I guess I need to describe her, the vision is burned into my mind.
The crazy part is I don't know why. I just do not completely understand the attraction.
Sylvia is my massage therapist. She is 40, dark haired, and the right term would be voluptuous.
I knew very quickly that I had found the right person.
Normally I spend a lot of time finding someone, any of you who go for regular treatments know the drill.
It is a solid stream of fresh out of the school "therapists", without fail scared to death of breaking some rule. And without fail they don't have a clue about a human body and how it works.
Society has rules, made up by men and women in charge. They decide what is right and what is wrong, impose restrictions. The words are then written down on paper, with fines imposed on those who cross the line.
Then they return to their own lives at home and break them.
So the new therapist, fresh from the classes that teach all of those rules will rub the feet, then the lower legs. Next it is the back, then the head. They wouldn't dream of touching someone's butt, or abdomen.
They are sure that men go crazy and uncontrollable if they did that. Never touch a breast, that is abuse, there is a fine for that.
Undrape the butt, work on the thighs? Not likely.
Sylvia isn't like that. She a pretty lady of what looks to be Greek origin. She is one well filled out woman, full busted, full hipped, a tad on the bigger than she needs to be side. She carries it so well that it really isn't even noticed, she is beautiful.
Not the type of woman I would even go for normally, but there is something about her.
That "something" is an excitement, an eagerness. She has the magic ability to make anyone and everyone feel like they are the complete and total object of her attention.
So I reacted just like any other male would do, I fell completely and hopelessly in love with her.
She knew that, too. Yet somehow she managed to maintain just enough distance to keep the situation on an even keel, yet keep me coming back for more, over and over.
The truth is she is very good at what she does, managing on one side to seem to be totally vulnerable, while actually not being vulnerable at all.
Yea, I know. That doesn't make sense. In nearly four decades of going for a full body massage roughly once each week, I can count on the fingers of one hand the women who stand out so far above the rest as to be constantly in my memory.
Those rare ones I simply fell in love with.
Now that I am in my early sixties, one would think that I would be old enough to know better, to have some kind of control over my own fantasies.
I don't, though.
I wanted her hands on me, I wanted her to touch me completely, stroke me. I didn't want her to just do it, I wanted her to want to do it.
Since I am married, I am not supposed to think like that, do things like that. But in 40 years, I would hazard a guess around 50 or so therapists went over that line and did the extra favor.
Or at least tried to.
When I was much younger and far more virile, I even paid some when that elusive orgasm was the real intent.
Almost always a complete waste of time and money, but my body had needs. When out hopping the bars, a reasonably attractive guy with cash in his pocket can still strike out, so those places were handy.
Problem solved, you men will understand perfectly. Yet many of you women may not, sadly.
The ones of you that do are magic women.
Every heterosexual man on this planet looks for a magic woman, sooner or later.
Most women need love, or at least a belief in love. Their gift is then given to the best available male. Men have that same need but it is more physical. The need becomes a painful thing.
As I got older, the problem was that it got so that only a very few could actually get me up and ready. The ones looking just for an extra few bucks just could not hide that fact, for me that was a complete turnoff.
My search continued, settling on one until marriage, or someone moving started the search again.
I remember that big change in my life.
Sex with my wife ended the day her Doctor gave us his diagnosis. Cancer! That terrible word. The tests meant saving her life would be a close call, so they took it all. This meant nerve endings cut, her normal sexual desires gone for all time with the loss of sensation.
The Doctors saved her life. The Doctors took her normal sexuality. The sexuality part wasn't their job, you see. Their job was to save the life.
We tried. We tried so hard to return to normal, it wasn't to be. She could not hide the fact that what once was great pleasure now became an uncomfortable chore. I loved her though, so I accepted what had been dealt. Normal sex ended for us more than 20 years ago.
Yes, my life changed then.
I evolved into solo sexuality for relief. How does a person explain that the fantasies that work involve sexuality with one's own wife?
Or one with a magic woman.
Even before that happened, I went for regular treatments. They did not always end in relief, but some did. I never considered that to be wrong, it was simply the obvious ending to a well done treatment.
To me, perfectly normal.
When my life changed to having no other outlet, that need for closeness became a goal. That "something" that was not just a bored manipulation of my penis to orgasm.
I tried. Some very exerienced woman tried to make me orgasm and failed.
I realized I was getting the sad look, something was "wrong" with me.
Except for just those few special ones. I now found myself not only with a fantasy but a medical situation. Swelling, discomfort, misery. Sure, there was always solo sexuality, but that filled just a portion of the need.
Then when one therapist I had seen for years moved on, I began the search for the next special one, which led me to Sylvia.
Uninhibited, her hands worked my body. Her fingers flowed, touching in places most would ignore. She had no thought of time, our hour long sessions often went to 90 minutes, then over two hours.
I had even gone for training myself years before, invested in a massage table, drapes, oils. I wanted to work on women, I had a fantasy.
I ran ads, got clients. The goal was to find the special client, the one that wanted to be touched. I worked only on women, the vast majority looked to me for what they did not find at home.
Over a period of several years, all sizes and shapes, all ages lay before me on my table as my hands roamed their bodies. It filled a need for me.
Many female therapists tell me their women clients are often bashful about their breasts, and they are with women therapists it seems.
They were not with me. Only very rarely. The shy ones seldom call a male to serve them.
So there were many bare breasts before my gaze, every shape possible. The drape nestled between their legs, over their fannies seldom stayed for long. I learned that women loved, even desired to be looked at, touched by a nice and gentle male in a private setting.
I became quite good at making myself appear nice, gentle. I became quite good at making them feel safe. With the feeling of safety, comfort, the legs would open to expose their loins to my touch, welcomed.
