A Birthday Massage to Remember

This is a true story of a recent event. Please excuse the British phrases since I have only lived in this country for a few mere years now. We are a couple in our early thirties, planning for a spring wedding. In short we are able to indulge ourselves in so far as our means allow. We work hard and it was long past due time for us to take a break. My good lady, Sara, is obviously not as fit as she was in the first flush of youth but is nevertheless quite well preserved; good looking, brunette, blue eyed, about 5 6 and reasonably shapely though, as is inevitable, carrying just a little more weight than she is best pleased with. I happen to think she is just gorgeous.

There has been nothing particularly remarkable about our sex-life, though she has always had an extremely healthy appetite and has never been unafraid to experiment. Though outwardly extremely respectable, being a schoolteacher she really has to be, she has never been afraid to indulge in a bit of naughtiness, particularly in our earlier days. Whilst she had the figure for it, no encouragement was needed on my part for her to wear extremely short skirts with stockings and garters, and frequently without panties as well. These would be combined with sheer tops, without a bra, on occasion, but never without a jacket or similar so that she didn't actually show very much.

She did get caught out the odd time, such as when we went to a club and, once we had paid and were making our way in, were told that jackets and coats were not allowed and had to be left in the cloakroom. Too late to back down, we both handed over our outerwear, and, with a face glowing bright red, she had to walk into the place with clearly visible nipples in a very erect state. A few drinks, combined with the low lighting, soon eased the embarrassment but the nipples stayed erect. She had gone out that night wearing a see-through and utterly miniscule thong; this was soon in my trouser pocket. She has never been afraid to admit that the feeling of vulnerability occasioned by being under-dressed in public was a massive turn on for her, but she has never shown the slightest desire to involve any third party. That night she was asked to dance by several men, but was somewhat careful not to let her skirt reveal that there was nothing underneath, though the stocking tops were occasionally visible. Neither did she flirt in any major way with any of them.

Not that I would have minded of course, for, like a large percentage of the male population as evidenced by postings, I have often got excited by the thought of watching her perform for and with other men. I have never been able to raise the subject however, as even when it has been approached in the most peripheral way she has steadfastly ignored any invitation to proceed.

For example, we were in an English bar in a Spanish holiday resort a few years ago and, as it was out of season, it was extremely quiet. The two of us were seated at a corner table at the back of the place, and I think only the owner and two other men were in. As the night wore on and the drink was consumed I began getting her to become more and more daring. She had gone out that night wearing a short wrap-around skirt and, would you believe, a totally not see-through shirt with a Winnie-the Pooh motif! Over the shirt she wore a short cardigan as, being in the autumn, it was somewhat cool in the evening and under it, and the skirt, absolutely nothing apart from a black garter belt and black seamed stockings. The whole ensemble was topped, or should that be bottomed, off with a pair of black stilettos.

Now you will have to admit that there wasn't very much I could get her to remove - unless it was everything. I got close, and after a while I had her sitting there in just the shirt, which I made her undo. Nobody could see anything of course, but my dear school ma'am wife was, effectively, one garment short of nudity in a strange bar, in a foreign country, with three male strangers. The shirt was quite long so I told her I wanted it off, but she refused to remove it in the bar, and so I gave her back the skirt and cardigan, which she put on to visit the bathroom. She returned wearing the cardigan and skirt with the shirt in her hand, and pretty soon I had the skirt off her again so that she was sat there in just the short cardigan. As I have said, this sort of thing was extremely arousing for her, and, as was our practice on these occasions, she would finger herself quietly under the table and then let me lick the wetness off her fingers. There was always plenty to lick off.

The owner and the other customers clocked something about what was happening, but apart from sly looks didn't intervene at all. When it got late on and time to leave she just put her skirt back on and we set off back to our accommodation. We hadn't got very far when she, of her own accord, removed the skirt and we walked the streets with her in just the now open cardigan, which only came down to her waist, and stockings. Such a display of bravery was tempered by the fact that it was about two in the morning and there was no one about! I did notice however a head pop out of the bar we had just left, and they must have seen her ample posterior, naked and framed by the garters, disappearing down the road. She even discarded the cardigan when we got very close to where we were staying; needless to say, the sex that night was explosive.

