Seducing the Masseur

The slim cellphone on my desk rang. I picked it up and looked at the screen. “BOBBY”, it said. Smiling, I tapped the green button. “Hi, Bobby,” I began.

“Oh, hi, Ms. Brown. Are you still on for the massage tomorrow afternoon?”

“Bobby, I’m Anne. Remember?”

“Oh, yeah! Sure, Anne!”

“Yes, tomorrow’s still fine. My place, at two. Can you remember the entrance code?”

“Sure. Double-oh-two, six-five-four.”

“That’s it,” I smiled, a tingling thrill making its way from my stomach up to my chest. “You got it.”

“Right, fine. See you then.”

“Sure, Bobby. See you tomorrow.” I breathed in deeply. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Me, too, Anne. See ya — bye!”

“Bye.” I smiled again, looked at my phone, tapped the screen and put it down. Good. My plan was about to start.

I cleared my desk, a large faux-mahogany affair in a leafy, brown-walled office with a big window overlooking the street. Thank goodness it was Friday. Eight years working for Stimpson, Ajax and Partners Realty had been a good career move but now I’d been Deputy Sales Manager for three years already and was wondering whether I should move on and find something else. John, the Sales Manager, was sixty-one, and my boss. I looked over at the door to his office. It was closed. He was stubbornly refusing to take early retirement, meaning I had at least another four years to wait before I could replace him. I’m thirty-five already, for goodness’ sake. I’d be a “woman of a certain age” by then. Huh, I thought. So many women in Hollywood, with their facelifts, plastic surgery and fake, silicone breasts, could claim to be “women of a certain age” – hark at Tina Turner, singing that in “I Don’t Wanna Lose You” – a song she sang when she was fifty! The fact was, traditionally, back in the days of Audrey Hepburn, Gina Lollobrigida, Sophia Loren and women of that ilk, “a certain age” was exactly that — absolutely certain. It was thirty-nine. Stuff that — I wasn’t going to wait until then just to be Sales Manager at some real estate firm in downtown Dallas, Texas. I’ll be making some calls on Monday to find a new job, I resolved. Making a mental note of that, I grabbed my large, white, fake-leather handbag — why is everything I own fake? – and headed for the door and the weekend.

I caught my reflection in a long mirror near the door — goodness knows why John installed it. Ostensibly, it was so he could look himself over before heading to the CEO’s office for a meeting but a pudgy, moderately overweight, balding, grey-haired man like him was hardly the kind of looker anyone would care to see. As for me, I saw my long, wavy, brown hair, the ends reaching my bustline. A white, slightly crumpled blouse was buttoned down the front, enclosing an ample bosom. 36F nowadays, in fact. F! When I was twenty, I used to be DD cup but after I put on weight, my boobs just ballooned to this size. Actually, the girls used to be bigger, but four years’ hard labour in the gym have left me more svelte than I had been, so now my waistline has shrunk. The boobs, too, but I was rather thrilled that they hadn’t gone back to their original size, leaving me with this more curvy appearance. A sensible, brown, calf-length pencil skirt encased hips slightly wider than my breasts, the material not quite skintight against my butt, which was well-shaped after all the yoga I’d been doing for the past six years. That had been well worth the effort, plus the women at yoga class were fun and friendly. Long, shapely legs led down to low-rise brown leather shoes. I was getting slightly wider in the thigh, I noticed. Hmmm — I might have to do something about that. I’ll ask the personal trainer at the gym.

Come on, let’s go — let’s get out of this dump! I flung open the door and strode into the corridor. Stabbing the elevator button, I took the car to the ground floor. Out in the parking lot, my Merc was waiting. I flung the car door open, threw my handbag on the passenger seat, got in and drove off.

Home was an apartment in a ten-storey building in the ‘burbs. Impatiently, I thrust my key in the lock and went inside. A living room with sofa, TV, a couple of armchairs, some square-framed pictures on the wall and some bright windows greeted me. Flinging my handbag down on the sofa, I entered the bedroom, where there was a duvet-covered queen-size double bed, with floor-to-ceiling wardrobes on one wall. Hastily, I unzipped the brown pencil skirt encasing my butt and let it fall to the floor. Unbuttoning my blouse, I ripped the flimsy garment from my torso and reached behind my back to unclip my bra.