Yes, all ages, all sizes, all shapes. Housewifes writhing in the throes of orgasm, giving up completely the secrets most would think were kept safe and secure for their mate, their husband.
Often even sent knowingly to me by the husband.
Safe and private, their fantasy fulfilled also.
On Sylvia's table, I felt the same way.
Her hands would come close, the back of her hand stroking across my testicles, partly up my length. Not fleeting either, she knew.
I related many of my own experiences as she worked, we talked of everything in ways I seldom do even with my own wife.
The fantasy filling my head.
One day we spoke of tattoos, she mentioned hers. One thing led to another, she opened her wraparound skirt to show me. She wore nothing underneath. There above each ovary was a tattoo of grapes, interesting on her dark skin.
In the process she also showed me her pubic region, not even slightly bashful about that. I noted the dark pubic hair, regrowing from a recent shaving.
I looked with interest, excitement. I had often noticed the fact that her body grew dark hair in many places most women do not.
Another fantasy I did not know I had, another thought to fill my mind when I relieved myself at home alone.
I never spoke of that to her.
Another time she mentioned a slight rash, removing her blouse to lift her arm for me to inspect. She did it simply because she knew from our conversations that I had skills in medicine, diagnosis.
The bra she wore covered her, but she was unconcerned about that, or the untouched hairs under her armpit. I inspected, made suggestions, a simple heat rash easily corrected.
In my mind, more ammunition for my fantasies. The vision of her standing unconcerned, her upper body bare but for the undergarment.
For years, the closeness, week after week. Effective treatment for my body and my mind.
We even discussed the idea of offering relief to her clients, the idea had crossed her mind.
I talked her out of that, I did not want her serving men in that fashion.
I wanted her serving me.
Foolish of course. Were she to serve me, she would likely also serve others. The fantasy for me had to be maintained, it had to be just me.
I needed to be the special one, or at least feel that way? If I lost that, how could I have the fantasy, how could I get the relief I required?
Thus years go by. I pay her well, more than she asks. I do not mind, money is an easy thing for me at this stage of my life.
The fantasy remains.
She works my legs, brushes against my hardening length as her hands press up the back of each thigh. Around each glute, she repeats the motion, over and over and over until I fall momentarily silent.
She works each muscle of my back, it feels almost like a loving touch. My mild erection fades as she works far from my loins.
Finally, time to turn over. Her hands work over my feet as we again chat inanely about anything and everything. I tell her of my experiences, I tell her in detail of those who failed with me, those who had success. I tell her of the reactions of my female clients when I myself went out to work on them.
She knows of my medical conditions. She works hard to help them, increase my sensations. She stops just short of the fantasy. The fantasy I keep to myself.
Her hands stay busy, she tells me of some of her experiences.
I lay there in hope.
Her hands reach high on my upper thighs, her fingers delve deep, nudge upwards and lift my testicles. Her hand slides then across my pubic hair, the back of her hand brushing the side of my mild erection. She repeats the motion, over and over, it becomes maddening. So close and yet so far.
Sylvia steps to the other side, begins again. As she reaches my now medium awareness, she uses the drape to grasp and tuck my length aside, so she can again reach in and repeat the soft touch, so close.
So very close.
I fall silent, waiting. Hoping. Will she finally reach out, allow her hand to simply encircle me?
Her hands then move to my chest and upper body, I feel myself soften. No amount of will can make me erect, only her touch could do that.
Then back to my lower legs, her hands working up my body again. This time? Is this the moment, the culmination of my powerful fantasy?
Sensation flows into my legs, Sylvia knows and understands that condition I suffer. I feel the tingling, the pins and needles that tell me we are close to the end of another session with success. I feel the beginning of a relief of my condition, I know at home I will make it another week.
She smiles and pats my stomach, retrieves a warm damp towel and wipes my body of excess oil.
She leaves the room, I dress in moments. I pay her, we hug.
"Next week?" I ask.
She smiles, we walk to the door.
I drive off into my life, the world of fantasy left behind. Yet taken with me.
That night I relive it.
Her hands slide under the drape, the back of one hand brushes my length. She smiles at me.
"May I? I want to make you feel good." She asks, knowing the answer.
"Sure." I say simply.
Her soft and oily hand slips over, her fingertips touching, testing. Then they flow up and brush over my penis, finally! She slides the drape down, exposing me. Her firm grip slips upwards, then down, the pressure causing my foreskin to roll back as she stares at my erection. Her hands are teasing, testing, she experiments.
Her breath quickens.
I can see she is enjoying this.
Her lack of experience shows, delightful. Then she begins the slow and steady stroking, my body hardens, getting firmer and firmer.
My testicles snug up, I feel my orgasm overpower me, I become helpless in her grasp.
She knows to not stop, to not release the pressure, her hand continues to pump all the way to and through my orgasm. She knows my body lacks normal sensation so she must not stop, release me, or the climax will fade.
Her grip increases to allow me maximum sensations.
I blast off into her hands, so wonderful, so fine.
Finally it ends, it is over. She has done it, I never thought she would. I wipe a tear.
"Was that OK?" She asks, almost blushing at what she has just done, delightful.
I love her.
I can never have her any other way.
"You are so wonderful!" I tell her. I am speaking the truth.
She leaves the room, I dress quickly. I pay her, she hugs me.
"Next week?" I ask.
"Sure, see you then." She gives me a peck on the cheek, I drive off into my life.
The fantasy fulfilled.
I wipe myself off. I have made it through another week.
I go into our bedroom, slip under the covers, curl up with my pretty wife. I stroke her cheek, gazing at her face, soft in the beginnings of sleep.
"I love you." I tell her as I give her a light kiss.
"I love you too, Honey." She murmurs.