tagErotic CouplingsMagic Fingers

Magic Fingers

bydemigoddess©

After the separation from a passionless romance, the world presented itself in kaleidoscope eyes. Desserts tasted more delicious, the aesthetic value of common things became obvious, and smells were robust and more evoking than before. In being alone again, I could only feel sensations. I rekindled with my spirituality, my senses, and the desire to experience real passion hit me like a ton of bricks.

I have always wanted to live intensely, experience my femininity. To desire and be desired, experience synchronicity and chemistry, joyful, selfish pleasure; the act of giving and receiving, to be an animal, raw and dirty, to be a woman, tender and loving -- to express all modalities of my being -- and be understood.

I work long, hard hours at my career in management. I imagine I am tough and untouchable, I live inside the guise of pragmatism, as a distraction from my inner thoughts. On the outside, I am strong, independent, intelligent. I make decisions. I am an oak. Inside, I am an empty well waiting to be discovered, to be filled.

My desire for the simpler pleasures of life have resumed as if awakened from a long, dreamful slumber. I have regular dates with numerous men and women, some are dear old friends with whom I am catching up. My best friend Kari, is my girlfriend of sorts, I toy with her, kiss her, caress her, make love to her. She has the most beautiful face and the softest lips. We can get lost for hours in one another, kissing and caressing one another in nightclubs and lounges, or in private. Only when we look up do we realize the sets of eyes on us. I abhor not being not easily attracted to the men who are the most accessible, who shower me with attention. I refuse to sleep with them; I refuse to take them home. I sleep with Kari instead.

In my isolation from my ex, I began a number of rituals. Hitting the gym, researching, reading astrology or divination, exploring music, hitting the clubs, writing, and finally, a massage club membership. At the spa, Mike, my regular masseur had not been available for some time, forcing me to schedule with a different therapist. Because my shoulder and neck muscles had been tense and painful, waiting for Mike was not an option.

I prefer male therapists, their hands are larger and stronger, capable of applying sufficient pressure. I also found that their energy benefits one beyond the physical. Male energy, I find, is characterized by patience, warmth, and kindness. Women are often harder, less sensitive. I am psychic when being touched and can hear their thoughts. I am turned off by anyone's lack of enjoyment in performing. I believe a person should enjoy performing their job. Patience and sensitivity are vital qualities to the massage; the sensual aspect is a large part of my therapy.

I reluctantly scheduled with Brendan in Mike's absence, I noticed him at the front first; I had never before seen him. I overheard him talking with the receptionists excitedly about his girlfriend. First I noticed the unique chrysanthemum plugs in his ears, perfectly complementing a remarkable baby face. His features were feminine, he had beautiful skin. His voice is kind, he exudes much physical energy. His appearance suggests a subtle androgeny, an admirable quality.

I am surprised when I am called in by him; He is smiling. I respond, following him into the dark room. Quickly I express to him, the aching pain ever present in my upper back and neck. He retreats so I may undress. When he returns I am naked, stomach down on the massage table, under the sheet, which was folded perfectly. He turns on the table's heat. He puts his hands on me.

Almost instantly, I notice his dexterity and remarkably skilled touch. We talk, fencingly at first. He teases that he enjoys stealing Mike's clientele; he hopes I will come back to him. There is something unique about his hands and fingers, and particular about the way he speaks and reciprocates my thoughts. I like both. My shoulder is painful and wedged In position.

He rubs, lubricating my skin with massage lotion. He feels it when I do, in his voice, young and sweet, "Ooohhh," he says, as he rolls over the muscle that is tender and bulging in my back. "I'm sorry, I tend to make noises as I react to the muscles". "It's quite alright." I say. "I know I am jacked up". I appreciate his sensitivity. He appreciates mine. I thank him, I tell him when it feels good.

There is something sexy about the tone of his voice, but I am only thinking of the massage... his hands on my body awaken my sense of touch and every nerve is pleasurable as he moves about my back. I have a facility for sensuality, and I am open to it. Comforted, I am able to relax with him, as I tend to find relaxation typically difficult. I am immersed fully, allowed to be one with the experience. I can read his mind, he enjoys giving to me. I am somehow closer to this man my first time in his care than I have ever been with a therapist of longevity.

I continue to talk, in part to distract myself from incredible pain as he places fingers underneath my shoulder blade, working it, it is intense and painful but wonderful all simultaneously. I am happy to be myself around him in therapy. He is apologizing sweetly to me for causing me pain, and I am thanking him for it, as I grimace and groan. I am like a project to him, and I feel feminine and nurtured. For a moment I wonder if he is turned on by my moaning, It occurs to me they sound much like my moaning in sex. I think he is reading my mind, too. He is elated at my obvious pleasure.