Always the best moment of the day, that — men would never know how good it feels to release your breasts from their confinement and let the girls free. My hands ranged over my breasts, revelling in their fullness, squeezing them, and briefly pulling on the nipples. Suddenly remembering the stress of the working day, I decided it was time for a shower. Removing my panties, I walked naked towards the bathroom, more than ready.

The hot, steaming water fell with the exhilaration of an open-air hot spring upon my flesh as I stood in the bathtub, the shower curtain shielding me from any handsome intruder who might show up. Fat chance of that ever happening, I thought. The creamy shower gel cleansed my skin and its scent and the steam filling the room enveloped my senses. My hands roamed across my now-silken skin. Feeling turned on, I slid my hands up my thighs, across the toned expanse of my gym-trained stomach to the fullness of my breasts. The heat had given them a flushed-red appearance. My thumbs and fingertips brushed across my wide areolae to my nipples. Surprising me with their hardness, I felt a sudden flash of pleasure. Rubbing my thumb across the sensitive, bare nubs, a raw, crying need rose up within me. Moaning softly, I kneaded my breasts hungrily, the girls sensitive to my touch, thirsty for more. I indulged them, using the whole palm of my hand to squash them together, cup them underneath. Soon, a roaring need made itself known.

Trembling slightly, my hands headed southwards across the plain of my stomach down to the trimmed triangle of hair that led to the pleasure palace below. My fingertips reached my hungry clitoris. Crying out with pleasure, I pleasured the hot nub, my practiced hands milking every ounce of pleasure out of her. Moving faster and faster, finally, I plunged my fingers into my hungry pussy, the walls trembling, wet with the water, the steam and their own copious juices. Surrendering to the pleasure, I felt the walls of my pussy grip my fingers as a huge wall of pleasure built higher and higher, more and more, until a wave of ecstasy rose to its peak and crashed through my body. Almost losing my balance, I screamed out in pleasure as my orgasm roared through my body. I rode the wave, undulating my body with the rhythm of my own release, until the waves subsided and my body was spent.

Recovering for a few minutes, I then switched off the water, dried myself and headed back to the bedroom, my body flushed from the heat and the orgasm. I sat down on the large bed. Now, on with the plan, I thought.

Lying down flat on the bed, still naked, I considered the situation. A new beginning awaited. The job search would start on Monday but that wasn’t the main deal. At thirty-five, I needed a new start. I wanted excitement, a thrill, something exhilarating, fun, wild, outrageous! I’d been feeling in a rut lately, overwhelmed, stressed, and had developed a crick in my neck from hunching over my laptop at the office all day. In addition, there had been, just a few weeks ago, some lower back pain, and a heaviness in my legs. My yoga teacher had given me some tips initially, so I had applied myself. After a few days posing when I could at home, it had suddenly occurred to me that it would be great if I could just delegate this task to someone else and let them take care of it.

I had decided on a massage. Six weeks ago, I showed up at this clinic downtown. The masseuse I had received on my first visit was great. Her hands were obviously practiced and expert and the full-body massage I had paid for had been worth it by the end. However, over the following week, I had realized that I would need a second session, since some aches remained. I had planned to tell her to go a bit heavier with the pressure, but when I showed up the following week, the masseuse was off sick.

The receptionist listened patiently to my request and recommended this male therapist. Bobby Adamson, his name was. He was young, still studying for his therapy certificate. He was two years in, he told me. This meant he was twenty years old. He was about five feet eleven inches in height, medium build, with dark brown, nearly black, curly hair that was not too long. He stood sturdily before me. He wore the typical therapist’s attire of white T-shirt, white slack pants and white plimsoll shoes. I could see he worked out. His firm, strong arms were not overly muscled but well-shaped, with definition, his veins slightly traced going down his biceps, and that wonderfully thick vein that guys have that makes them look so athletic. His skin was smooth and young-looking. He had a fresh-faced complexion, and a few freckles on his nose.

At first, I felt reticent. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted a guy touching me. However, the female receptionist reassured me that he was very professional, with rave reviews from clientele. She even showed me the visitors’ book, where I read glowing reviews from a range of clients. A few had been men but around eighty percent of the comments were from women. “He can give quite a strong massage,” she went on.

“OK,” I had suddenly decided. “Let’s do it.”

Bobby led me into a room, brightly lit, similar to the clinical appearance of a doctor’s office. He instructed me to strip and lie down. There was a brief discussion of what aches and pains I was experiencing and I explained that I wanted a pressure stronger than I had received the week before.

