You Get a Massage

'So,' she says, gesturing to a small, cosy armchair in the corner of the room, 'you've never had a massage before?'

'Um. Nope.' You've had previous girlfriends give you back rubs, that sort of thing, but you suspect a professional massage might be a completely different experience to a sweetly eager, but slightly uninformed, girl doing her best to get her fingers buried somewhere in the approximate region of your trapezius muscles.

'That's fine,' she tells you, smiling with the reassuring air of one who really knows what they're doing.

She has a really good smile, you notice as a couple of small white teeth become visible between softly curving lips. You've been trying, actually, not to notice just how attractive she is - you're here to let a professional help you destress, and getting distracted doesn't seem as if it would contribute to that - since she first said your name in the waiting room, but it's becoming increasingly difficult.

You sit in the little chair, taking a quick look around the private room. You booked in for a hot stone massage, after a friend recommended it for muscle stiffness; on the way in, you noticed what looks like a small slow cooker gently heating up a bath of water with several flat, round black stones submerged and cooking. In the middle of the room, which is big enough to walk around comfortably but small enough to feel intimate, there's a low table of the exact shape and size you'd pictured when thinking of a stereotypical massage table, so that's reassuring; around the slim countertops at the outside, an array of oils and beauty products are interspersed with various devices at whose use you can only guess, giving the place a vague vibe of having mashed together the things you might find in a very well-stocked bathroom and a professional kitchen.

'The good news,' she says, arms half-folded and one delicate finger casually resting on her chin as she talks to you, 'is that you really don't have to do anything at all.' She's wearing loose clothing made of a light, thin material in a deep dark blue: three-quarter-length bottoms with wide hems around her mid-calf, and a tunic-like top that looks as if it does up with just a small buckle at her side.

'I mean, that sounds good to me,' you say.

'I'll leave the room in a moment, and all I need you to do is strip down to your boxers... or whatever you've got on,' she adds, although you get the feeling she says that to everyone to make sure she's not being underwear-exclusive or something. 'And then if you just get yourself lying face-down on the table, put the towel over your lower half, and I'll be back in a minute.'

You nod, smiling at her in what you hope is a casually personable sort of way. 'Got it.'

'Okay, then.' She opens the door and steps out, quietly pulling it closed behind her.

You exhale deeply, slumping back into the chair for a moment. The thought of her hands running over your bare skin, which hasn't had anyone else touch it for a while, is making you strangely nervous: a light fluttering in your torso tells you that, as relaxing as you hope this is going to be, for some reason you can't help but be just a little bit... excited.

You remove your clothes as instructed: T-shirt, shoes, socks, jeans, all but your underwear (boxers, as she correctly surmised, of the cheap-Calvin-Klein-imitator variety), and leave your clothing in a neat folded pile on the chair. Uncertain of how stable the table is, you clamber up onto it uncertainly, like a first-time rider mounting an unhelpful horse. Once you're laid out, though, it's comfortable: your head goes neatly through the hole so that you're not lying flat on your face, and your body is supported by what feels like a thin, but firm, sheet of foam under a soft towel.

You arrange the other towel over yourself, covering the back of your boxer-clad body from tailbone to knees, and wait. You're not totally sure what to do with your arms, and try a couple of poses - raised up, hands by head, or dangling out over the sides - before settling on keeping them by your sides. That seems sensible enough. She'll tell you if that's not where they're supposed to be, you figure, but hope you aren't somehow making some sort of massage-etiquette faux pas that would make her think you're an idiot.

After a few moments, just as you're shuffling your body into a comfortable flatness now that your hands are where you want them to be, there's a quiet click and the door reopens. You can only see a small patch of the floor through your little round face-hole; you hear her closing the door behind her and stepping softly around the table, moving something around over to your left, and then coming up to stand in front of your head. Her feet come into view: bare, slim feet.

You're not a foot guy, really, but you hadn't realised she'd taken her shoes off, and the mild surprise of seeing her feet - at the ankle of one of which an elegant, minimalist tattoo of a branch or vine is snaking up her leg until it disappears an inch or two later behind the thin fabric of her loose clothes - feels like a forbidden feeling, something stirring that you didn't ask for.

