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Something cool and wet drizzles onto me.
Is that oil?
Then his hands cover my back, pressing and sliding and grinding. I am melted into a state of oblivion.
“I feel a lot of tension in your back, sir,” he tells me in his polite, soothing manner.
That tension is my apparently insatiable appetite for being touched, which has for too long been starved. “Yeah, I feel it too.”
“I’ll work it out for you,” he promises as his fingers dig and dig.
I’m practically in tears on the inside from how good all of this feels. This is better than sex. This is better than the first slice of a wedding cake. This is better than peeing at last after holding it through a three-hour-long movie. This is better than homemade buttermilk pancakes, chocolate chip cookies, and bubblegum ice cream.
His thumbs dig deeply as they trace the middle of my back, working down, down, down, until I find them at the edge of my crack again. Then they work over the top of my cheeks, prodding deeply and with unyielding strength.
He seems to be awfully focused on my ass suddenly.
Like, a lot.
And I’m not mad about it.
More cool wetness pools on my backside—this time easing right into my crack, as I feel his fingers slip gently between my cheeks. I’m about to protest until a hand glides slickly over my hole, and an explosion of sensations charge through my body.
I gasp at the floor and squeeze my eyes shut.
Is this part of his regular massage routine??
His fingers are so slippery, my ass seems to welcome them in. My legs part slightly, too, and I can’t even say whether it’s me in charge of my legs or his hands, but now I’ve basically just given him permission to continue doing whatever it is his skillful hands are doing.
His thumbs massage the base of my ass, then go right in like they’ve been invited to a party, pressing against my hole and massaging it into a state of total compliance.
I can’t help but moan. Then I attempt to turn my head. “E-Excuse me, is this part of the—?”
“Just relax, sir,” he insists soothingly.
All of this teasing around my asshole—after my very interrupted jerking session—is completely annihilating all of my inhibition. I feel like I’ve gotten lost in some kind of dreamy fantasy where I’m not me, and this masseuse is a psychosexual projection of my horniness.
Then his hands leave my hole and begin working down my legs, from my tightened hamstrings to my calves, and at last my feet. I experience a moment of confusion as I open my eyes and stare at the floor. Was he actually just massaging my ass, and I mistook all his slick and slippery thumb action for something sexual?
I’d believe it, considering my state of mind.
After some time, I’m very much relaxed again. I don’t know when it happened, but his hands are back to working on my back, and I find myself smiling with delight. This feeling could last for the rest of the session for all I’m concerned. Time melts away, like my worries and my stresses and my anxieties.
“Please turn over, sir.”
I’m in such a state of bliss, I barely hear his words. My lips still stretched into a happy smile, I obey, turning onto my back as he lifts the towel slightly to keep it covering my sensitive area.
I feel friction on my cock. I glance down, curious.
Oh, fuck.
It’s come alive. Ragingly, furiously, throbbingly alive. It sticks up like a lighthouse under the white sea of that totally inadequate strip of a towel.
The masseuse doesn’t acknowledge it with even so much as a glance. He just lays his hands on my shoulders and smiles down at me.
I lay my head back. “Uh, sorry for the, um—”
“Just close your eyes and relax, sir.”
I close my eyes, but I doubt there’s much relaxing in any part of my body anymore as he rubs the front of my shoulders, then works his way down to my chest. There is no way my ridiculous erection is not completely visible to the masseuse as his hands start growing closer and closer to my hips, where he becomes especially forceful and firm. He manages to find spots where I wouldn’t in a million years have presumed I carried any tension, but there it is, and there it goes.
Then he reaches my hips, where every single motion of his hands moves the towel ever so slightly.
Causing friction on the head of my cock.
The very sensitive and stimulated head of my very hard and throbbing cock.
For whatever reason, he seems especially fixed on rubbing out the tension in my hips. And that is doing just about everything in its power to rub out some tension elsewhere—as my cock grows harder and harder, and my heart races faster and faster, and my breath turns short.