Then he began. I felt the oil in his hands spread over my back. I had paid for an hour. He was just as good as the receptionist had promised. For a glorious sixty minutes, his strong, powerful hands kneaded, smoothed and manipulated my muscles. He seemed to know exactly where the tired, aching feeling was. His fingers and thumbs glided across my thighs, awakening them after what seemed like eons, as I felt the tension and stress melt away.

After the time was up, I didn’t want it to end. “That was amazing,” I remarked, smiling broadly.

Bobby smiled bashfully and said, “Well, I’m still only training, but thank you — for your kind words, I mean.”

His charming smile gave my 35-year-old heart a flutter I hadn’t felt for a long time. “No problem,” I replied. “Do you have a card?”

“Sure,” he said. He produced from a small backpack on the floor a business card. “Just call this number — I do call-out, as well as work here. Obviously, the clinic is the best place for comfort — but I also visit clients’ homes, although the surroundings will depend on what you’ve got at home. If your home is fine by you, then it’s fine by me.”

“Got it,” I said, smiling again.

During the intervening week between that day and my next appointment, I decided to call the clinic on Wednesday to confirm just whom I would be getting on my next visit.

“Vivian,” said the receptionist. “Your original therapist. I can confirm that she is fully recovered and will be delighted to serve you when you arrive.”

Hmmm, I thought. “Actually, you know what?” I decided. “Cancel my appointment. I think I’m mainly recovered, anyway. Give my regards to Vivian — she was great.”

“Is anything the matter?” she asked, concerned.

“Not at all,” I responded. “In fact, everything’s just great. Thanks again for your time.” I hung up.

Stuff that. I couldn’t wait to experience Bobby’s hands on my body again. Vivian was great but, hey — a red-blooded woman has needs, you know — and Vivian wasn’t the one to satisfy them.

I took Bobby’s card out of my purse. Go for it, I thought.

“Hello?” said Bobby’s warm, masculine voice.

“Oh, hi,” I began. “This is Anne Brown, the woman at the clinic you massaged on Saturday.”

“Oh, yes — it’s great to hear from you again. How are you, Ms. Brown?”

“Just great. Say, I’d be interested in a house call this Saturday. Are you free around two-ish?”

“Sure, I’m free.”

“Fine,” I had said; and I gave him my address.

I had been feeling slightly apprehensive on his first visit over what exactly would happen but it had turned out great. Bobby had pressed the button on the intercom and I had let him in, giving him my apartment number. He showed up, and I couldn’t quite believe I had this gorgeous specimen of a young man standing right there in my living room.

“Where should I set up?” he had asked. I had replied, “In the bedroom,” wondering whether that had sounded incredibly forward, but he had taken it in his stride. Obviously I hadn’t been the first, I thought.

He had brought a portable massage table and had a portable reflex chair, which he was carrying on his shoulder, but, in the end, neither had been necessary. I like a firm bed and, although it wasn’t as firm as his massage table, it did as well as his table would have done.

He had begun with me lying face down. I was surprised to find that he began massaging my back while I was still fully clothed. I had a suit jacket on. I asked him whether he needed me to take it off.

“If you wish,” he said, plainly. So I removed it. He continued his attention to my back, which was still clothed with my blouse. After a further five minutes or so, which were thoroughly enjoyable, he moved onto my shoulders. It felt blissful — but I wanted more.

“Let me just take this off,” I announced. I sat up on the bed, undid the buttons on my blouse, and removed it, placing it over a nearby chair. Lying face down once more, he continued, his hands now roaming over my bare skin. I relished the skin-to-skin contact and could feel his steady breathing behind me.

“I’ll apply some oil,” he said.

“Go ahead,” I agreed. I heard him reach into his backpack for a bottle, which he flipped open. He squeezed a liquid into his hand. Spreading it over his hands to warm the oil, he then returned to my shoulders. The feel of the oil, slick and lubricating, between the surface of his fingertips and my aching shoulders, was enticing. He worked his way down my back. His hands jumped over my bra strap and continued below, down to my lower back. He smoothed the oil around to my sides, then moved back over the strap to work on my back beneath my arms. He then moved down again to my lower back. This continued for a couple of minutes. Hmmm, I thought. A desire to feel his hands up and down my back built up within me. The bra strap was in the way. Could I trust him? It took me all of thirty seconds to decide. “I’ll unclip this for you.”

“OK,” he replied, simply.

