Michael's Massages: the Beginning

Michael's massages: the beginning.

This all happened some twenty or so years ago when the internet was still in its cradle swaddled tightly and mobile phones, whilst no longer a novelty, tended to be the trappings of the obnoxious. Contacting new people was so much harder, AIDS was still incurable and rape often considered to be your own fault for putting temptation in the man's way.

After Uni. my first job took me to the Midlands where I found a flat, settled in and only then discovered how difficult it could be to meet new people in a strange place. Whenever I met a man I wanted companionship first and then maybe sex, whereas he wanted sex and then maybe companionship: sex was OK but, if I'm honest, I could obtain as much and often more orgasmic pleasure from my vibrator. Beginning an affair with a married man at work would have been simplicity itself, half a dozen offered and some were quite pressing about the idea but that was even more about sex and even less about companionship. So I was mostly happy though sometimes a little lonely.

Michael lived on the same landing and I would hardly ever have seen him except I'd sometimes have to wait whilst he wrestled his bicycle either up the stairs or down them. Despite using a bicycle he must have been pretty well off. I rented a one bedroom flat facing an inner courtyard which, if I wanted a window open, was often noisy with children. He owned an outward facing corner flat which I knew had two, three, sometimes even four bedrooms and his was on a side that faced the countryside rather than overlooking the city, the very best of the best.

Michael was always polite and apologised for causing me a delay. If I had heavy shopping he'd break off to help me carry it up the stairs, he was a nice guy but with a manner that swung between overly intense and hesitantly shy. I decided that he was around ten years my senior, he was certainly lean and fit, all that cycling I presumed, and when not carrying his bicycle he was always dressed in a smart, well pressed, suit and leather shoes shined to a mirror. A man who took a pride in himself.

I did get to wondering about trying to break the ice with Michael but, whilst he was always scrupulously polite, he really didn't encourage conversation; it almost appeared as if he were shying away from it. Then year-end approached, my workload tripled and I was exhausted. One evening I was standing stooped and round shouldered waiting for Michael to lug his bike down the stairs, for once decidedly grumpy about the delay. He must have sensed this because his apologies were even more profuse than usual.

Then he looked at me properly, "my God you look awful... I mean... Well sorry, you look exhausted. You're stooping! Look, I don't mean to be rude but it's not right you know. I'll tell you what... and of course, that is if you don't mind - when I get back I'll give your shoulders a rub for you... Only if you want me to and only a shoulder rub, absolutely nothing else... I mean... I promise... I wasn't thinking of... Anyway just a shoulder rub, absolutely nothing else. So think about it. You do look as if you could do with one and it does work tension away, quite marvellously: in fact you'll feel heaps better."

This all tumbled out in a nervous rush, he was obviously embarrassed, clearly not wanting to appear forwards yet having an uncontrollable urge to knead my shoulders. It was as if he were desperate not to interfere but couldn't prevent himself from trying to help me. Michael's gaucheness did make me feel a little nervous but he so obviously wanted to help me, it felt as if he almost need to help me. "That would be lovely," I answered, trying my best to sound confident even though I was still not totally convinced inside. Still, when he had started on, 'works tension away, quite marvellously' his whole face had softened and lit up, he certainly did believe in the power of massage to relax.

"When I get back from my ride. Oh and I've had a shower too, you don't want some smelly sweaty man pawing you. Now do you?"

"No," I replied. "That would take off the sheen a bit."

Michael paused and thought, "I'll knock on your door around, say... eight-thirty? Would that be convenient?"

"That would be fine... I'll look forwards to it." Well I hoped I would; I didn't want any man, Michael included, pawing at me but a good solid kneading would be, well... quite marvellous.

I need not have concerned myself, he was totally professional. He sat me down on a hard, straight backed, dining room chair, stood behind me and worked my shoulders until I was limp as a flag on a windless day and practically half asleep. Once he was finished with me and I had revived myself a little I made coffee for us both, after he had politely but very firmly rejected the offer of anything alcoholic. When he realised I was making coffee by preparing freshly ground beans for my percolator he insisted on taking it black so as not to 'pollute' the flavour. He was odd, quite awkward really, but he was sweet, very handsome and extraordinarily polite: mostly reserved unless I broached a subject he was interested in and then his enthusiasm would burst forth in a torrent of knowledge.