''I'm just going to start by going over your back with my hands,' she says, 'and then we'll get the hot stones on you, okay?'

You nod into the table, then realise how dumb that probably looked. 'Mmhm,' you mumble.

You think you hear her laugh quietly, a gentle sound like a high handbell, but she stays professional.

'Tell me if the pressure's too much or too little, or if you need the temperature changed or anything,' she tells you. You give another vague hum of affirmation.

There's a soft sound of wet hands rubbing together just over your head, and then warm, strong fingers, slick with oil, descend lightly to brush across the space between your shoulder blades before pressing firmly, palms sliding from the nape of your neck down either side of your spine towards the towel covering your lower half. Your eyes close almost of their own accord as she glides from top to bottom, hands separating as they come to the base of your spine so that they can run across the width of your back.

After a short time, involving sweeping gestures with her palms interspersed with firm movements of her fingertips, lengthening and lifting your stiff muscles, she lays her hands gently on you as if to say 'be right back' before moving over to where the stones are bathing in the hot water - you can hear the plinking and splashing as she picks a few stones from the water. A moment later she's back standing by your head, and then you feel a delicious warmth spreading across two points just under your shoulder blades. She moves the stones deftly around your skin, knowing just where to place them to relieve the stress from your muscles; over the next few minutes, she moves around you, replacing the stones in her hands with fresh heat every so often and standing at each side to rub the smooth heat into every ache and knot you didn't know you had. Soft music soothes you as she works.

Your eyes are closed throughout most of this, body lying still and tranquil, mind clear: you're completely immersed in the relief and pleasure - because, yes, there is certainly pleasure, although more the calm flowing pleasure of unwinding, the kind that you associate with a hot shower after a long day, than an erotic or sensual sort of pleasure.. if only because you've managed to make yourself peaceful and restful enough not to be thinking in that way right now.

She moves back to the top of the table and takes her hands, with the little circles of warmth within them, down again from your neck and shoulders: a familiar and thoroughly relaxing motion by now. This time, though, she goes just a little further down than before. Her hands slip all the way along your spine down almost to where the towel denies her access to your bare skin; the hot stones come to rest in line with your hips, her fingertips brushing at the line where your body vanishes under white cotton.

'If it's okay,' she says - and her voice is low, an attempt to ensure she doesn't rouse you from your relaxation - 'I'm going to take the towel and your boxers down just a bit, just so I can get to that area right in the lower back.'

You hum your agreement, undisturbed from tranquility. Mostly.

'It's an area that can carry a lot of stress,' she tells you in that same soft voice, as if by way of excuse, as her fingers carefully hook just a tiny bit into your waistband and slide, so that a little more of your skin feels the warm air of the room flowing across it.

She takes the stones, which she left resting on your back, into her hands again and leans forwards to press them into your back, just above where back becomes buttocks. It is an area that carries a lot of stress, you reflect to yourself relaxedly.

As she leans further forwards to carry on her work, something brushes across your back, higher up: not her hands, something soft and light. Hair? As you absorb this, the information taking a while to process in your state of contented stupor, another new feeling registers by your head.

A firm softness presses down on you from above, just for a second - then there it is again, and there can't be any mistaking it. Working further down your body with her hands, she's bending forwards to reach the area on which her attention is focused: as she leans over, her hair, dangling in a loose ponytail, is tickling your skin, and her breasts, yieldingly supple, are gently descending, just a little, onto your body. And it doesn't feel like she's wearing a bra.

You're awake now, that's for sure.

Is this supposed to be happening? Does she realise? She must do, surely: each time her hands withdraw up your back and then slide down again, the motion of her body bending across you is lowering her chest onto you, first the light skimming of the fabric of her loose top and then the unmistakable pressing of flesh, malleable and squeezed gently between your torso and hers.