Anyway, the point is we happened to wander into the same bar later on in the holiday, but in the day this time. The owner was very welcoming, and, after we had had a few drinks, he had a word in my ear "would my girlfriend and I like to stay late again some night?" He would ensure that the doors were locked and we could have free drinks, and there would be just him and two of his pals. It was very clear to me what was on his mind. I said I would ask Sara, and I did. She was absolutely not interested and said that we wouldn't visit the place again. We didn't. You will have then seen what I meant when I said I didn't see any chance of a spot of third party involvement in our relationship.

Our sex life was, and remains, otherwise excellent; she has a large selection of toys, the favorite being a "Rampant Rabbit", and she is mightily aroused when I watch her using it still one of our favorite sex games. We have tried a touch of light bondage, with me tying her onto the bed and then, with the aid of a carefully placed mirror, making her watch as I closely inspect her before forcing her into a number of powerful orgasms usually with one or more of her toys.

She has fairly long nipples, nothing too extraordinary, that she loves being attended to, particularly when I apply a set of clamps or rings to keep them erect, and can almost orgasm through manipulation of her breasts, which are, again, a good handful but nothing too amazing. Sara mostly keeps herself silky smooth down below, which I love, though occasionally sports a light stubble, and this, as with all the other things I have related, has only come about since we got together or so she tells me. I think she is being truthful because she did tell me that she was occasionally partial to anal, and I have found this to be the case though neither always nor often. Some of our most memorable sessions have involved me penetrating her anally whilst she simultaneously brings herself to a climax with one of her toys.

As time has passed the short skirts have been consigned to the charity shops with the sheer tops likewise. However the garter belts and stockings still get the occasional airing, and it is not unknown for us to arrive home with her panties in my pocket. She still wears tiny and transparent thongs, but has also accumulated a number of pairs of French knickers. All in all then, a wonderful woman, who keeps me more than happy, but will not get involved in anything outside our relationship, or so I thought.

The trigger for what happened was a girl's day out at one of those beauty spa establishments. She went with a number of her friends on one of those pampering sessions, and when she returned she told me that she had been given a head, shoulder and neck massage by one of the female therapists. She was wearing only a dressing gown and the masseuse, whilst attending to her shoulders and neck, had opened the gown a little and had oiled and manipulated her chest down to the top of her breasts. She said that she had really got turned on by this, and thought that we should try it. Sure enough the various oils were purchased, warmed and applied, and to say that this turned her on would be an understatement. Now I have no expertise in these matters, so, basically, what would happen is that she would lie on our bed, generally face down, and I would apply and rub in oil to her back, buttocks and legs. She would then turn over and I would do the same to her front, by which time she was highly aroused. I would pay special attention to her breasts and pubic area, and would generally make her orgasm a couple of times before mounting her and exploding inside her.

We developed this into a game where I would pretend to be a visiting masseur and she would disappear into the bedroom to get ready. I told her to wear whatever clothes, or not, she would wear for a genuine masseur, and so usually she would lie there waiting in her bra and knickers. Whilst it was always easy to get her bra off without departing from our game too much, removing her panties, usually a thong required her to become involved unless I was to cut them off. Accordingly, she bought one that tied at the sides, and so her masseur could cunningly undo the knots and expose her completely without her knowing.

This game became one of our favorites, and sometimes she would insert a vibrating egg into herself, and keep the control at hand, before putting on the thong. As I massaged away, I would know how far advanced she was by the distant buzzing that made itself apparent at some point. Whilst Sara was on her tummy I would sometimes pour a little oil between her buttocks so that it ran down over her anus and onto her vulva. This would always be greeted by moans of pleasure, and occasionally I would run a small vibrator up and down the oily path before gently penetrating her anally. As the vibrator would never stay in place without my keeping hold of it, we eventually purchased a butt-plug, which would usually remain in place throughout our session.