I reached behind, unclipped the bra, the straps falling down to the sides. Finally, his hands moved all the way up and down my back. “Oh, yeah,” I murmured, relishing the contact that had been delayed until now. His hands, broad and confident, kneaded my muscles, ironing out the tension, smoothing them out, his deep breathing relaxing me, yet turning me on at the same time. I really needed this. It had been ages since a man had touched me and, non-sexual though this was supposed to be, I milked this experience as much as it was worth. A good ten minutes went by, my breath deepening, the rhythm of his hands matching my breaths. I noticed this and felt a sudden and dramatic spike in arousal.

I’m not sure if he noticed or not but then he said, “I’ll move onto your legs now.”

I was wearing a loose skirt but had taken off my shoes and socks. My legs were bare — no tights or stockings to get in the way. I felt him move further down. He picked up one of my feet. Awesome, I thought — a foot massage! He applied more oil, and he spent a further fifteen minutes on both feet. I was thrilled, my feet tingling with pleasure. Working his way to my ankles, he spent some time massaging them before moving onto my legs. Picking up the bottle of oil, he squirted some more into his hands, before applying it to my legs. Moving from my ankles to my thighs, his strokes were confident and firm, his hands gliding across my firm, gym-toned muscles, making me glad I’d made the effort to workout these past few years. It was definitely paying off.

“You have good muscle tone,” he remarked, with interest.

To my surprise, I blushed. “Thanks,” I smiled. Wow, this guy was turning me on. Had he even noticed? The way his hands and fingertips felt on my thighs started an ache inside me that had nothing to do with muscle tone and everything to do with what he was doing to me. A desire to get more of him was burning me up. Feeling brazen, I grabbed the hem of my skirt and flung it over my back, exposing my panties and butt. “Here,” I announced.

He said nothing but gave a a murmur of approval. Now his oil-covered hands could range the full length of my long, firm legs, right up to my big, round, bubble butt. I felt absolutely ravished by this young man. His palms and thumbs squeezed my glutes, the oil glistening and shining, showing them off to their best advantage. I could feel a burning, smoldering roar between my legs begin to build. I let in a sharp intake of breath as his hands smoothed between my thighs, massaging the inner muscles of my upper legs. “Turn over,” he said, presently.

Oh, wow, I thought. I did as I was told, a naughty thrill zinging through me as I obeyed his order. Yes, master, I thought. Naughty girl! I took the opportunity to sit up. Holding my unclipped bra against my overflowing breasts, I used my other hand to remove my skirt from my lower body. It was now an annoyance. I lay flat, face up, my hand still on my bra.

“Hmmm,” he said, observing this. “This is where I need to drape you. Sorry, I forgot.”

“That’s OK,” I replied,

“He reached into his backpack and brought out a large, white sheet. “I’m still learning,” he explained.

“No problem,” I assured him. “It’s fine.”

He folded the sheet and covered my torso from my shoulders to my thighs. This was good of him. I appreciated the concern but couldn’t help thinking that the drape was a downer to the experience. However, it meant I could ditch the bra. He then spent time massaging my arms for the next fifteen minutes, then moved onto the front of my shoulders and upper chest above my breasts. It felt great. Then he turned his attention to my legs. More oil was added. I was surprised at how tingly it felt to feel his hands glide up my legs and thighs. “You have tension here, if it tickles,” he smiled.

I smiled back. “I see.”

As his hands worked their way up my thighs, I felt a building desire. I wanted this guy so badly. As I was still wearing panties, he folded back the drape to expose my stomach and abdomen. I then enjoyed a fabulous stomach massage, which felt amazing.

Soon enough, the time was over. It had been a fantastic experience. I couldn’t wait to do it again. “Wow, that was incredible,” I cried.

“I’m glad to hear that,” he said, modestly.

“Let’s do this again next week,” I decided, suddenly.

“Fine,” he agreed.

I saw him out, then went back to the bedroom and flung myself down on the bed in happiness. “Woohoo!” I cried.

Over the following week, I had thought about Bobby Adamson, my handsome young masseur, and his amazing hands, and had given myself a good time at least twice just thinking about him.

2:00pm on Saturday couldn’t come quickly enough. I was impatient for his arrival and jumped up off the bed when I heard him at the door. “I’m coming!” I yelled, and went to let him in. There he was, looking impossibly ravishing, even more so, it seemed, than the week before. I couldn’t help smiling as I led him into my bedroom, looking forward to another fabulous experience.