The thought of whether you ought to say something raced through your brain, the quietude she'd been cultivating in you rapidly unravelling like a web of taut threads snipped in many places. One of the things doing the snipping is a building anxiety about whether this is all proper and acceptable, but there's a distinct, undeniable excitement building in your mind and in your body, each stroke of the stones now sending shivers through your nerves even as the soft warmth spreads. As her fingertips keep brushing across the area just above your backside and her breasts continue to press gently on you, it's impossible for you to ignore the feelings zipping through you: a weightlessness in your chest making you breathe faster, electric sparks converging at the areas where her skin and yours come together, and a warm rush washing from her hands, around your back, and flowing in between your legs.

Try as you might, there's nothing you can do to stop the rush of blood to your cock, and once your shaft begins to twitch and grow firm the weight of your body holding your growing erection down against the table means that there's a constant pressure, an almost gripping friction, which only serves to stimulate the sensitive firmness, encouraging it to engorge yet further. In only a few moments you're in the position, both pleasing and unfortunate, of being face-down on her massage table with a throbbing, fully straining erection.

'I'm just going to -' you mumble, unable to leave it sticking out between your legs, the swollen head pointing down towards your feet.

The pressure from her hands lightens slightly, and you lift up your hips just enough to allow your achingly hard penis to spring, as quickly and firmly as if a stretched elastic band tethering it to your stomach were suddenly snapping back into place, from a downward-facing position into a more comfortable resting place pointing upwards under your warm stomach.

'Is it okay?' she asks with professional concern.

'Is... it...?'

'Are you comfortable?'

'Oh -' of course she didn't mean 'is -it- okay': she's just making sure you're alright, '- yeah, thanks. Yep.'

She stands up tall, all the feelings from her touch receding as she does - to your disappointment, much as you feel improper to realise - and hums quietly and thoughtfully for a moment. 'There's some pain or discomfort there?' she asks.

Seizing on the excuse, you agree hastily: 'oh, yeah, just always gets sore in the, uh... lower back... upper leg... that bit.'

'Those bits,' she says, tapping a finger absently on your shoulder. You can see her feet again, smooth on the floor, her balance mostly on the right side with the left foot resting partly atop the other.

'I mean, it's fine -'

'I can probably do something about that,' she says decisively, cutting off your inept mumblings. 'Like I said at the start, the good news is that you don't have to do anything. So just let me do my job. I'm pretty good at it.' She pauses for a second, then laughs as if to herself. 'I mean, I hope I am, or you'd think I might have had to find a new one by now.'

'Oh, you're great,' you say, and you're pretty sure it comes out sounding like the sincere reassurance you meant it to be.

'Well, thanks,' she says; you can hear the smile in her voice. You remember, unbidden, the image of that smile very clearly.

'I'll just work through that whole area for you,' she tells you. Her feet step out of view, and you hear her applying oil to her hands. 'If there's some issue in there, I want to be able to feel it and be more precise with it, so we'll leave the stones for now,' she explains, voice still low and soothing.

You have no objections.

She stands by your side now, the better to work her fingers around each muscle and part of your lower back, but the ceasing of the breast-pressing is immediately replaced by a movement just as problematic and as delicious: as she presses down on the area barely above your buttocks, your body presses in turn the rigid cock lying underneath it. Now you've flipped it to face upwards, sitting under your stomach, the sensitive underside of your shaft rubs with just a little exquisite friction through the thin fabric of your boxers against the textured cotton of the towel under your body, and every engaging of her fingers with your flesh is another squeeze, another stroke, of your erection between your body and the surface beneath.

'You said the thigh too?' she asks. If she has any idea what she's doing, she conceals it exceptionally skilfully.

'Hm?' You didn't really catch that.

'There was some soreness in your upper legs as well?' she reiterates.

'I... did say that.'

Her hands sweep down to the place you specified, beginning to run with oil-gliding motions around the space between backside and knee. There actually is some tension and stiffness there, you realise as her fingers begin to lift away all the tightness - but that thought is drowned out by the knowledge that one area of your body in particular is far, far stiffer. She keeps working, pressing and kneading at your thigh; the ticklish skin, the bulging veins, the enlarged head of your dick, everything's rubbing and sliding against the surface beneath.

