Massage Sex Story

A massage sex story is supposed to be slow and professional and hands that never stray, and mine started with a shoulder that wouldn’t turn and a woman named Jasmine who booked ninety minutes on a wet afternoon in Goa and then asked me not to stop.

Massage sex story

I was the therapist. That part matters less than people think.

She came in off the beach road with her hair up and a sarong over her swimsuit, and she lay down on the table under the sheet and said, before I’d even warmed the oil, that her left shoulder had been catching for a week from sleeping wrong, and that she wanted it fixed.

I started where I always start — the shoulders, the neck, the knot under the blade — with the towel folded down to her waist and a hot drizzle of oil in my palms.

I got too much oil on my hands. It ran down her spine and gathered at the small of her back and she made a small, surprised noise and laughed.

“That’s cold,” she said.

“Sorry. My fist slipped,” I said, which was true, and she laughed again, and something in the room loosened by one notch.

I worked her shoulder. It was tight, genuinely tight, a hard rope of muscle down from her neck, and for ten minutes I was just a pair of hands doing the job, and if you had asked me then I would have said nothing was going to happen.

Her breathing changed first.

Somewhere under my thumbs the tension went out of her, and instead of breathing through the pain she started breathing through the pressure, slow and long, and each time my hands came back down her back her hips shifted a little on the table, a small restless movement, like she was settling into being touched.

My thumbs moved off her shoulder and down the ribs, along the edge of the sheet, and I let my hands travel further than a shoulder strictly needed — down the long muscles beside her spine, round to the soft part of her waist, over the top of her hip — and she didn’t say anything. She just turned her face to the other side on the headrest and let out a breath that was longer than a breath should be.

The door buzzed.

The receptionist’s voice came through the intercom asking, for the second time that afternoon, whether the four o’clock had called to move her slot, and I had to take my oiled hand off Jasmine’s back, walk to the wall, and answer in a voice I had to build from nothing.

“No,” I said. “Not yet.”

“Everything okay in there?”

“Fine.”

When I turned around Jasmine was propped on her elbows, looking at me, and she had heard exactly how long that answer took. She lay back down slowly. And this time she pulled the sheet down herself, off her hips and her thighs, and left it gathered at her feet.

She was naked under it. Of course she was. She had been naked the whole time, and this was the part where it stopped being a shoulder.

I came back to the table and put both hands on her waist and held her there, at the hips, and she pressed back into my palms, and neither of us said the thing. I poured more oil into my hand and it hit the dip of her back, and I smoothed it over her spine, down over her ass, over the outside of her thigh and up the inside, and she let her knees slide apart on the table and gave me the whole of it.

My fingers found her and she was wet and hot and ready, and she didn’t say a word, just pushed back against my hand and let her forehead go down on her folded arms. I worked her open with two fingers, slow, while my other hand stayed flat on her lower back, holding her down, and she took it and rocked back onto my hand, and the oil made everything slick and loud in the little room, the sound of a hand moving on wet skin and her breath catching in her throat each time my fingers curled right.

Then she said it.

“Wait.”

I stopped. My hand still inside her, and I stopped completely, and she turned her face on her arms and looked at me sideways with her cheek flat on the towel.

“Not your fingers,” she said. “I’ve had fingers. I booked the ninety minutes.”

So I stepped in against the end of the table, unzipped myself with one wet hand, and pulled her hips back toward me by the waist.

She put a hand flat on my chest and pushed me back one step, taking charge of the half-second, and looked up at me — and then she turned back around and lowered herself onto the table and I let her.

She was standing with her feet on the floor and her knees against the edge of the table and her upper body down on the towel, and I came into her from behind, slow at first, watching her back, and she let out a long low sound into the folded arms and pushed back to meet me and then we found the angle and everything went quick.

Her oiled back was warm and slippery under my chest and my hands slid the whole length of her waist and back to her hips, and she arched and pushed back to take me deeper with every stroke.

Her hair had come loose from the tie and stuck to her neck and her ear, and I pressed my mouth to the damp skin behind her ear and she shuddered the whole way down her back.

One of my hands came up and covered her breast, oiled and slick, and she turned her face and found my mouth over her shoulder and kissed me sideways, badly, laughing into it.

The receptionist’s chair scraped on the other side of the wall and we both went still for a beat, and then she pushed back onto me deliberately and did not stop, and neither did I.

I reached under her and took her breast in my oiled palm and rolled the nipple between two fingers and she arched and pushed her ass back into me.

My other hand came round to her front and my fingers found her clit and held the same rhythm as my hips.

She reached back and gripped my hip and pulled me in hard, her knuckles going white on the edge of the table.

I slid a hand up her spine to the base of her neck and held her there, and she went still and let me set the pace for a while.

Her thighs closed around my hand and she turned her face and bit the towel to stay quiet, breath hot through the cotton.

The oil made my hands slip off her hips once and I caught her waist and drew her back onto me, and she laughed into the towel, low and unsteady.

It was a working rhythm from the start, both hands braced on her hips, sliding on her own oiled skin, and each thrust pushed her forward onto the table and pulled her back. Her arms slid along the towel. One heel came up off the floor and hooked over my calf. The shutters were open and the ceiling fan turned lazily above us and the light off the courtyard came in grey and warm across her back, and all of it — the oil, the heat, the fan, the sound of our skin — mixed into one thing.

She stopped talking. Her breath went short and high and stayed that way, and her hand came back once and found my wrist and just held it, hung on, like a person on a ledge, and I knew what that meant and I gave her the whole of what she was asking for.

She came with her face hard down on the towel and her fingers digging into my forearm and a sound that stayed low and broken, the sound of somebody holding on. I kept moving through it until she shook her head and reached back blind to pull me in one last time, and I finished with both hands clamped on her hips and my teeth on my own lip to keep quiet, because there was a receptionist on the other side of that wall.

Afterward I handed her the towel and she wiped the oil off her back herself. Neither of us said anything for a minute and a half.

Then she sat on the edge of the table and paid in cash for the ninety minutes like it was a doctor’s bill, and at the door she asked me, businesslike, how much extra it cost to book the room for four o’clock too.

I told her the price.

She rebooked before she left, and she was already lying back down on the table when I came in with the oil, and she said, “Left shoulder again,” and I knew it wasn’t the shoulder, and I never once asked. More fetish stories.