He didn’t disappoint. The oil, his hands, his presence, his breathing, my body, the bedroom, the time, the place — everything felt just so right. This time he had remembered the drape at the beginning, rather than halfway through. I also took more initiative. My bra, which had nearly ruined the previous week’s experience, I had decided early was not going to wreck it again. When he was massaging my back, I had removed the whole wretched thing, rather than hold onto it for dear life in that silly way I had done before. I could trust him more now, and felt safer than the first time. So it went.

Another fabulous session over, I once again invited him over for a further session the following week. He showed up accordingly, looking as delicious as ever. I noticed that his demeanor was more relaxed than previously. He had got to know my body a little more, so was more confident in touching it, kneading it, smoothing it into the relaxation that I was beginning to love.

This time I opened up more. I spoke to him about my job, telling him of my plans to make a change, how I was stifled in my job and wanted something more exciting, how I couldn’t wait for my boss to retire, and couldn’t wait to try new things. He was a great listener. As he massaged me into bliss, I felt incredibly pampered as he encouraged my plans, agreed with my vision and comforted my doubts with his words. I wondered privately whether he was like this with every woman he massaged. Perhaps it was better if I didn’t know that. Once again, the combination of male attention and the way he used his hands left me incredibly turned on. I felt a dampness between my thighs and a hunger for more. It was then that I came up my plan for seducing the masseur.

I once again made another appointment for the following Saturday at 2:00pm. However, I was irritated when my boss told me to work overtime in order to finish a project with an important client. John couldn’t understand why I was frustrated, and I maintained a somewhat testy attitude all day. I had to cancel Bobby, and I was annoyed.

Now another week has gone by. Having rearranged the massage for the same time this week, the phone call I had received at the office had been confirmation that Bobby would be showing up.

He dutifully obliged, showing up bang on time as always. I led him into the bedroom, where we once again started with the massage. The oil smoothed down my back, as his skillful hands went to work. I sighed. I could get used to this.

He spent a long time on my back, kneading the muscles I had toned in the gym, before moving onto my arms. Those done, he turned his attention to the back of my legs. Applying more oil, he smoothed his hands along my toned legs, starting at my calves and gradually working his way up higher. A drape still covered my butt. As he busied himself kneading my thighs, I suddenly decided: it was time.

After some more minutes of feeling his hands beginning to brush against the bottom edge of the drape as he continued to do his work, I calmly reached out behind with my right hand to grab the drape. “Could you massage my butt?” I asked, looking at his face.

His eyebrows raised but he continued. “Whatever you want. Yes, of course.”

Using my hand, I pulled the drape away and let it fall to the floor. The glutes I had toned for six months revealed themselves. I was wearing high-cut panties, which revealed a lot of flesh. They rose proudly, it seemed, in the air, and I thanked my lucky stars once more for the gym membership I had taken out. If it could bag me a guy like this, I would stay a member for life.

Bobby squirted more oil into his hands. Warming the oil in his hands, he started at the tops of my thighs, then quickly spread the oil over my buttocks. The oil felt creamy and smooth. He spread the oil around to my sides near my hips. Then he set to work. His big, smooth hands enveloped the cheeks, the smooth flesh responding to the kneading of his hands.

I was surprised to find some areas of tenderness, which he quickly smoothed and rubbed away. I felt the palms of his hands on the cheeks, the thumbs finding the cleft between them. I felt a sudden need for the material of my panties to disappear and cursed myself for screwing up once more. “Wait a minute,” I said. I awkwardly rose from the massage table, half-swung my legs off one side, then hooked my thumb into my panty waistband. With one swift movement, the panties were down my legs and off, falling to the floor. Then I returned to the position I was in before.

I looked at Bobby behind me. He looked surprised.

“Is everything OK?” he asked.

I smiled. “Fine,” I reassured him. “Carry on, please.”

“OK,” he said. He resumed massaging my butt.

Honestly, what on Earth was I doing? Was this my half-baked attempt at seduction? The guy’s a 20-year-old stud with a muscled body, six-pack abs and probably has a dozen women his own age he could date; and here I am, a thirty-something woman the best part of twice his age, acting like some brainless dweeb who can’t even remember to take her underwear off when trying to seduce him. I got determined. Let’s try again.

