I’ve secretly fantasized about it for a while, the idea of a massage that didn’t stop at just my muscles, where someone’s hands kept going until I completely lost control. Last week it actually happened.
The spa was quiet and dimly lit, soft music playing. She was a new masseuse with confident, silky hands. It started totally normal: warm oil, long strokes down my back, working out the knots from studying and stress. I was melting into the table, breathing deeply and relaxed.
Towards the end, she leaned in close and asked softly, “Would you like your front done too?”
I figured she meant my chest, shoulders, and arms. “Yeah, sure,” I mumbled, still blissed out.
She had me flip over and gently removed the towel. Her hands glided over my shoulders and down my sides, then moved to my thighs. She slowly parted my legs. My heart started racing as her fingertips traced higher and higher along the sensitive skin inside my thighs. Before I could process what was happening, her slick hand cupped my bare pussy.
I tensed up, surprised, but she didn’t hesitate. Her fingers began slow, deliberate circles around my clit, teasing and stroking with perfect pressure. A rush of heat flooded me. My hips lifted off the table on their own. I was already so wet.
She slipped a finger inside me, curling it just right while her thumb kept rubbing my swollen clit. I tried to stay quiet, but soft gasps turned into moans I couldn’t hold back. My thighs trembled, my whole body tightening as she worked me faster.
Then I came, hard. My pussy clenched around her finger in deep, messy pulses. I shoved my fist into my mouth to muffle the loud cries, back arching, legs shaking uncontrollably as the orgasm crashed through me.
She stayed with me through every wave, gentle but firm, until I was spent and throbbing on the table. Then she calmly wiped me clean, draped the towel back over me, and whispered, “All done.”
I left the spa on weak, shaky legs, my heart pounding and my pussy still tingling. I can’t stop replaying it in my head.
I think I’m definitely going back.
The spa was quiet and dimly lit, soft music playing. She was a new masseuse with confident, silky hands. It started totally normal: warm oil, long strokes down my back, working out the knots from studying and stress. I was melting into the table, breathing deeply and relaxed.
Towards the end, she leaned in close and asked softly, “Would you like your front done too?”
I figured she meant my chest, shoulders, and arms. “Yeah, sure,” I mumbled, still blissed out.
She had me flip over and gently removed the towel. Her hands glided over my shoulders and down my sides, then moved to my thighs. She slowly parted my legs. My heart started racing as her fingertips traced higher and higher along the sensitive skin inside my thighs. Before I could process what was happening, her slick hand cupped my bare pussy.
I tensed up, surprised, but she didn’t hesitate. Her fingers began slow, deliberate circles around my clit, teasing and stroking with perfect pressure. A rush of heat flooded me. My hips lifted off the table on their own. I was already so wet.
She slipped a finger inside me, curling it just right while her thumb kept rubbing my swollen clit. I tried to stay quiet, but soft gasps turned into moans I couldn’t hold back. My thighs trembled, my whole body tightening as she worked me faster.
Then I came, hard. My pussy clenched around her finger in deep, messy pulses. I shoved my fist into my mouth to muffle the loud cries, back arching, legs shaking uncontrollably as the orgasm crashed through me.
She stayed with me through every wave, gentle but firm, until I was spent and throbbing on the table. Then she calmly wiped me clean, draped the towel back over me, and whispered, “All done.”
I left the spa on weak, shaky legs, my heart pounding and my pussy still tingling. I can’t stop replaying it in my head.
I think I’m definitely going back.