Over the months my massages turned from an occasional treat into a regular weekly session. Soon I started visiting him because he had a narrow backless couch that could be supplemented with firm, fitted, foam cushions which was perfect for massage. I would wear a t-shirt and thick tights and he would knead and pummel me almost all over. Shoulders, neck, back, buttocks, calves, thighs, upper and lower arms and then he'd sit me down and first work my feet, then my hands and finally my scalp. When he was done I'd totter back to my room weak as a kitten. I'd simply fall into bed, sleep the deepest and most dreamless of sleeps ever and wake alive and refreshed, ready to face another week.

I learned little about Michael, I learned a lot about his interests but almost nothing about the man himself. He was single, I gathered that past relationships had gone badly, that he blamed himself for their failure and that he was almost certainly not gay. He was a keen sportsman and if anyone at his club, men or women, had an injury he was the man to see. Along with just about any other topic imaginable, he had studied massage, osteopathy, physiotherapy, anatomy and knew a ridiculous amount about aromatic oils - his introduction of oils into his massage routine was what prompted my transition to being massaged in just a bra and a pair of skimpy pants. It was also oil that made whatever he was, by then, doing to the crack of my bum and the tops and soft insides of my thighs to also cause my quim to feel hot and wet; forcing me to have to mask the little moans and gasps of pleasure that tried to escape when he worked close to my sex. Now when I tumbled into bed afterwards I'd masturbate frantically before falling into that deep and dreamless sleep and, as time moved on, the fantasy figure bringing me to that series of shuddering climaxes looked increasingly like Michael.

One evening the inevitable happened: Michael's thumbs probed a really sensitive spot, I lost control and uttered a long, loud shuddery half moan, half sigh. A sound that was filled full of lust, desire and sheer animal need. "Are you becoming aroused Sue?" Michael enquired anxiously. "Do you want me to do that again or would you rather I avoid it altogether in future?"

There was no point in trying to deny it, his asking if I was 'becoming aroused' had caused me to blush furiously. And anyway Michael was using that tone of earnest enquiry he reserved for discovering about things. He wasn't judging or playing with me, he simply needed to know if I was going to give him my permission to make me sexually aroused or if I wanted him to avoid such intimate stimulations in the future. He needed the information that would enable him to do the right thing. And, Hell, I didn't know. Yes I did want him to carry on, sort of. It felt really good and really naughty. But... Well it was also really awkward and really embarrassing. But it did feel so good.

"It's OK to say yes," he encouraged me, "I don't mind," he actually chuckled after that. "I mean I know massage can lead to sexual pleasure, a lot of sexual pleasure, I've a couple of books with big sections on erotic massage towards the back and you know I'm always eager to learn. I mean, if you'll excuse me, this for example, is supposed to feel particularly delightful."

"Sweet Jesus." I gasped out as his thumbs wormed between the tops of my thighs and my torso, it did indeed feel particularly delightful, so much so that my legs shot apart involuntarily to allow him far better access to my hot wet crack. That felt so wrong but so... so lovely and so deliciously naughty. "Oh my God," I sighed, "Michael that's amazing, but..."

He paused, "but?"

But what? That was a good question. But stop? But continue... Oh please stop asking me to choose and just carry on Michael, take the decision away from me. Just do it, I'd be powerless to resist. But that was not Michael's way. Ultimately, ever the gentleman, he'd need permission to continue. "I don't know what I want," I muttered, honestly. "I want you to carry on but, well you only have to explore a bit further and you'd give me an orgasm... Oh, I don't know!"

Michael uttered a little throaty rumble and then, ever blunt, suggested, "why don't I carry on for a little bit longer and then you can rush off back to you flat and masturbate in private?"

"Oh God, that would be amazing," I blurted out before I could allow myself a chance to reflect and be sensible. 'That would be perfect,' I thought. But then I also thought that if he yanked down my panties, dropped his trousers and simply took me in an animalistic frenzy that too would be perfect.

