The next day, she drove me to the spa, which was different than the chain spas I was used to in the states, which were perfectly fine. But this spa–I couldn’t quite figure. It was spotlessly clean, but not extravagant. Everyone was impeccably professional, but it also felt kind of “cruise ship” chic. A few too many tight t-shirts and linen on the men. A bit too much eye makeup on the women. No matter, I thought, I was going to enjoy the next 90 minutes of bliss without question.
I was asked if I preferred a male or female masseuse, which was a formality–Kim had already called in a favor to make my appointment with less than 24 hours’ notice, and she asked for a male on my behalf. I would have picked the same. I was cordially met in the lobby by my handsome, young masseuse and we shook hands. He wasn’t Chinese, but he didn’t speak English either. Ok, I thought, I hope this all works. He led me to his bamboo-adorned room and dimmed the lights, presumably offering me time to disrobe and settle under the sheets on the table. I have no way of knowing–it was mostly pointing, smiling, gesturing and nodding, before he left the room.
The table felt so relaxing. I nestled my face in the cradle, pulled on the heavy blanket, and almost fell asleep waiting for him to come back into the room, which wasn’t more than five minutes. I had stripped, but left my panties on–I didn’t know what the correct custom was, but I sure didn’t want to err on the side of being improperly deviant and not be able to apologize or explain myself. I smiled when I heard him approach me again, as if he was walking on feathers. He was so gentle when he peeled the blanket from my back I was almost startled by the silky motion of his fingers on my flesh. This was already perfect. Everyone should have a sister like Kim, I thought.
The way he touched me was indefinable and difficult to describe. It felt almost like he was a part of me, the motion of his long languid strokes felt as though they were absorbed rather than felt by my body. Within the first ten minutes, I heard myself sigh. My magical-fingered friend heard it also.
He whispered something indecipherable to me, and tapped the back of my thigh. I didn’t have the foggiest clue what he was going on about, so I just nodded, already in a state of bliss. Then I sighed again–a bit louder this time–when I realized he was beginning to stroke my thighs the same way he stroked my back and arms. Long, silky, dangerous applications of pressure that made me somehow magically part my legs, just a bit. I felt my temperature rise, and my heart was beating like a hummingbird. I craved his touch.
After a few minutes, he patted my ass the same way he patted my thighs. I don’t remember nodding this time, I just remember him carefully and gently peeling my panties down. Oh, Jesus, what was I doing? I could barely control my breathing as his expert fingers pressed into the flesh of my ass in seductive and tantalizing circles. I regret that I don’t have a more delicate or “pretty” way to describe it, but with each motion, I could feel his thumb pressing deep between my cheeks, applying pressure between my anus and vagina, and massaging there as if we were making love. My head spun. Was this ok? My god, I had never in my entire life felt that. His hands were lotioned or oiled and warm, and felt like they knew me, were a part of me. Over, over, over again he would touch me in the same way, and I started to pant involuntarily. I was 20 minutes into a 90 minute massage session, and this complete stranger was about to bring me to orgasm.
My body started to writhe. I had no idea what I was supposed to do, or if I was experiencing something aberrant. I almost wanted to ask him permission to feel what I was feeling, but I knew he wouldn’t understand my words. I was almost startled when I felt him pat my behind again. “Huh?” I didn’t know what he was asking this time, but I didn’t care. If he patted my purse right at that moment, I would have given him my Chase card and PIN number. I nodded. Oh god, I nodded long and demonstrably.
I felt a low growl purr from a place inside me I never knew existed as his slippery fingers penetrated me. I was dizzy, I could feel my eyes blurring and rolling. This was no back seat, high school “fingerfuck.” This talented masseuse was massaging my pussy as expertly as he had massaged my back and thighs, and I knew I couldn’t hold back. I panted the words, “I’m sorry” to him even though they wouldn’t be understood, and my body started bucking with an intense climax so explosive I couldn’t help myself from squirting just a tiny bit on the table (something I have done since, but never before).
My mind was reeling and running away from me almost like a dream. So many thoughts were spinning in my head. Was I cheating? Was this normal? Did this count as an affair? Did my sister know about this place when she booked the reservation? And…what the hell was going to happen over the course of the next 70 minutes after I was practically convulsing from my orgasm, face down on the table?
I was about to find out. It was already happening.
Even with my face still in the cradle, I could almost see my masseuse sliding his soft linen pants off and folding them onto the side table. I could hear the fabric. I thought I could almost hear both of our heartbeats over the monotone new age music wafting in the room. I was paralyzed and aching. Purring and trying to catch my breath as he stepped to the head of the table and slid his hands again over my shoulders and back, massaging again for a few moments. I was waiting for what might come next, and didn’t have to wait long.
I felt his hand pat my shoulder, and somehow knew he was asking me to roll onto my back. Nervously, I did. The blanket was gone. My panties were gone. I knew I would be exposed, and I didn’t care. I liked it. I wanted it. I was never very good at breaking the ice in matters of intimacy, but since this amazing young man had just given me the orgasm of my life, I kind of considered the ice sufficiently broken. And there we were. Naked. Both of us. O. M. F. G.
He depressed the nose of the lotion bottle that was on the table once again into his hand, and began to massage my breasts in the same way–perfectly. Erotically. And his cock, which was already erect and protected by a latex condom, seemed to become as solid as iron as he touched me. Panting again, I didn’t wait for him to pat anything this time around. Almost by instinct, I rolled onto one elbow and opened my mouth over his cock, whimpering as I did. He didn’t protest. Heart skipping, I started to wonder how many times he had done this. Dozens? Hundreds? But with the condom on his thick pole, I just lost myself, sucking him not just hungrily, but overwhelmingly needy, almost as if I needed to prove to him I was worth….whatever all this was. I sucked him like the women in my husband’s porn movies, and moaned when I felt him building to his own orgasm. And I had no intention of stopping. Condom or not, I wanted to feel him spasm and erupt in my mouth. Thrusting gently, and rolling my nipples at the same time, that’s what he did. Massively. I came along with him, a second time. Obviously I couldn’t taste his cum, but the pangs–the physical pangs and contractions of his cock and orgasm seemed to go on forever, and I knew I had pleased him. It was euphoric. Surreal.