The Massage

Living in a lively and young part of town meant I was location-poor and couldn't often afford luxuries like massages and pedicures. Thanks to Groupon, though, I had an inexpensive appointment in the outskirts of town for a hot stone massage with aromatherapy, and was more than ready for the relaxation to begin. I dropped my boyfriend off at band practice and headed out of the city.

As the high-rises melted away around me, I thought back to my call for an appointment, in anticipation of what I might find when I arrived. His voice was warm and gentle, maybe African American, eager for a new client from the city to experience his services and spread the word.

As my memory lingered on the timber of his voice, I arrived at the address listed on the certificate: a run-down, dingy, nearly abandoned building that must have once housed apartments, complete with locked grates on the front and a For Sale sign on the exterior. I began to rethink my wisdom of isolating myself in the outskirts of town with a perfect stranger.

I knocked hesitantly on the grate and was buzzed in, and entered his studio. Very dimly lit, the entry's décor was almost entirely in black. Now, I am no stranger to massage parlors, but all of my experiences have been in sun-drenched, airy, slightly clinical spaces with a light lavender scent. Here, enveloped in dimness and – what was that thick floral scent? jasmine? – I realized I was in for something completely different.

Antoine greeted me warmly with a handshake, welcomed me and introduced himself. I filled out the requisite form and answered the standard questions: Any sensitive areas that should be handled with special gentleness? No. Any areas that need particular attention? Yes, my neck and shoulders are always tense, so please be sure to spend extra time on them.

I followed him into the studio, cloaked in darkness with black sheets draped on the massage table. As is standard etiquette, he told me where I could hang my clothes, that it was up to me if I wanted to undress fully, to start laying face-down on the table, cover myself with the sheet, and he would knock before entering. I did as he instructed: removed all of my clothing and made myself comfortable on the table under the dark drape.

That was when I noticed the ambient music. Some of my massage experiences have had soft, soothing music in the background; some not. Some have even played nature sounds, but here Antoine was playing the sound of waves crashing on the shore. Soothing, yes, but perhaps a bit more unrestrained than what I was used to. I tuned in to it, embraced its ebb and flow in my head, and began sinking into a relaxed, semi-conscious mode.

I barely noticed his soft knock and re-entry, but felt the coolness as he lifted the sheet from both of my legs at once, tucking it neatly (and rather voluptuously) high between them. And so it began, as he plunged his warm, oiled hands up the insides of my legs to the tops of my inner thighs, and drew them back deeply like the tide, only to plunge forth again. Over and over he repeated this til I felt a twinge and the moisture forming between my legs. The combination of relaxation and stimulation was almost more than I could stand, but I could already feel that part of the massage drawing to a close as he stretched my toes, circled my ankles, and softly lowered my legs, covering them again with the sheet.

A warm towel was laid heavily on my back as he sought pressure points in my hips, swaying my buttocks gently from side to side to loosen the joints and center the massage, and then moved on to my back, in long, firm strokes, and I wondered if he might lightly grazing the sides of my swollen breasts crushed below me on the table. Wondered – or longed... When he reached my neck, his strong fingers at once melted me and sent shockwaves through my body, such a sensitive region it is, but by the time he had finished, it was like putty in his hands.

The half hour flew and before I knew it, I was asked to turn over. He held the sheet respectfully up for me to turn, hiding his face with it so that there would be no question of lurid impropriety. Was I stealthily hoping he could see through it with the dim lighting as it was? What was wrong with me?! He is clearly a professional. I would be sorely disappointed and not nearly as relaxed if I started slipping into a fantasy of something that wouldn't end up happening. Stay focused. Stay relaxed. Do not waste this massage experience on a sexual fantasy.

The sheet was raised and he began again with my legs, plunging all the way up to the hip with the outer hand, the other on my inner thigh, never once grazing my nether region, and it's a good thing, too, since he would have felt how wet I had become – or was still – revealing my secret desire to this consummate professional. From legs to hips, hips to sides, where I could feel his body press against my arm as he leaned in. Was it his groin? Was that his cock? Stop, focus, relax – that's not what this is about and you know it!

Standing above my head, he began to reach behind my neck, then slide his hands over my shoulders, pressing down on my chest, veering to the sides just before making contact with my breasts, sliding his hands along my sides like a sort of embrace and under the small of my back. And then he lifted. Hard. My back arched fully, as the sheet slipped away from my breasts within inches of his perhaps eager eyes, and he held me in that stretch for what felt like minutes, as I felt the cool air on my nipples cause them to stiffen. He did not replace the sheet, but continued as if nothing happened, again, neck, past the shoulders, grazing my now-stimulated breasts, sides, under the small of my back and – up! Fully arched with my ample tits beholden to his hungry eyes. In that position, with my head tilted back to the table, the hair of his trimmed beard tickled my throat, and I stretched further, in the embrace of his hold, hoping this was turning him on as much as it was me. He released me gently to the table and again came at me, this time rubbing the sides of my breasts, but still not touching the quite erect nipples, and stretch – display – and release. The fourth pass, he plowed his hands straight across my nipples and I let out an involuntary moan, and found myself again arched, stretched, observed, and released.

From there, his hands traveled to my ribs, my belly, my hips, my inner thighs, as his chest loomed just above my face. I wanted to touch him. I wanted to tell him it would be okay if he'd like to touch me – I would sign the consent forms later. I wanted to take his cock in my mouth in a 69 pose while he ran his tongue down my soaking wet slit. I was close. Very close. And then it happened, with the waves crashing over me, like a tidal wave, I came loud and hard right there on his table, with electric pulses coursing through my system, making me tremble in his arms until the sensation had dimmed. I lay breathing heavily there, as he ran his fingers through my hair, passed his hands down my décolleté and over my tingling breasts once again. Then he softly covered me again with the sheet, leaned in close to my ear where I could feel his warm breath, and whispered, "How do you feel?"