16

I had my head in the hole when she came into the room. I’d pulled the thin, cotton sheet up over my nearly-bare bum, to try to preserve some dignity. The lights were low and some kind of panpipes were playing over the speakers.

She checked her pressure as she massaged my back, my arms, my shoulders. 20 minutes of bliss as I almost fell asleep. Then, she started on my legs.

She used long, firm strokes up my inner thighs, almost tickling as she reached the apex and lightly brushed her thumbs against the crotch of my g-string. I could feel myself getting more and more turned on with every stroke.

She moved her hands around and massaged her thumbs into my bum cheeks, my glutes. Every time her hands reached the crease, I became more and more excited. Over and over, her skilled palms rubbed oil near my most private areas, over all the sensitive skin. It was all I could do not to cry out.

I turned over when she asked me to, glad of the eye mask she placed on my face so she couldn’t see the turmoil on my face as she massaged my chest, my stomach, my thighs, as I willed her to massage my breasts, to move her hands lower and lower, then higher and higher. I tried my hardest to keep my breath steady and her fingertips probed and wandered across my skin.

Suddenly, all too soon, she whispered “you’re all done.” Leaving me hanging, waiting, for relief that would never, really, come.