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.

You sigh, relaxing. 'Not much I can do about it,' you agree. 'Sorry about that.'

'Oh, stop apologising,' she tells you. She's looking around the room, then at your face, and then - as if unable to help it, needing to check it's still there - glancing at your crotch.

'Sorry,' you say reflexively. She can't help a slight chuckle at that.

'I, um...' She's flustered. The lights are dimmed in the intimate space, but she might be blushing. 'I'm not really sure what to work on now!' She bursts into a quick, embarrassed snatch of laughter, tinkling notes like wind chimes, then takes a breath. 'Sorry. I am a professional, honest.'

She's made no move to put the towel back over your body, you realise. There's no point now, you suppose, since its only job was to prevent exposure which, now it's happened, can't exactly be undone.

Several more heartbeats pass, during which she clasps her hands together repeatedly. There's a thoughtful expression on her face; you think she's biting the inside of her lip gently.

'You can't possibly be relaxed with... that going on,' she murmurs eventually.

'It's been a bit of a distraction,' you admit, feeling your cheeks flush bright and warm.

'I don't know that it'd do any good to keep working out the muscle stiffness - tenseness - um, soreness, if you're not going to be able to enjoy it,' she says.

'You're... probably right,' you say, and move to sit up, to get off the table. This is done, you can only assume: no point carrying on, so may as well call it a day.

Her fingertips, soft yet firm, touch your chest as you rise, pushing you gently back down. 'I don't mean call it quits there,' she says, eyebrows raised in what might be concern. 'You still need to unwind, obviously.'

You daren't make any assumptions about what she could possibly mean, but her gaze travels languidly down your body and fixates, undeniably, on your cock.

'We, erm... the company doesn't allow... happy endings, as a rule,' she tells you, tucking her hair behind one small, round ear, and saying 'happy endings' with a self-conscious half-smile, 'and don't go thinking that I would just do this for anyone, but... I just think you really need to relax, destress, and I don't think I'd be taking good enough care of you if I didn't help you with that.'

'That's... very nice,' you say, completely unable to think what you ought to do in this situation. 'You don't have to, though - I mean -'

Before you can say anything more, her index fingers have snaked underneath the elastic of your boxers and pulled, sliding them down off your hips. The eager erection beneath lunges free, springing desperately loose and out into the open: the sensitive, taut skin of your head, shaft, and balls tastes the open air and the liberty. It feels as if everything can breathe now it's in the open, a hot hardness sighing in deep relief.

'I know I said it happens a lot,' she says, gazing down, 'but I don't know that many people get this excited.' She extends the very tip of one finger, making the tiniest contact: she dips into the clear stickiness leaking from your tip, and although she doesn't even touch your skin, just rests so lightly on the trickle atop it, her finger comes away attached to your cock by a glistening thread.

'Should you be -' you begin to say, but she raises that slick-shining index finger to her lips and makes a slow shushing gesture.

'Like I told you,' she says, 'you don't have to do anything. Just let me take care of it.'

You categorically do not have the willpower to protest further.

'Relax,' she instructs you: you lie back, close your eyes, and give in to sensation.

You could swear you can feel, before she so much as brushes against your skin with hers, her bright and earnest gaze working over your dick, taking it in, squeezing it. Under her watchful eyes you strain, so hard it feels you could burst, and it's all you can do not to squirm in sublime, aching ecstasy. You hear her take a deep breath, clean and steady - do you detect a slight trembling as the air goes in, or is that you hearing things? - and then, soft and slow, her fingers wrap themselves around your shaft. There's still oil on her palms and fingers, and both of her hands grip your cock in a gentle squeeze working from base to tip: she slides with a light firmness up the length, beginning with index finger and thumb encircling you right where your dick joins your balls and floating up until all her fingers can wrap around you. Her hands move up with a deliberate slowness, a careful stroking that makes you gasp with each delicate squeeze up your sensitive skin. With the slickness of her oiled skin, she can grip your unbearably rigid erection tightly without causing too much friction as she moves; she slides freely and smoothly, and waves of shivering pleasure wash through your nerves and into every part of you. Your fingers and toes tingle while your cock throbs in her glorious hands.

She changes the motion: one of the hands that had been languidly making its way up your shaft takes a gentle hold of your balls, massaging lightly while the other works up and down, fingers flexing and releasing so that intermittent tight squeezes pump flashes of ecstasy through you.