"But I'd like you to consider something for me. If, next week, you still want me to massage you so intimately would you please think about allowing me to watch you masturbating afterwards. I've read what to do, obviously, but I'd understand so much better if I could see just how you make yourself come. I've always wanted to be able to watch women masturbating more but it's not exactly something you can just ask them to do," he paused. "So will you at least think it over for me?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't answer. Whatever his hands were doing was turning my muff into a babbling brook and so delightfully intense was the stimulation that simply remembering that I needed to breath out again once I'd finished breathing in was taking up any spare concentration I could muster.

"Need to go," I panted. "Absolutely need to go," I sighed loudly. I rose unsteadily, I was actually wobbly. My legs felt like jelly, my head was spinning, my sex was pulsing, my nipples felt hard as diamonds. I wanted to scream out, 'fuck me you bastard,' and by then I really wanted the bastard to fuck me, even though, somehow, deep inside of me I knew that then was not the right time. The spell would be broken, the handsome prince would turn into yet another frog.

As soon as the door to my flat was locked behind me I slumped to the floor, shoved two fingers inside of me and frigged myself furiously in the hallway. I writhed, and I squirmed, and I wriggled, and I came and I came and I came, time after time, orgasm after orgasm, I was consumed with lust, I needed to come and coming did not stop me from needing to come. Gradually I slowed down and as I did so I began to wonder if Michael was stroking his cock and making himself come too. Or, Michael being Michael, if he was sitting at his desk updating his notes on my responses and reactions.

The week leading up to our next session was an agony of indecision and expectation, at least on my part. Should I go at all? I knew that in the end I would opt to go but Michael's power to make me so randy was scary; I mean he could get me into to a state where I'd agree to anything. If I went how should I dress? Should I go as usual or dress sexily for him? When it came time to masturbate should I use my fingers or take a vibrator along with me? Should I curl up discretely or sit legs splayed wide, everything on view? What never ever occurred to me was to return and then deny Michael his opportunity to watch me masturbating; it was like a deal where getting to watch me masturbate was his half of our bargain.

I knocked on his door, as usual; I was wrapped in a towelling robe, also as usual. What was unusual was that underneath I was stark naked and my vibrator was tucked in a pocket. When I had entered Michael's flat - and he had safely closed his door - I dropped my robe, raised my arms into the fifth position and gave him a twirl. I didn't practice ballet any longer, my breasts had grown far too large for me to be a serious dancer, but the pose showed off my well proportioned body. Michael, who was not normally good at spontaneity, clapped, bowed low and enquired 'if madam would care to enter his salon,' as he held the door ajar for me: his eyes were all over me like a rash. He was normally a courteous friend, wise councillor and a true gentleman but right then he was seeing me as a sexual being and from the way he was eyeing me up and then down and then back up again, he was appreciating what he was seeing.

I realise this might seem be a little late in my account but I still haven't described myself, so here is what Michael saw. A dark haired, light skinned, slender woman in her early twenties with liquid brown eyes and a dusting of freckles smattered about her nose, all set in an oval face. A young woman who's not stunning, perhaps pretty - that's always a matter of opinion - but her face is certainly interesting in a pleasing way: not a woman who turns your head the moment she enters the room but, once you have spotted her, she's someone you allow your gaze to linger over for a proper look. Her breasts, with their prominent red nipples are perhaps a little large for her frame and her similarly generous hips sport rounded buttocks that, if you were to describe as fat would suggest that it was you who was mean. The woman's pussy is bushy but well trimmed, the folds of her sex concealed and she has a sweet, neat little brown mole to the left of her muff at the top of her leg.

I stooped, scooped up my towelling robe and sashayed into his 'salon'. To one side of the couch was a comfortable arm chair which had never been there before, presumably for me to sit in as I masturbated for Michael: he was nothing if not organised. With this presumption in mind I dropped my robe over an arm of the chair and then went and lay face down on the couch as normal. Once there my nudity no longer made a great deal of difference, as I mentioned, by this time I usually only wore a bra and skimpy pants for my massages anyway.