A wondrous swell of warmth is building, a flood beginning to strain against a dam. You realise that if she keeps going, there's only one way this is going to end, and it'll be a sticky situation in more ways than one. With no choice but to take the pressure off, you clench your stomach and buttocks, trying to raise your hips to relieve the friction. She notices, because of course she does: she's a professional.

'Is something hurting?' she asks, letting up on the massaging.

'Er,' you say, completely unable to conceive of any reasonable excuse whatsoever, 'there was just a bit much... pressure?'

'Oh - too hard?' she asks, sounding genuinely distressed at the idea that she might have hurt you.

'Not your fault,' you reassure her hastily. 'Just, erm, pushing on some tight spots... underneath?'

'More problem areas?' she muses. 'You were really overdue your first massage, by the sounds of it.'

'Oh, it's not a problem -' you begin to protest, but the woman's too damn good at her job.

'Must be something in the front of the thigh, for that to be putting pressure on,' she says, as if thinking aloud to herself: a keen, capable, and eager problem-solver. 'It's a good thing you've come here, if you've got this much tightness in your muscles.'

You lie there, not sure what you're supposed to do now.

'Flip yourself over, then,' she says after a moment, and she grabs the towel lying across your backside and lifts it up so that you can move freely under it. 'Don't worry,' she says, when after a second you give no signs of movement; 'I'll just hold it here so you can turn over, and then I'll put it back down.'

You take a deep breath and shuffle, feeling like a landed fish flopping ungracefully in the bottom of your catcher's boat, up onto your side - making sure that the towel is covering the extremely obvious obelisk straining to escape your boxers - and then roll onto your back. She drapes the towel back over you, covering you from navel to mid-thigh; amid the natural swells and ebbs of your body beneath, you don't think the protrusion right in the middle of your crotch should catch her attention, but you can't be sure. The thought that she could at any moment glance between your legs and become hungrily aware of the hard shaft just barely out of her sight... it's anxiety-inducing, a tornado of nerves in your stomach telling you to do whatever you can to hide it, but it's at the same time so illicitly thrilling that you're only becoming more rigid. It's like trying not to think about a pink elephant: the harder you strain to turn your mind to anything else, the more single-mindedly every thought in your brain clings to the one forbidden topic. Each moment is another pulse of electric warmth flowing right into your cock, pumping it to greater, trembling solidness.

Her hands go to work on the front of your thigh now; she's folded the towel up just a bit on the side where she's working, so as to access your leg right up to your hip, and your balls are so keenly aware of her fingers just millimetres from them that they tighten with a hot squeeze. The precum is coursing up now, you know: streaming pure and clear like a cool flame shining inside you, and a drop trickles from your tip so that you can feel a soaked circle of underwear fabric hugging at your unbearably sensitive head.

You're not quite sure what happens next, or at least how it came to transpire: her hands, working on your leg, move to adjust the towel, but perhaps her palm slips on your oiled skin because one hand seems to move faster than she intended, swiping at the towel so that it slips sideways. Both her hands go grabbing for it, but not fast enough or not deft enough: in the shortest of moments your crotch - with its thick, yearning erection fighting against your boxers and the little dark circle of precum right where the round shape of your head sticks up - goes from modestly concealed to shamefully, proudly exposed.

The towel hits the floor with a soft thump. There's a moment or two during which neither of you seem to move, to breathe, not even for your hearts to beat, and then -

'Oh,' she says. Her hand, hovering where the ill-fated motion to catch the towel had taken it, is frozen in a reaching motion just above your pleading erection.

She withdraws her hand, looking down at it. And she's definitely looking right at it. There's no passing that one off as a weird fold in the towel any more.

'I'm really sorry -' you begin to say, but she holds up her hands placatingly.

'It's okay,' she says. 'Perfectly normal, even. I mean, it's someone touching your skin, it can feel kind of intimate - it happens a lot, and you can't help it, so there's really no need to worry about it. Honestly, it's not a problem.' She says all this in a perfectly professional tone, but you can't help but notice that her voice is a little less low and controlled than it has been, that the short, calm sentences she'd been speaking in seem to have started running away, as if the words are continuing to come out of her mouth despite herself.