His hands felt so good against my butt cheeks. Once again, his thumbs strayed into the cleft between them, drops of oil smoothed lower. The oil reached my anus but his thumbs didn’t. He lifted them off, replaced them at the top of the cleft and repeated the smoothing action. With my face still buried in the mattress of my bed, I said, “Bobby.” My voice was soft but steady.

“Yes?”

“You don’t need to worry. I can trust you. We’re at home. You’re in my house. That’s why we’re here, instead of the clinic. If I wanted you to do what you do at the clinic, I would have gone there for this. I trust you. I’m old enough to know what I want. Massage me and give me the experience I want. Give my body what it needs.” I turned my head to the right side and looked up at him. “I know you can do this. Go ahead. I don’t mind.”

Bobby looked into my eyes for a few moments. His eyes flickered with desire but he tensed, as though trying to control it. “I learned that -” he began.

“Learned what?” I asked, gently.

“To create a safe space for clients. So they can relax into -”

“Into what?”

“The treatment.”

“The treatment?” I gazed at him. “Bobby, you’ve been doing great. I’ve loved every time I’ve been with you; but let me teach you something about women.”

“What?” he asked softly.

“This ‘treatment’ you give me doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter what you give women. When you create this vibe in here — this ‘safe space’, as you call it — you can give a woman anything and she’ll accept it. It’s the trust that matters. Give them a place to surrender and you can do anything.”

Bobby relaxed. I could see his shoulders and chest move down slightly, as though he had been holding them up, tensed.

I reached out to his right hand, which was still slick with oil. “Wow, look at you,” I said. “You’re gorgeous. You’re young, fit, healthy, with a body a woman could die for. There’s nothing for you to be concerned about. Own your body. You’re a man. Use it. Feel it. Then give me what I want.”

Bobby looked at me, breathed in deeply. He closed his eyes momentarily, as he attempted to obey. His posture strengthened and became more confident, as if he was inhabiting his body even more than before. I sensed a change of atmosphere in the room as he did this. It felt safe, strong, reassuring.

“Good,” I remarked, returning to my face-down position. “Now go for it.”

Bobby didn’t need to be told twice. His big hands returned to my butt. After a few strokes over the mounds of flesh, his thumbs returned to the cleft between them. The oil was slick as he smoothed between. His thumbs found my anus. He massaged it in a circular motion with just a little pressure.

“Mmmm,” I said, feeling the pleasure. It felt safe, yet sexy.

Bobby changed to using his fingertips, as he explored between my glutes, spreading the oil down further. His fingers brushed against my fourchette, the lower end where my labia meet, although to him it was at the top. The tantalising touch made me breathe in sharply. He continued smoothing between and I felt a knot of desire building in me. I lay there, breathing more deeply, enjoying the intimate touch and the rising desire within me. This built and built, until I decided to reach for more.

“I’ll turn over,” I said. I did so, lying face up. With no drape thanks to Bobby’s massaging my back earlier, my full breasts were revealed completely. I heard Bobby breathe in deeply. I looked up at him, enjoying the gaze of his eyes. They drank in the creamy flesh of my breasts, the toned abdomen, and down to the trimmed triangle of hair above my pussy. “Start at the top,” I commanded. “Then work your way down.”

Bobby nodded. Raising one knee, he climbed up onto my bed and knelt down beside my head. Adding more oil, he rubbed the oil over his hands, then placed his hands on my shoulders. He massaged them deeply like before, but this time his manner was more sure. I felt the strength in his arms and hands as they moved from there and down my arms. After spending some time there, he returned to my shoulders. Bobby looked at me. I closed my eyes, opened my mouth and arched my back. I felt his hands move down my sides, smoothing the oil down to my waist. They returned to the top, then down again. His fingertips moved over my abdomen, across the flat plain of my stomach. Moving back up, his hands lifted, his fingertips tracing a trail of oil along my sternum between my breasts. They spread out across my collarbone, then back down my sides. Then across my abdomen, then back up my sternum. Then he did this again, faster now, then again, faster still, the circles tantalising me, until I couldn’t take it any more.

“Please,” I pleaded, opening my eyes.

Bobby smiled down at me. Maneuvering onto the pillow so that he was kneeling down with my head between his thighs, him facing towards my feet, I smiled back at his upside-down face. He breathed in deeply, then placed his hands firmly on my collarbone, splayed his fingers, then moved them forward. I closed my eyes again as his fingertips moved onto the tops of my breasts. He smoothed the oil down almost to my nipples, then moved back up.