Brenden asks to rest my arm upon his lap so that he may massage with both hands. I oblige and appreciate his candor. His hands travel down my back, my legs. Oh, how I have missed this sensation! I did not experience the same massage when in with Mike. He moves to my feet; from my leg, to my ankle, my heel and my toes, reminds me to relax. I feel my foot resting upon his neck as he rubs. He has the strongest power, and that is to affect my imagination -- as I hope to be affecting his.

As we talk, a strange synchronicity is apparent. We think the same way, he is understanding and kind. I am feeling sexy today. Something about the way we connect strikes me as if I have known this man forever, he and his magic fingers touching me, I am a sadist, enjoying the pain with the pleasure, and wanting to tell him everything about myself. We talk about our vacations, our love lives, our children.

When our time is up, he appears disappointed. "I am very impressed with the work I've done on your shoulder. You would be so amazed if you could see what I see...how I have improved your mobility!" "I can feel it, I don't have to see it," I say. I am elated to see him so proud of his work. He leaves the room and I re-dress. Endorphins are powering through me, I feel euphoric. I can hardly ambulate to the door. He asks me to return soon.

The following massage is one week after. "I am glad you are back" he smiles gently. "Me too, I felt amazing last time." "Great" he responds. "I love taking Mike's clients," he jokes. He leaves the room; I undress; this time leaving on my pink leopard underwear. When he enters the room, I am sitting upon my elbows, texting with my phone. My large breasts were partially exposed and were undoubtedly his first sight when he entered. He tucks the sheet into my underwear, seeming to gain a sick satisfaction out of this, like a pro. (I am reading his mind again). He repeats this practice several times. His kindness takes me by surprise, he is so attentive, willing to bring me things, to spoil me into oblivion. He tells me he's been looking forward to me all day. When he moves to my bottom, I laugh.

"What's so funny?" He asks. "That tickles". I say. He laughs, "sorry...I wonder what would happen if I were actually trying to tickle you." I laugh again, childishly. We talk again, more personally this time. I confide secrets in him and he confides in me. I tell him stories funny and sad. I tell him about my ex. He tells me about his. He tells me about his current girlfriend; about how he isn't happy with her. The connection between us is palpable. Our dislike for numbers, our love for words and language. It is uncanny how our interests align. We enjoy similar studies and television shows and books. He understands my obscure references.

"Would you like to get a drink with me later?" he asks, as he is going over my shoulder again; the muscle is sore and bulges. He palpates my neck, vocally expressing his concern over the bumps inside. I am confused and flattered, I say "sure". The pressure feels intense. "oooooh" I let out, I am unable to suppress how wonderful his fingers feel there. "Did you just moan?" He asks. "yes, sorry, I can't help it". "Oh, it's quite alright" he responds. Suddenly I feel as if I am inside his mind and I know what he is thinking.

I flip over; he massages my head. "Oh that feels sooooo good....I feel like a kitten! " "Good, will you start purring?" I laugh. I am telling him a story. He interrupts; we are out of time. He expresses sadness and asks if I can stay longer the next time. I am feeling light and mesmerized again, wondering if he's put me under a spell. Suddenly he kisses my cheek. I am not sure how to react -- he turned around, unable to see my puzzled expression. He leaves and waits for me outside the room. When I am finished dressing, he writes his number down and hands it to me. "Tonight, call me, we can have a drink if you'd like". I smile; I schedule my massage for the next week, this time with Brenden.

I phone him late, close to ten PM. He is happy to hear from me. We meet for a drink, choosing to sit outside on a dark lounge patio. When he sits, he fashions himself close to me, our legs touching. He wastes no time at what he wants. He massages me at the table. He puts his face close to my ear. He breathes into my ear and moans, says my name, licks and sucks my ear. I am both appalled and strangely turned on. He knows the sensual eroticism I dream about. My most feminine parts swell and I become wet.

How dare he move on me so quickly, speaks my inner dialogue. Why I am allowing it is another mystery. I tell myself I will stop him, I am not flattered by his ego. He steals a kiss, without much ado. I answer, still taken aback by his forwardness. I answer his fourth and fifth kisses more intensely, kissing his lips and inviting him inside my mouth.

His kisses are nothing short of amazing. Sweet and tender, intense and passionate, wet. I begin to feel drunk, I am both aroused and repulsed by his courage, I find him presumptuous. He has an interesting face, handsome and beautiful, feminine features, soft lips and skin. His eyes are sweet, His pupils are large and inviting, I cannot say no to them, nor their ferocity as he pulls me to him.

