A Non-Relaxing MassagebyPrurientFantasies©
This is my first ever submission to Literotica. I hope many of you enjoy it. Feedback is more than welcome. Enjoy
People always misjudge me when they first meet me. Truthfully, some misjudge me even after they've known me for a while. I'm really not surprised by this though. Appearances, as they say, can be deceiving. It's not surprising that people think I'm the kind of guy that's screwing everything in sight. Not to brag, but I've got the looks for it. A little over six feet tall with a broad, very muscular frame, wavy brown hair that's always well-kept, and even when it gets messy tends to fall in ways that I have to admit are not unflattering. My eyes are a deep green that I know I've found striking the few times I've seen it in someone else's face, and my face has got features that are chiseled enough that I've been asked on more than one occasion if I've ever considered modeling. And, I admit, I spend way too much time in the gym. I'm a pretty easy-going guy, and I've never had trouble talking to and making friends with women. Of course, those last two are the start of where people misjudge me.
Everyone assumes that my time in the gym is spent out of vanity, a certain flair for the narcissistic. They don't know I use it as an outlet for my frustrations; that I find a couple of hours of working out a catharsis, and the sculpted body I've developed was the side effect rather than the goal. They tend to assume that being able to hold a conversation translates easily into getting a date. For most guys, it probably would. For me, although I'm well acquainted with the kinds of conversation that will make me friends, I never know how to move things from friendly banter to asking a girl out. It's worked against me for years, the last steady girlfriend I had was in my last year of college, and it wasn't a serious enough relationship that either of us changed our after-graduation plans. She went to grad school on the other side of the country, I went to work. We haven't exchanged more than Christmas cards and the occasional friendly e-mail since. I hadn't even dated anyone more than once or twice in the last 2 years. I digress though. The story of my romantic troubles is long, boring, and frustrating. The story of how that long dry spell ended is much more interesting.
It started with a favor for a friend. The friend happened to be female, but that isn't directly relevant, because she was also about 40 years older than me. Mrs. Clark, a widow who, though her husband has been dead 10 years now, insists on being called Mrs, not Miss, not Ms.. She lived next door to me for 2 years, and we were on friendly terms, although after the third niece she tried to set me up with proved equally dull, I was forced to put a blanket ban on blind dates in effect. Having reached her retirement though, Mrs. Clark was taking her savings and moving to a place that was cheaper, with better weather, and had the added advantage of being down the block from her son and grandkids. But she needed help moving her furniture out, and yours truly was called in to do the heavy lifting.
After a day full of that, I was exhausted, and after I closed the back of the U-haul she'd rented I sat down on her stoop to take a breather. A minute or two later, Mrs. Clark came out and handed me a tall glass of ice water, which was exactly what I needed at that moment. As I guzzled it down, she sat next to me and hugged me. As she spoke, I noticed an envelope in her hand, and figured that she was going to try to pay me. I prepared myself to hand most of the money back to her, I knew her well enough to know she'd try to give me well over the 40 bucks we'd agreed on (remember, I was doing this mainly as a favor).
"I can't thank you enough, David. I don't know what I would have done without you." She said this in that perpetually cheery voice of hers, then added, holding the envelope out to me "I've got a little something for your troubles here. I figured you could use it after today."
I was confused at that point, it's not something you'd say if you're about to hand someone cash in most cases. Setting the glass down on the stoop, I opened the envelope. Inside was the 40 dollars, and a coupon. Well, a gift certificate technically. The top of the coupon was marked with the name of a rather upscale spa just across the street from the gym I go to. It was marked, "Valid for one (1) one hour full-body massage session. Cannot be exchanged or redeemed for cash." It was signed with a man's name, Charlie, written in English as well as marked with a few Chinese characters.
Mrs. Clark went on to say, "Charlie's the greatest, I've been going there once a month for years. My little treat to myself. Now, no buts! It's right there on the coupon, I can't return it, and I won't be around to use it, so you'll just have to." I gave her a wry grin, she'd anticipated my objection before I could give it. I'd never had a full body massage, but I knew they weren't cheap. And, I admit, I was less than thrilled at the prospect of having a guy have his hands all over me for an hour. But I was tired, my muscles were all sore, and I was thoroughly outmaneuverd, so I caved in, didn't argue, and said my farewells to Mrs. Clark.
