NavelStories™

The Massage: Her Story I almost don't respond to his first message. A man nearly Five years older than me, asking if I want to try something called a Yoni massage. Absurd. But there's something in his message. Careful. Respectful. I tell him I have no idea what a Yoni massage is. The emails go back and forth. He explains it gently, without pressure. When he asks about my pubic hair and I tell him I don't shave, he tells me he loves a full bush. The words feel good to hear. Appreciative. We exchange photos. Real ones. I can see his face--older, lined, but something genuine in his expression. There's grey in his hair. He looks at the camera like he's already thinking about me. The photos are clothed, as he requested, but there's something about standing there knowing someone will see them, knowing he's looking at my face and body and imagining what comes next--it changes something. I do want penetration. It's been so long. My body remembers want. I'm w...

"So. Had any luck with Trish yet?" Kate asked me. I couldn't stop my shoulders from bunching at that. Kate knew of my all-consuming, entirely unrequited crush on the big strong hockey girl and seemed to take any opportunity to twist the knife. "Why do you always go there," I grumbled into the hole in the table. I could feel her shrug through her arms as she carried on kneading my back. "Purely selfish reasons," she said. "There's no point practicing on someone who's totally relaxed already." "It's not just that you're nosy," I said, but without much rancor. Kate was getting really quite good. She'd have her certificate in no time. "Massage is a holistic thing, isn't it," she explained. "Body and mind, yes? Squeezy, squeezy," she squeezed, "psychoanalee-zy." I laughed. "Well, it's fine, thanks for asking. I'm definitely number one on her list of friends she'd neve...

All characters are, of course, therefore, not minors. And, in addition, they are all imaginary and fictional, as are the occurrences in this story. In fact, the only things that are real in this story are the music titles. The story itself is both longer and much slower-developing than my usual short stories and is, in a manner of speaking, serving to train my ability to create longer prose. I'd tell you where to skip to the racy bits but were I to so do, you'd skip all my wordy exercise. ... The warm air smells of bergamot. Kacharpari softly plays, mixing its notes into scent. Under my hands, her shoulder-blades stretch and relax - their tenseness loosening at the pressure. Not weight, not force - just the press of the base of the palm, gliding over the skin, over the bones, over the muscles. The clenched muscles unwind, even the nervous knots at the sides of the neck. The oil bowl leans against my thigh - its warm rim, offering another dip in the scented oil, is on my skin. G...

I booked a much-needed massage with a guy I found on a male masseur website. He went by the name Santa Bear. His profile picture showed a jolly-looking guy in his late fifties, about six feet tall and weighing 275 pounds. He had wavy white hair, a big bushy white beard, and wore a red flannel onesie. I was intrigued. His stats listed him as a well-endowed top bear with gifted hands. When I showed up for my appointment. Santa Bear greeted me at the door with a warm handshake and a hearty chuckle. "Hello there, Doug. Welcome to my home. Come on in!" He smiled continuously, his bright eyes squinted, and his little red nose scrunched. He even wore little round glasses. "Aren't you a cute little tight package? I look forward to getting my hands on you. I love your shaved head," he said, rubbing my dome with a meaty hand. Every time he spoke, his sentences ended in that same deep-throated chuckle. Santa's red onesie had been replaced with a red velour t...

It's super hot and after a few days of tanning and relaxing in the sun you decide you'd like to give the hotel spa a try and have a massage. It's uber luxurious, very private and a welcome break from the burning sun. You've had several cocktails by the pool and already feel extremely relaxed so this seems the perfect afternoon treat. As you sit in the cool waiting room a side door opens and a tall, muscly and extremely attractive black guy appears, he smiles politely and calls your name in a deep and sexy tone.. As you stand your heart is beating fast and you realise you're massively turned on just by the thought of his hands touching you, you think about how we were discussing you taking a big black cock only a few days before over text messages and think about how turned on I'd be right now if I could see him. He introduces himself as Caleb, then leads you through into the massage suite, it's a large private room with twin massage tables and is softly lit ...

Allie and Francis had been friends since they were eleven, which at their school was less a friendship than a survival pact. Neither of them had been one of the popular kids. St. George's, the international school baking on the edge of the city, ran on the usual cruelties, and the two of them had landed near the bottom of the order early and stayed there. Francis was the quiet clever one, all elbows and bad posture, the boy who knew the answer and learned fast never to put his hand up. Allie was the shy girl who developed late and got punished for it, flat and gangly two years after the other girls had filled out, an easy target for a certain kind of joke. They found each other the way kids like that do, by accident and then on purpose, and their friendship became the one place in that school where neither of them had to brace for the next insult. They ate lunch in the same corner for seven years. They had a hundred jokes nobody else would have understood. When the world was being ...