Before I know it, I am initiating an endless passionate kiss.

I stop, momentarily, staring up at him. "Why are your lips so soft?" I ask.

"Why are yours?" I have no answer. I shrug and he engulfs me again.

He stands me up, pressing me against a wall. I can see and feel his desire, pointing like a sword between us. He lifts me up, slams my body against a pillar and kisses me forcefully. He presses against me. I moan in delight. He moans into my ear. Others are around on the deck, but it is as if we are alone, in our own world. I am surprised at his strength as he lifts me into the air. I feel small and feminine. He compliments me. He says I am beautiful.

My imagination runs wild. I let him inhale me, wondering how I can get away -- I know I shouldn't let it continue. We take a break only to resume our foreplay. My mind vascillates. He has slipped his hand beneath and fingers my pink parts with the dexterity and skill of an older, experienced man. The others on the patio have left.

I realize it is too late to run away. His cock is hard and I want to let him release his desire within me.

When we talk, I find his imagination stunning, he is genius. We connect on so many levels; I feel as if I have known him a very long time. He is well spoken which I find arousing.

I am enthralled by the naughtiness, the spontaneity, of being desired by someone so sexy, and ten years younger at that. He is aroused by my body, exciting me in return.

I bring him back to my house, we remove our shirts, I admire his chest, his muscular arms. My imagination is incendiary, I cannot resist despite my judgment telling me I am whorish and unladylike. I quiet the inner voice. Instead, I am feverish, erotic, I am liberated. I want to be shown how to feel something, and to show him.

I do not hesitate to remove my jeans. He has seen me this way before, but only parts of me. His eyes are wide as he watches me undress. He compliments the leopard panties he admired earlier in the day. His hands have already traversed my body and it feels right to be here. I want to be touched more, everywhere. I abandon my concern with his courage and give in to him, removing my bra. My large breasts dangle before him. I smile as he caresses them, sucks and kisses my nipples. I cry out in delight. He is like a child in a candy story; he cannot get enough.

He is honest and speaks his mind as we engage, he goes below, kissing me tenderly all the way down between my thighs. He enjoys passing over the soft and gentle curves of my body, my waist, my hips, my ass. His tongue and lips are now the massage artist; only this time I am going to come...he imbibes me, I shudder in delight. His fingers are magic and soon he penetrates me with two of them, pulling, pulling, pulling hard, harder, and fast, until liquid honey is forced from me. I come again and again, I am elated, amazed at his skill. I feel an intense release with each orgasm. I admire foreplay; I am not used to it. He knows this, I have not been spoiled in such a long time.

It is his turn, his cock is exposed and hard. I kiss his chest, his stomach, I take his cock into my mouth, slowly... starting at the glans , sucking it so hard, until I am taking it in entirety. He moans and says my name. I begin pounding him faster and faster, and he writhes his hips as if fucking me. I moan as I go up and down with my mouth, manipulating his testicles and cock with my hand as I move. He loves it, I am good at this.

I climb on top of him, so he may enter me. I am in ecstasy, his sword is large and wet, it rubs against my insides. I am touching myself, I am grimacing in pleasure, I am moaning in delight. He enjoys my moaning. I am amazed at how well our bodies connect, the first time, it does not seem awkward, but natural. He says my name, I tell him how good he feels.

He pounds into me in missionary, our hips are smacking loudly against one another as he pushes into me hard and fast. He is going to come, I anticipate it. When he does I feel the explosion inside of me, and we come together. He vocalizes his pleasure, crying out, it is so fucking beautiful. I always fantasized a man who made noise during passion.

Over and Over again I am coming, and to my surprise he has continued stamina, we are taking turns between fucking in different positions and giving oral satisfaction. I want him to come into my mouth in the wee hours of the morning, but his body is exasperated. I continue to give him pleasure. He moans, he says my name, he talks dirty to me.

I like the feel of my pink parts on him and near him, in his face. He is handsome and sexy and breathtakingly sensual.

Eventually the sun rises, and we fall asleep together. We must part within a matter of hours so I can go to work. I wake him with kisses and soft touches and fuck him again. The feel of his cock inside me is intense and powerful and rocks me to the core again.

We say our parting words and leave one another. His compliments continue until we part. I tell him he is so beautiful and good and passionate.... A better lover than I could have hoped for.

Our lives go on as usual, me with a new sense of sexual fulfillment. I fantasize seeing him again, feeling him, kissing him, fucking him, breathing him in. My next massage is scheduled in a few days. I shiver in anticipation...

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