You can't resist lifting your head to look down; you see her kneeling by the side of the table, gazing enthralled at your cock. Her hands move elegantly, almost lovingly over you, every motion another delectable spark of bliss. She glances up, spots you watching her, and smiles that beautiful smile as if unable to help it before taking her bottom lip in her teeth and letting it slide sweetly free, her eyes fixed on yours. Then those lips form a neat, small circle - you can see her tongue playing at her teeth - and her head lowers until her mouth, O-shaped, clasps wetly on the head of your penis.

You lean back, eyes closing again, one arm folding up behind your head. Her tongue dips into your leaking slit, like a hummingbird lapping up dew from within a flower. A low groan escapes you, a rumbling moon that vibrates through your whole body; her wet, soft lips open and close, gently engulfing your whole aching head before suckling harder at one small focused point of pleasure. You feel her take hold of the hand that's still lying by your side and lift it, placing your palm on top of her bobbing head. Your fingers tease through her soft hair as she opens wide, relaxes her tongue and jaw, and descends to sheathe every inch of your cock in her mouth. Her tongue laps at the base, where one hand still squeezes your balls; the back of her throat caresses your head in a tight, soaking embrace; your shaft revels in the warmth between her lips and cheeks. Your hand tightens of its own accord, grabbing a fistful of hair, and your hips automatically raise to meet her. Your cock is disappearing down her throat, but she doesn't gag: after a moment, she slides up and inhaled deeply through her nose with her lips still tightly sealed halfway up your length, then slowly bobs up and down on you.

The tight, hot wetness sliding over your intensely solid cock, which pulses as if with a strong heartbeat, is becoming more than you know how to bear. You can't conceive that any material in the world could be harder than your dick at that moment, and your stretched skin, thick veins, and engorged tissue is at the same time so sensitive that you can feel in keener detail than your sense of touch has ever been capable before and so overwhelmed with the flicking of her delicate tongue and the strong sucking of her mouth and the wet sliding of her lips that it feels your entire body might disappear into a single bright pool of warm joy, where space no longer matters and all the once-separate parts of you become a unified body feeling nothing but pleasure. Precum oozes into her throat, wet pouring into wet.

She withdraws, coming away with thick strands of clear liquid joining her mouth to your glistening cock, and gazes up at you with burning intense eyes. Your dick is practically spasming, twitching madly before her; a tight urge crawls aching from your balls up the length of you right to the tip, and a drop of white trickles out of you and mixes with the clear. She gives that lip-biting grin and stands up straight, wiping her mouth slowly with the back of her hand. Then she reaches down to the clasp of her loose tunic and with a quick smooth movement snaps it free. Her top falls open, revealing a smooth, toned stomach, soft curved waist, and beautiful round breasts with small pink nipples right in the centre. She slides the tunic back off her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor, then slides her thin trousers down her hips and steps easily out of them, leaving her clothes in a pile behind her and standing before you naked in the warm stillness of the room.

She steps towards you, arms by her sides with confident calmness. Every inch of her is soft, inviting, sleek: you can see sculpted muscles moving beneath the yielding skin of her thighs and shoulders. Her breasts are high and pert, her pussy hairless and neat with just a hint of bright pink emerging from the fold between her legs.

She takes your hand and pulls you upright, so that you're sitting with your legs dangling over the side of the massage table. Your gleaming, wet-shining cock sticks up rigidly, tight balls quietly pumping beneath. Your left hand she takes and places, gently but firmly, on her breast, and her hand clasped on yours squeezes so that your fingers sink into the softness of her; at the same time she moves your right hand, brushing it down the silken skin of her stomach until it comes to rest between her legs. She closes her eyes, hands resting gently atop yours - not pushing or forcing, just letting you know where she wants you.

Your fingers explore her, sliding along the insides of her thighs, feeling a slickness already beginning to moisten the skin there. You travel across the mound at the top of her legs, taking your time until your fingertips at last venture within the folds of her outer lips: you slip into the snug pocket within, already hot and wet, and find the little hard nub. Your finger swirls in small, slow circles on her clit, every few moments withdrawing to wet itself in the juices dripping from the haven underneath before returning to touch anew with fresh moistness. Her body stiffens, then relaxes as she sighs deeply with a throaty rumble of satisfaction; your hand squeezing firmly at her ripe breast can feel the nipple beneath the centre of your palm stiffening, rising up to greet you - you remove the hand from her, move up to her face, and gently probe at her lips with your fingertips. She parts her lips just enough to let you softly coat your index finger and thumb in the mixture of wetnesses that streamed from her mouth and from your cock, the same clear fluid that still glistens on your erection, and then you take those digits and tweak at her hard nipple, sliding smoothly and slickly over it with your soft, attentive fingertips.