I made the appointment that day to go see Charlie, and, I admit, I was hooked after the first session. Charlie was this little Chinese man who looked like he was about a hundred and five years old, but had the strongest grip I've ever felt. It turned out he was also the manager, and owner, of the spa, and most of the workers were in some way related to him. He put my fears at ease quickly, and, true to his word, gave the most soothing, relaxing, massage I've ever experienced. A small, strategically placed towel preserved my modesty throughout the massage, which did much to ease my mind.
That coupon from Mrs. Clark was only the first of many sessions with Charlie; I went about once or twice a month for a year and a half. I got into the habit of going to Charlie whenever I was overly sore after one of my gym sessions, and he managed to get rid of all the little twinges and aches that used to follow me around after an overly intense workout. We would chat as he worked, about subjects as far ranging as family and business, to world politics. I met several of the other men and women who worked at the spa, but my appointments were at a pretty regular time, so I only knew the ones who worked Saturday afternoons.
One day in the late fall, however, I broke with that regular routine. My job had given me the week off, sort of. Technically I was working from home, and so was the rest of the office, while the building was renovated. In reality, it was a week of paid semi-vacation for all of us. I knew that this gap in my work schedule was coming up, so I made my appointment with Charlie two weeks in advance for Wednesday evening. I was to be the last customer of the day, but it was always easier to get an appointment with him on a weekday than the weekend sessions that I (and apparently most of his other customers) favored.
I knew something was wrong as soon as I walked in. The normally cheerful atmosphere by the reception desk was unusually subdued, the two women working there were talking in low voices, in rapid Mandarin. When I walked in, they both looked up, seeming a little surprised to see me.
Breaking the silence that had fallen, I gave them a bright smile and said, "Ah, Hi. I had a 7:30 appointment with Charlie?" I expected to be lead to the massage room at that point. Instead, one of the woman, a matronly lady in her middle years, who I believed was one of Charlie's daughters, gave a very pained frown, flipped through a couple of pages in the appointment book, and looked at it.
She frowned again, then looked up and, sounding very serious said, "Oh... I'm sorry Mr. Brandt. We tried to contact you, but the house number we had for you must have been wrong. We did leave a message at your office...?"
She paused then, and I filled in, "Office has been closed all week, I didn't have a way to check the voicemail there."
She shook her head then and went on, "Well, I'm sorry to have to tell you, my father passed away last week."
Shock hit me, the way it always does from such an announcement, and I responded, "Charlie? I'm very sorry to hear that." It was more than pleasantries; I was genuinely going to miss the man, both the conversations and the massages.
She nodded, taking the words in the spirit they were meant, and said to me, "We do have someone taking his appointments, if you want." I hesitated, certain that whoever they had couldn't possibly have the experience or skill Charlie did.
Since this was a permanent situation, and Charlie hadn't just gone on vacation, I resigned myself to trying someone new. I nodded and said, "Alright."
Since I prefer to be able to just head home after the massage, I took a moment to pay beforehand. The other woman, a girl who I suspected was this woman's daughter, making her Charlie's granddaughter, lead me to the changing room. As I closed the door, she said to me, "When you're ready, just go to room two." I'd been coming here long enough to know where that was, although I'd never been in there. I disrobed, putting my belongings in a locker provided for that purpose, and slipped into one of the white terrycloth robes the spa provides. Making sure I was decent, since the robe was the only thing covering me, I headed to room 2.
I don't know what I expected to find when I walked into room 2, but the room itself was almost identical to Charlie's room. Same familiar massage table, same carpet, same color on the walls. The art on the walls was different, but that was about it. One thing was a big difference though. Actually, I'd say a huge one. In my year and a half getting massages from Charlie, I'd gotten used to having a male masseur. Once I'd gotten over my initial homophobic quailings, and realized that the massage given by a professional was a non-sexual thing, I'd realized that I was more at ease than I would have been with a woman. It was easier to put my massage and sex in two different places in my brain when the person doing one wasn't one I'd be interested in doing the other with. The person who was standing in the room ready to give me my massage didn't fit that description.