“Mmm, yes,” I murmured, as he massaged between my breasts. He breathed in slowly, then his hands smoothed the sides of my breasts before cupping them with his hands.

“Oh, wow,” he said, softly, feeling the heft of them before pulling his hands back, forcing their undersides to move up and my nipples to glide across his fingers. They were slick with oil now, and the fact that they had lost some elasticity seemed to make them more voluptuous. He repeated the motion, moving his hands around the sides, then scooping them up again. The feel of his fingers brushing over the slickness of my nipples made me feel very wanton. I could feel him enjoying every moment, exploring, feeling, kneading, his breathing becoming deeper and more regular.

“Ohhh,” I sighed, my nipples hardening with desire. He flicked his thumbs over them rapidly, causing a sudden, unexpected wave of pleasure to wash over me. He grunted with approval, then scooped my breasts up once more, and did it again. The sensation was intense and I arched my back to take more pleasure. He suddenly ran his hands along my toned, oil-slicked stomach, then rushed back up to flick my nipples once more, his hands more urgent, then used both hands on my left breast to smooth over the top, around the sides, then used the lubrication of the oil to make a circular shape, pulling the flesh up, before letting it fall back. My breasts bounced slightly, the skin quivering from the action.

“Your boobs are so sexy,” said Bobby.

I smiled at him.

“I can’t get enough of them,” he explained.

“Knock yourself out,” I said, sultrily.

He grabbed my right breast, once again with both hands, doing the same as he did with the first one, seeming to marvel at its supple fullness. I was thoroughly enjoying having my 35-year-old breasts being worshiped by this hot, young stud and reveled in the wild, intimate and tender sensations he was creating. My breasts hadn’t been touched by anyone else but me for a long time, and I luxuriated in his touch, lapping it up like the thirsty woman I was.

He moved down to my abdomen, his fingers exploring my belly. The slickness of his fingers gave me butterflies and I moaned. I felt his hands on my hips, moving around to my sides, kneading my flesh.

He changed position, moving to the side of me. Facing me now, he picked up my right leg and placed my ankle on his shoulder. I watched as he squeezed more oil into his hands from the bottle he had on the side, then smoothed it down my leg. To a certain extent, he seemed to return to being a massage therapist, although by now I knew we had an extra connection.

He used his fingertips to rake down my legs. He took his time, slowly moving up my thighs, agonizingly slowly, as he approached the join where leg met hip. His hands returned to my ankles to repeat the action. With every stroke, my pleasure increased, my desire grew, my anticipation expanded, and a thirst between my legs began building. I was surprised to feel a contraction in my pussy. Wow, I was getting seriously aroused. This only built more and more, as he turned his attention to my other leg. Then, with both my legs resting on his strong shoulders, he smoothed his hands down both legs at the same time. Having both legs ravished at the same time awakened me to my as-yet-untouched pussy in between. I tilted my pelvis up, thrusting once.

Bobby noticed. Putting my legs back down on the mattress of my bed carefully, he scooted forward to my midsection. Applying more oil, he gently placed his fingertips on the fold between leg and hip, gliding along on both sides towards the expectant middle. His thumbs continued, smoothing along the joins between my legs and pubic mound towards my butt, then back up again. After doing this a few times, he then placed the palm of his hand over my whole mound. Looking up at me with his gorgeous eyes, he said, “May I?”

I nodded, excited beyond measure at what would happen next. I could hardly believe this darling young stud was about to worship my pussy. I took in a sudden breath of anticipation.

Bobby applied more oil to his hands; then, he replaced his right palm on my mound, smoothing the oil between my legs. It felt amazing.

I heard Bobby’s breath deepen, becoming more regular, more manly. His index and middle fingers began to slide along my outer labia, pressing in slightly, warming them and bringing blood to the surface. I felt them engorge, swelling, growing larger. They felt wanton, needy. I felt very womanly and cherished. After some minutes, he then changed hands, his left hand continuing that motion, while the thumb and forefinger of his left hand focused on my inner labia. They slid along the thin lips, lightly pressing, swelling them, engorging them, the nerve endings tantalising me as his fingers slid up and down. Reaching the fourchette where the labia meet at the bottom, he used his fingertip to explore, before sliding back up and over my clitoral hood, then back down again. He repeated this, going slightly faster, awakening my bud, turning me on. Now adding a little pressure, he widened two oil-covered fingers to splay open my inner labia, the soft flesh yielding to his strokes. It felt fabulous.