She flexes the hand that's still holding yours between her legs, pulling at you with a firm need. She presses you down, grinding her hips so that her clit rubs first against your exploring fingers then against the heel of your hand, and as your fingers come down to her entrance she squeezes, telling you what she wants - and at the same time you can feel her opening up, a blossoming of warmth over your hand calling you hungrily in. Only too willing to comply, your fingers plunge eagerly inside her. She keeps rolling her hips, seeking contact and friction as her clit strokes your hand, and your fingers work at the hot, soaking insides of her, feeling every bump and dip that textures her clenching walls.

You gaze at her face: her eyes are closed, bottom lip firmly bitten, hair fallen out of its ponytail and now cascading down her neck and shoulders. Her cheeks grow more flushed as she keeps moving on you and you keep moving in her: your left hand pulls and tugs with just enough force at her nipple while your right unceasingly plays at the warmth within her, so saturated with fluids that you can hear every movement as a wet sucking sound. Your cock is swelling and pulsating in time with the motions and noises of her body, no less rock-rigid now than it had been in her sweet mouth. Her pussy tightens, clenching as if grabbing desperately at your fingers, and her mouth opens into a gasp, brows furrowing intensely - and then she stops herself, pausing mid-rocking against you, and opens her eyes.

She stares straight into your eyes, breathing heavily, and then without a word or an indication of her intention she takes her hands off yours and pushes you hard, knocking you back down into a lying position. Smoothly, with a graceful half-hop, she swings herself up onto the table and straddles you, kneeling atop you and gazing down. One hand goes to her hair, running through it with an anxious sensuousness, and the other grasps firmly around your twitching shaft: panting, you lift your head and watch as she pulls your cock upright and raises her hips over it. She lowers herself slowly, the impatiently parted lips of her pussy sliding over your head: she holds there for a moment, breathing deeply as the tip of your cock rejoices in the embrace and the promise just within, and then she sinks down and engulfs you down your entire length, plunging you deep into her.

The two of you gasp in unison, meeting each other's eyes as your bodies join and your chests heave with enraptured, heavy breaths. Her breasts rise and fall, just a little bounce wobbling them as she inhales and exhales; below her flat, trembling belly, her pussy surges and squeezes at the unbearably hard cock filling it snugly.

For a minute or more, you simply lie there, fully buried inside her. The slow rise and fall of both of your bodies as you breathe, and the endless throbbing and stiffening of you against her and her against you, is enough to content you for ever, as far as you're concerned. Then, slowly, she leans forward and begins to gyrate her hips, languidly sliding you with hungry wet slurps in and out of her - never all the way out, but up to where your shaft turns into your swollen pink head and then back down until you're entirely immersed and her labia touch the skin by the base of your dick. Her breast comes inches from your face, hanging as she leans but still keeping the same perky round shape, and you lift your head to take her nipple in your mouth. While she rocks on you, embracing your cock in pulses of heat and tight moistness, you flick your tongue over the tip of her nipple so that it stiffens and seeks you, then gently hold it between your teeth and pull so that it stretches just a little before releasing it from your sharp incisors, letting it bounce back into place, and wrapping your lips and tongue around it.

She lets loose a full-bodied moan, thrusting down onto you with a pussy hungry to take you deeper with each motion: she stops her up-and-down riding and presses down as hard as she can, her insides swallowing you up as far as she can take you. Your desperately sensitive, inflated head squeezes between her clenching walls, bumping against a narrow contraction deep inside her. No longer thinking about anything but her, you suddenly sit up and grab her back, fingers digging into her strong flesh; groaning with ecstasy, she holds on to your shoulders. Her nails cut into your skin, and you couldn't care less. She grinds down onto you and you push up into her, and sharp pulses of tight, hot, electric sensation jolt through your whole body.