Her face had very soft Asian features, although her eyes weren't that sharply slanted, but she was taller and of a different complexion than the rest of the family. She had long, straight black hair that she wore in a long, but loosely done, ponytail, probably to keep it from falling forward as she worked. She was wearing a long, tapered, blue skirt that came to her mid calf and a loose white blouse. Well, mostly loose. It wasn't quite loose enough to hide the fact that she had one, or rather two, features that, not to be stereotypical, you don't usually expect to find on an Asian, at least not in the size she had them. She had a narrow little waist that flared to hips that I can only describe as shapely, with legs that tapered down towards the ground. In short, she was gorgeous and I was in trouble.
Remember, at that point it had been about three years since the last time I was with a woman. My brain was at war with itself. Part of me was going, "This woman's about to have her hands all over me, YAY!" A more rational part was saying, "Yes, but you know if she does you're going to get hard." That first part was perfectly happy with that arrangement, until the second part pointed out two little facts; one being the fact that this spa had strict rules about unwanted advances on the workers, the other, a much more convincing argument to that other part of me, being the fact that if I did react like that, it would almost certainly lead to massive embarrassment, and almost certainly not to a release.
In short, one part of me wanted a lot more than what the situation was likely to offer, and the other wanted to get the hell out now, and both parts were thoroughly discontent.
The apprehension I felt must have showed on my face, because the woman offered me a smile I'm sure was meant to be reassuring. At that moment, I considered it a cruel joke of the universe. She had an amazing smile, and if she'd flashed it at me in another situation, it alone might have been enough to get me hard. As it was, nerves kept that particular source of embarrassment at bay. When she opened her mouth to speak, I got to find out that the voice went with the body and the smile. It was soft, clear, musical. She didn't have an accent, or at least the accent she had was just the one of the area where I live.
She offered me her hand as she said, "Hi. I'm Lin." I heard the name as Lynne, but found out later that it was Lin, and was only a nickname, a part of her full name, which was Chinese and difficult for most Americans to pronounce. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Brandt. They told me you were one of Charlie's regulars. I work a little differently than he did, but I think you'll find it just as relaxing."
She was very professional and, unsurprising for a masseuse, but surprising in a woman who looked like she did, she had a grip like iron. I smiled back, though I'm sure a little weakly, as the handshake dropped away. "It's nice to meet you, Lin. Please, call me David, or just Dave."
She nodded, "OK, Dave. Why don't you lie down, and we'll get started. I walked over to the table, and hesitated for a moment with my hands on the ties of the robe. I'm sure she must have seen that particular discomfort on many people at similar moments, and she kindly turned her back.
The table had two plain white towels laid on it. One was larger, and laid across the table at the level my groin would be at, for comfort and sanitary reasons, and the other was slightly smaller, and folded next to the first. Having done this before with Charlie, I removed my robe, and stood there just for a moment, highly aware of the fact that I was buck naked and not five feet from one of the most beautiful women I'd ever laid eyes on, and with no chance of anything happening between us. It was a frustrating fact I tried hard not to dwell on.
I set the robe on a hook on the wall that was there for just that purpose, then laid myself on the table. The folded towel I positioned as a narrow strip covering my ass, and almost nothing else. I almost called to Lin then, but an idea struck me, and I took a moment to adjust myself so that I was lying on top of my penis, with it pointed up towards my head. I figured that would make it a lot less physically painful if I started to get hard at some point, and had the side benefit of keeping it out of view. And yes, although I'm not going to go into exact sizes, I'm big enough that if I were laying on my stomach with it pointed down my leg, it would have been quite visible to Lin if I spread my legs at all. I let her know I was ready for her.