Suddenly, he moved to a kneeling position between my legs. Lifting my right leg onto his shoulder, he scooted forward to allow the knee to bend over his shoulder. He used two fingers of his left hand to cradle my clitoris, while he used his right hand to explore the vestibule between my labia. I breathed out suddenly as he touched there. Then he began making circles around my clit, up and over the hood, starting slowly, then increasing speed.

Oh, wow. His speed increased until he got exactly where I wanted him. “Right there,” I said.

Bobby continued that speed. I could feel my arousal building, the knot of pleasure magnifying as he continued his delicious worship of my clit, dazzling my senses. Soon, my mouth opened, my head moved back, as I began to surrender to the building pleasure. The crescendo built, I could feel the wave rising, the pleasure enticing me to let go. On and on it went, higher and higher, until finally I cried out, “Oh, Bobby!” as the wave ripped through me, my body bucking as I rode it, the explosion blinding my senses. I exulted in the pleasure, then began to relax as the waves subsided. Just then, I felt Bobby’s finger suddenly enter my pussy. Sliding up the front wall, his fingers reached a swollen patch. He pumped it several times. I felt a sudden rise in arousal, a wall of pleasure building up with every pump. I arched my back, as a new ride took me by surprise. This was urgent, needy, raw, more deeply felt, a roaring hunger of primal desire. I had never experienced this before. I opened my eyes wide as this huge tsunami of raw physical pleasure rose up my torso. Unable to control it, my legs thrashed, my pelvis bucked and I screamed out in pleasure as this vast tidal wave of an orgasm washed over me, its force overpowering, overwhelming my mind. I rode it for several seconds before my body, trembling, began to come down. Breathing heavily, I was astonished. “Wh-what was that?” I cried.

“A G-spot orgasm,” Bobby smiled in reply.

I couldn’t believe what he had made my body do. Gathering my scattered senses, I decided right there and then to make it up to him. I sat up on my bed, flung my arms around his neck and kissed him.

He was surprised and struggled slightly but I would not be denied. I was awakened now, my womanliness revived, my flesh revitalized, blushed and red from the orgasm. I devoured his mouth hungrily. He opened his lips with mine, as my tongue explored his mouth. Bobby’s arms encircled my chest, while my breasts pressed against the hardness of his torso. I caught a hint of his cologne as I nibbled his neck. Returning to his mouth, I sensed his need building.

Our lips parted as he came up for air. Holding my face in his hands, he looked directly at me. “Anne, you are one sexy woman,” he said, then kissed me passionately again.

“I need you,” I panted. “I haven’t been taken by a man for so long. Give it to me, give me what I need.” My hands pawed at his T-shirt. Bobby ripped off his shirt, his arms raising above his head to remove it. I ravaged his chest, the hard muscles of his trained pecs and ripped abs searing through my mind. The man was gorgeous, red-hot; I couldn’t believe my luck. I felt his strong arms encircle me once more. I arched my back, pressing my full breasts against his naked chest, my nipples hardening with need. My body was still covered in oil. Bobby caught his breath as his eyes took in my huge breasts. He grabbed my waist and pulled me up. I wrapped my legs around him and flung my head back as he held me with one hand, the other hungrily ranging over my left breast, ravishing it, relishing in its fleshy fullness. He inclined his head, his tongue licking and circling my areola. Finally, he opened his mouth wide, engulfing it and sucked hard on my nipple. I flung my head back with the exquisite sensation.

His hands ranged over my torso, slick with oil, his breaths quickening with his rising desire. He flung me down on the bed, making me squeal with delight. He grabbed my legs, pulling my hips to the edge of the bed. Pushing my thighs back parallel to the bed, he lunged forward, diving in hungrily to my oil-slicked pussy. His tongue explored my hot center. One long, languorous lick made my eyes roll to the back of my head. His tongue was urgent, darting and needy as he licked up and down my inner labia, the nerve endings sending me into bliss. His tongue tickled my fourchette, before sexily sliding back up to the top. His tongue lashed my frenulum mercilessly, my back arching with pleasure and need. Then it began circling my clit. The nub hardened instantly, before being engulfed by his whole mouth. I felt the warmth of him, his tongue lashing to and fro against the tip, sending me into a paroxysm of pleasure. I moaned as he kept this up, and I felt my pleasure rising.