tightened flipping through the photos. The prices seemed reasonable; no more expensive than what I had spent on porn. There was nothing stopping me except my inability to choose. Would I prefer a small, pixie like creature with small hands and warm dark eyes? An elegant blonde? A doppelganger, dark brown hair cascading down warm, tan shoulders? It was almost unbearable, the thought of anyone touching me, especially someone so beautiful and unattainable. The extra boundaries were alluring; we always want most what we can’t truly have. The distance was both incredibly enchanting and reassuring that I couldn’t get hurt, not yet, now now. Not here.

A curly red-head popped up on my screen and I caught my breath. Gentle green eyes, mischievous little smile, full breasts. Her ad specified her distinct aptitude and adoration for women. Two small dimples, as if placed purposefully by omnipotent hands, flanked her lower back. I imagine, just for a moment, my fingers finding the delightful dips, holding her against me. Just as quickly as the thought enters my head, I shake it off. I don’t even know if I will be allowed to touch her back. I don’t even know if I will want to.

Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/lmzv6a/i_f_hired_another_woman_for_sensual_massage