Michael began with my neck and shoulders. That is just so relaxing, if I had any nerves or worries he had soon soothed them out of me. I began to daydream. Usually my musings wandered about fluttering from topic to topic like a butterfly flitting over a meadow of bright Summer flowers. Not so that day, I kept imagining the moment when Michael would reach my buttocks and that rising heat between my legs and growing tightness in my tummy meant that my anticipation was already making me moist, well lubricated and very prepared. I wriggled a bit, set my thighs a little further apart, making it harder to press my pudendum into the couch and thus stimulate my clit; I didn't want my breathing to betray that I was already on fire with lust, not this early in the proceedings.

Michael carried on exactly as normal. From my shoulders he moved on down to work on my back until he reached my waist. From there he switched to manipulating my heels and worked slowly up my calves and then up my thighs. It might only have been my thighs he was squeezing but by now his ministrations were making my sex dissolve in its own juices. I was dripping to an extent where I was glad there was a towel under me, could I really make a damp patch on the towel or was that just a myth? We'd soon know, just as soon as I stood up. If, as he worked on the soft flesh on the insides of my thighs, Michael noticed that I was shuddering and panting quietly with arousal he gave no sign, though it was hard for me to imagine that he could be missing it.

Fortunately after my legs Michael always worked on my arms next. I would have a little break, the massage would be soothing but not so intensely arousing and I could get my breath back. I was only half right. As he worked on my hands and lower arms I was quite correct. But then he reached my upper arms whose soft flesh was now almost as sensitive as the insides of my thighs. Far from becoming de-sensitised my skin was becoming one vast sex organ, every touch sending little jolts of fire down to my clit. I concentrated on not bucking my hips and humping the couch because that's exactly what I wanted to do.

As Michael worked his way up towards my armpits I was already fully primed and more than ready to masturbate for him. Well strictly I was far more than simply ready to masturbate for him: right then I would not have cared if I was friggin' myself centre stage in a packed Albert Hall with a spotlight on me, just as long as I got to come. I no longer merely wanted but I needed a long train of intense orgasms and I already knew that when they did happen they were going to be insanely powerful. My loins were greased and my nipples were so hard they were almost painful. I was aware that in a few moments Michael would commence work on my buttocks and I knew that once that happened all pretence would be gone, I was going to sigh and moan with a need and desire that was urgent and Michael was going to hear just how desperate he was making me. Worse, Michael, being Michael would plod on giving my buttocks their usual thorough work out as I writhed and panted under his touch. Was he going to enjoy seeing me so helplessly randy, watching as I exhibited my level of desperation so blatantly?

I was so absorbed in how wanton and demonstrative I was going to be as soon he started on my buttocks that I missed what he said. Today he was changing his routine - an event that was normally unthinkable - he wanted me to roll over onto my back. Then I grasped the implication, he's going to start my erotic massage and, as if to confirm my suspicion, he pulled my legs apart so they hung over the sides of his couch leaving me spread wide for him. As I settled I realised it was an odd kind of erotic massage - don't get me wrong it was delightful but it did nothing to assuage my lusts and it was not especially erotic either. He was working on my waist and tummy.

Waist and tummy progressed to hips and then his hands worked inwards and my massage became very erotic. He was pressing on my pubes and the motion was being relayed down my lips giving rise to an ever changing pattern of pressures upon my clit. He was right to have parted my legs like that because otherwise I would have squeezed my thighs together to mash my clit in an effort to make myself come. But this pressure was far more subtle and it was simply making me gasp and moan aloud. His motions became more arrhythmic until it was clear that my sighs and mews were following the pattern of his hands and all the while my quim was feeling hotter and hotter and wetter and wetter and my need to come was building ever higher.

Just as I thought I could bear no more Michael stopped and helped me to roll over back onto my tummy. Now he set to work on my buttocks, first lining his thumbs along my crack and splitting me wide open causing me to cry aloud with need, lust and frustration. Ignoring my plaintive mews he worked his thumbs down towards my muff and paused, 'he must be looking at my little puckered anus,' I thought and I blushed scarlet. As if satisfied with this reaction he resumed massaging my buttocks following his usual pattern.