You lean forwards and shift your weight, holding tightly onto her and pulling her down: without ever separating from her, you haul her over onto her back and roll on top of her, penetrating deep between her raised legs. You grab her calf and pull it towards you, kissing her leg and ankle as her breasts bounce with each thrust of your body into hers; her face is contorted in a vision of almost painful joy, completely overwhelmed and overtaken by the feelings coursing through her. Long, hard thrusts of your hips drive your bodies together, spearing your dick - so engorged and powerful that you can barely believe it's yours - as far inside her as you can squeeze it, and every moment your tight, swollen skin slides against hers is another wave of dizzying energy that rides every muscle in you until you feel a divine weightlessness.

A squeal tears itself from her lips; her pussy spasms around you, squeezing so hard you think you might burst, quaking and contracting with thick, wet, powerful pulsations. You bury yourself in her, making small and fast movements with your hips so that your painfully bulging cock drills right into the deepest parts of her. Her hands grip your arms with a craving strength, then she wraps her arms around your body and holds tight to you, pressing her soft breasts against your chest; you can feel the rigid nipples rubbing against you. Face buried in your shoulder, she lets out a muffled roar of pleasure and wonder: her insides, pouring wet and steaming hot, massage you with squeezes so strong it feels as if your cock is being slammed into from all angles at once: the bumps and surfaces of her slide over you and grab at you, and she holds you painfully tight.

It's been all you can do, almost beyond your power, to control through all of this the surging flood building with an all-encompassing strain inside you, and the clenching of her pussy, the gobbling of her slick heat on your cock, is stoking the flame until it can be restrained no longer: your balls tighten with an unbearable, dam-bursting strain.

Her body trembles as her quakes and throes fade to contentment, and her expression, though it remains almost dizzy with joy, focuses as she notices you beginning to throb powerfully inside her. She slides back, releasing your cock, and from her reclined position sits up on the table and swinging her legs back behind her, her head and hand going to your shaft as it shines and drips with her own fluids. As she makes her quick approach, you can contain it no longer: the overwhelming squeeze deep inside you releases, powerful waves of pure lightness streaming from your centre to every extremity until you can barely breathe, and the warm electricity jolts free from your balls and shocks up your yearning, aching shaft. She almost reaches you in time: the first thick rope of cum forces itself from your pulsing cock, and lands with a wet slap across her face and all the way down in one glistening line down her chin and over her breasts.

She makes it for the second burst, gripping the base of your shaft tightly in one hand and engulfing your head in her mouth to catch your flying sperm. Groaning lowly, you wrap your hands through her hair as you come, pumping blast after blast of hot semen down her awaiting throat. Your whole body wracks with tremors while the safe, sweet, warm, comfortable space inside her mouth receives you, her tongue lapping at your tip to welcome every drop of cum you have to give her.

When the throbbing ceases, she slides her lips free, closing them in a kiss-like motion on the very tip of your head as she withdraws from you. She looks up, breathing heavily, a gleaming painted line of your cum still adorning her face and chest. You gaze back, slowly returning to reality and to the little, cosy massage room you entered fully-dressed and innocent not so long ago.

Neither of you speaks for a minute or more. Eventually she sits up, stretching her back and shoulders tall and giving you a phenomenal view of the way the muscles of her torso tense and her breasts lift as she does. She sighs, licks her lips with her delicate pink tongue, and gives you a wide, tooth-exposing smile.

'Relaxed now?' she asks, giving you a stare from under heavy-lidded eyes.

'Er,' you say. 'Thanks?'

She laughs fully and loudly then, her body rippling with her happiness. 'You fuck like that and then you go back to not knowing what to say except thanks?!'

You can't help but laugh back, scratching the back of your head awkwardly. 'I... have not done anything like this before.'

'Me neither,' she says. 'Really!' she continues quickly, seeing your dubious expression. 'I've... helped people to calm down before, but I've never... got so involved.'

'Well,' you say, unable to stop smiling, 'I'm very flattered.'

She hops off the table and leans down to pick up the towel that had once covered you; as she bends over, you get your first good look at a tight, round pair of buttocks between which her open, flushed lips are still dripping. She wipes her face and chest, then turns and throws the towel to you. You pat your tumescent, leaking cock awkwardly; she snorts with amusement, standing tall and proud before you.

'I think that's about all our time used up,' she says, beginning to pull her clothes back on, 'but... I might be persuaded to give you my friends' discount, if you want to come back some time. There's still some tension I don't think we got the chance to work out.'

'I'd like that,' you say.

You slide your clothes back on - she stands there watching you, rather than leave the room as you suspect would usually be the case - and open the door.

'Until next time,' you tell her.

She nods. 'Until next time.'