As I say, these massage sessions became our favorite sex game, but I always thought that I wasn't very good at the actual massaging, which I knew she liked greatly in itself even though we used it as a form of extended foreplay.

I therefore determined to arrange a special treat for her 33rd birthday, and, through the internet, found a travelling masseur that carried out home visits for females only. The website gave an e-mail address, so I wrote off explaining what I was planning; a special birthday massage for my wife and enquiring as to whether the masseur would be available on the date and at the time I wanted and the costs for travelling expenses etc. A reply quickly arrived, stating the date and time was no problem and that there would be no extra for travelling. I booked a two hour session, which included a before and after body scrub, and eagerly awaited the day. The website stated that in order for the therapy to be carried out, the female in question would be asked to remove all her clothes. There were also some photographs of the procedure being carried out, which, though in no way explicit, were quite a turn on if I imagined the naked woman being worked on was actually Sara. I don't need to tell anyone reading this that the thought of their girlfriend, naked, totally exposed and stretched out whilst a stranger oils her up and caresses her all over is a powerful turn on.

There was one problem; the masseur would not allow anyone else in the room. I was thus faced with a dilemma; did I content myself with somehow listening through the wall and simply imagine what was going on in our bedroom where I envisaged the massage taking place or was there some way I could watch? The thought of listening whilst using my imagination was extremely tantalizing, but the thought of actually watching was even more so. Fortunately, technology came to the rescue in the shape of a relation who works in the CCTV and surveillance game. Without explaining the real reason, I managed to get him to supply me with three surveillance cameras and the associated computer card. One looked like a screw-in bulb, which would fit rather nicely into the overhead light in our room and give me a birds-eye view of the proceedings. The other two were conventional and rather small. I secreted one in the stem of the bedside lamp on my side of the bed, which would give me a diagonal side view, and the remaining one I hid in the airing cupboard door, which was in the wall facing the foot of the bed. I thus had a three-way view, which should allow me to capture most of the action. The signal from these cameras could be captured on my computer, which was downstairs in the study, and though the picture was hardly high-definition it was the best I was going to get. There was no means of focusing the bulb camera, but the other two could be pre-set. Obviously, once the session began no further adjustment was possible, so I set them up by laying a couple of pillows in the centre of the bed. I focused in on them by trial and error, just getting the best picture that I could. I would also be able to hear what was said as the two conventional cameras were equipped for sound.

On the day of Sara's birthday, which happened to be a Saturday, I took her out for a leisurely lunch at a favorite place of ours, and of course she had a bottle of Champagne with her meal - I was driving so had to remain sober. I had arranged for the masseur, whose name was Dave, to arrive at about 5 pm, and so had to get the timing right so that we would arrive back home before he arrived. A pleasantly tipsy Sara and I arrived back at about 4 pm, and, as it was a nice day, I asked her if she would like another bottle cracking open and we could sit in the garden and have a glass each. She happily agreed, and at about 4:45 I asked her if she was in the mood for one of her massage sessions.

She languidly stretched out in the garden chair and hitched her dress up to panty level, our garden is quite private, and gave gently rubbed herself whilst moaning appreciatively. Good, I said, because I have a surprise present for you and went inside and fetched a printout of the web page, which I handed to her. She nearly choked on her drink as she looked at the document. "Don't be so daft!"was the tenor of her response, at which I affected a disappointed look and explained that I had already booked him to come here today, and that he would be arriving in about five minutes. At this she sat up sharply, and I thought I was going to have to tell him that it was off. However, after a few moments she mellowed somewhat and said that if it was already arranged then she would go through with it. There was of course the fact that on no account would she strip off completely and if he wouldn't accept that then the appointment was off.