My arms were up, my hands under my forehead. It's one of the more comfortable ways to position yourself if you're going to lie on your stomach, keeps your head in a more comfortable position. I heard Lin moving around the room. She got a little bottle of oil; she used something with almost no scent, and poured some on her hands before she started. Probably well aware of the effect she could have on a guy, and experienced enough to know how to set someone at ease, she started with the most innocuous spot she could find, right in the middle of my back. Her hands were strong and sure, kneading out the muscle, which at that point anxiety had made tighter than it was when I walked into the spa.
We talked a little while she worked, our topics of conversation varying widely. It started with simple stuff, what I did for a living, which is a pretty boring office job, what had brought me to the spa in the first place. She laughed when I told her of the coupon from Mrs. Clark. Her laugh was musical and surprisingly free. Her hands moved up from my back to my neck, strong fingers soothing tense muscles. Despite myself, I was relaxing. I asked her then if Charlie had been a relative of hers, and we got into a conversation on family history. She told me he'd been her father's uncle, but she was never really close to him, he was just the boss.
It was about that point, just as her hands slid off my neck onto my shoulders that there was a soft knock at the door. She told me she'd be right back, and went to answer it. I didn't move, happy to relax, and I listened to a quiet, but animated, conversation going on in the hallway. It was in Mandarin, so I hadn't a clue what they were talking about, although I thought I caught my last name in there at one point.
I found out much later that an emergency had come up at home, and the two ladies at the front desk had to leave immediately. Normally, this would not have been a problem, but with the oddities that happen in a family-operated business after someone's death, this would leave Lin the only employee in the building. The two who were leaving didn't like the idea of her being alone with a customer still there and were going to offer me a refund and send me on my way, but she argued that she could handle it.
The argument that finally won them over was the fact that, since I'd been one of Charlie's regulars, this might be her only chance to make an impression that would keep me as a customer for the spa. Reluctantly, they went off and locked up the building, with Lin and I still inside. At the time, I was blissfully ignorant of this exchange, and of Lin's ulterior motives for wanting to finish the massage.
I was still lying flat on my stomach, naked except for the towel covering my ass, when Lin came back into the room and apologized for the interruption. I told her it was no problem, and teased that it had better not come out of my hour. She laughed again. There's very little I wouldn't do to hear that laugh. Her hands, which had previously gotten to my shoulders, didn't return there, instead she started working on the back of one of my arms, which were still bent so my hands supported my face. Now, as I admitted before, I spend way too much time in the gym, and although Lin's hands were incredibly strong, they were not incredibly large. She couldn't get all the way around my bicep even with both hands. Maybe to break the silence, she said the obvious, and started a very uncomfortable conversation, "Hmm, well, someone spends a lot of time in the gym, huh?"
I gave a little snort of laughter and turned my head to the side to talk, at the same time moving my right arm out so she could work it easer, "Yeah, you could say that. I go there to blow off steam." I gave a little sigh as she started to work on the tricep with her thumbs, her fingers splayed around my arm. She said in a light, teasing voice, "I bet your girlfriend must love these."
I moved uncomfortably at that point, just a slight movement, as I answered, "Well, I'm sure she would. If I had a girlfriend."
She kept working on my arm and said in what I thought was a teasing voice, "Please tell me you're not gay. That'd be such a waste."
Her hands shifted up to my forearm, working it just a little bit as I laughed at that, "Uh, no, no, I'm definitely not gay." If she could have seen inside my head at that point, she wouldn't have had to ask, as I had just then been fantasizing about what she'd look like without the loose white blouse she was wearing over a pair of breasts the likes of which I'd never before, or since, seen on a woman of Asian descent.
Her only response was, "I'm glad." She moved around the table to the other side then, and started giving the other arm the same treatment. I twisted my upper body just slightly onto my side to make it easier and more comfortable, careful to leave my lower body flat so I wouldn't expose myself. I was glad of what I thought was the end of that line of conversation. As I looked up at her, I thought for a moment I saw her eyes on my abs instead of my arm, but I told myself I must be mistaken, that anyone in her profession must develop some sort of immunity to physical attraction to the people they massage, if only because of the familiarity of it. Yes, I'm that dense.