As she was telling me this I heard a car pulling up outside and walked down the side of the house to see if it was Dave It was. I shook hands and we introduced ourselves, and I then invited him into the back garden to meet Sara who had rearranged her dress again and was still sipping a flute of champagne. She rose to greet him, looking rather embarrassed I must confess, and I asked him if he had time to have a drink. He explained that he always left plenty of time for his appointments, and could manage a small glass of the bubbly. We would have no doubt sat there somewhat awkwardly had he not been someone with a natural gift for putting people at ease, and after a couple of minutes the conversation was easy.

He wasn't much to look at to be truthful certainly not one of those Greek-God types being about 5 7 tall and of medium, though fairly muscular build. He was, I would have said, in his mid to late thirties with grey hair and similar colored eyes. He was dressed in a track-suit and carried a sports-type hold all. Sara began asking him things like how long he had been doing this sort of thing, and how many times a week he performed a massage and so on. He was most professional, and explained to her that it was a job he liked doing and that he had many repeat clients. He also asked her if she had any problems with the appointment and she repeated what she had told me; none whatsoever, except that she would not strip naked, and would be keeping her clothes on whilst he worked on her. He said that there would really be no problem with this, as he could work around or through clothing. He explained however that I had booked a two-hour session, and so both a pre and post-massage body-scrub were included. He usually performed this in a shower or bath, he explained, but if Sara did not want to be naked in front of him then perhaps she would shower alone first, and then he would massage her. She replied that that sounded fine, and he suggested that she went for her shower, and gave him a call when she was ready. Meanwhile, he asked me, could he change into his working clothes in our downstairs bathroom.

I of course said yes, and they both disappeared into the house. I heard water gushing down the shower drain, and then Dave appeared in his working clothes. He had on a lycra singlet and a pair of loose tracksuit bottoms, demonstrating that he was indeed quite well muscled in his upper body, though nothing like to the extent of, say, Sylvester Stallone. We sipped a little more of the champagne, and a few minutes later Sara appeared in her dressing gown, with her hair still up from showering. Dave asked if we would mind him going up to the room set aside for the massage, which I explained was our bedroom, and so I took him up and left Sara in the garden. He said he would be a few minutes since he had an electric heater in his bag to warm the oil which he would need to set up and so on, and that he would call her when he was ready.

Returned to the garden and asked Sara if she was OK with all this and she said she was quite looking forward to it, though she would miss the sex that one of our massages always led to. I explained that after he had gone I would come up and we would then make passionate love together, and added that he would have done all the preliminary work. She looked at me quizzically at this and seemed to be about to say something, but Dave, who returned to say that he was ready, interrupted us.

I said that I would be in the study, and we went back into the house. I couldn't get into the study quick enough, and by this time was sporting an erection that was becoming painful. I reckoned that if I had touched myself I would have had an immediate orgasm, so I tried to ignore it as I booted the computer. This took a few minutes, and by the time the pictures and sound appeared Sara was already laid tummy-down on the bed more or less in the middle where I had focused the cameras on a large towel or blanket. The picture was OK, but not of course of very good quality, and the sound was similar. I was of course flitting between the three cameras, but was recording the output from them all.

True to her word, Sara was wearing a bra and panties and as I peered closely at the grainy picture my penis twitched mightily and, there was nothing I could do about it, I came in my pants; Sara was wearing her tie-sided thong, the one we had purchased so that I could expose here completely whilst massaging her without her knowing. Cursing mightily I rushed to our downstairs toilet and grabbed a handful of paper, before legging it back to the study. Whilst I tried to clean up the mess I watched the scene in our bedroom. Dave had appeared in the picture and had removed his tracksuit bottoms, revealing a pair of lycra cycle shorts to match the singlet I had seen earlier. His legs were as well developed as his torso, but what I could hardly miss, even on the quality of the picture I was watching, was that the tightness of the shorts revealed that he had either stuffed a pair of socks down the front, or he was hung like a donkey.