Last Massage

The last massage towards the end of September when bK returned from the south after a family event was particularly memorable.  We scheduled it for Sunday as usual. Unfortunately it was at the end of a tense week of bickering and largely NON-naked training. 😦 And I didn’t have brunch scheduled afterwards…

I suppose I set the tone by I letting bK and his massage table into the building without saying anything but even getting hello out was difficult and his frosty expression didn’t help. He walks in and heads straight up the stairs to my apartment also in silence.  Apparently we are both feeling the effects of the week.

Once upstairs he puts the massage table to the side and we proceed to the back room so I can warm up on the treadmill. No one is taking their clothes off for today’s workout. Twelve and a half minutes of studying my sneakers and the treadmill floor. How many words can I form with the letters in the word Sole? Lose, Leos, Sloe, Oles (no accent). Meanwhile bK stands two inches away studying his phone, the walls, the window or the treadmill monitor.  I can’t get through this mile fast enough and the pounding of my feet on the treadmill is a welcoming distraction in the otherwise quiet room.

The only time anyone speaks when we move to the other room to workout is when bK tells me what exercise to do and when to switch to it. No demos today, no touching. It’s not that warm but out of habit from the summer I left the A/C on relatively high which just adds to the icy atmosphere. Someone please call 9-1-1. I may as well be doing every exercise in a pool or in sand — it is taking so fucking long and it feels so fucking hard. I almost sprint to the bathroom to take a shower after the last set. In my rush, I forget to help bK move the coffee table out of the way so he can set up the massage table and to put the kettle on the pot so he can warm up my favorite almond oil. I don’t have a microwave oven, sorry.

By the time I emerge from the shower the massage table is set up, the almond oil is warm and in bK’s holster. Unlike the last several massages he is still dressed in his shorts and t-shirt. In keeping with the day. Oh well, no one is in the mood for anything more.

Wrong.

I drop my wrap and lay down on the table. bK does not place the cover sheet on me and it hits me that I didn’t turn off the A/C. Too bad I’m already on the table and we aren’t speaking. He starts at my neck and works his way down my back kneading away the tension. His fingers are strong and the knots start to give way under the pressure of his hands though I won’t comment on whether any of those knots were caused by the current situation. bK works his way down my lower back, skips my ass and goes to work on my calves and feet. All relatively cold and professional. My ass feels slighted by the detour. It is a temporary let down as he works back up to my ass and thighs and the tone of his touch changes – lingering, soft strokes are suddenly mixed in with firmer kneading. A familiar and fucking treacherous tingle start to spread and my clit starts to hum for his touch. I try to remind myself we aren’t speaking.

After about 25 or 30 minutes bK tells me to turn over. Words! I do and he massages my arms, my breasts and stomach. A slight panic starts to set in as he moves down to my thighs. I can’t lose this unspoken battle. His hands slide, firmly massaging here, gently stroking there, up and down my inner thighs, occasionally straying, but only far enough that I could convince myself that it was just my imagination. My legs are spread and even when I close my eyes I can feel his eyes concentrated on my sex. Those eyes are working in tangent with his fingers to draw every bit of moisture they can from my pu—y. Despite my best (reasonably best?) efforts moisture continues to gather between my legs and I’m praying this massage will end before I start dripping on the sheet. That prayer is not exactly answered. As one door closes another opens.

We may not be talking but my swollen and prominent lips offer silent and obvious approval for the direction that the massage has taken. bK’s wandering hands flirt closer and closer along the edge of the increasingly moist haven within those lips with teasing touches. He caresses/massages my inner thighs and mound between for what seems like forever until his hands finally slow down. Just as I am congratulating myself on making it through, he looks at me and then slowly slides two fingers inside me.

Unexpected today. He doesn’t pull them out but instead glides around, exploring my vaginal walls, feeling for my magic spot. I try to remain calm as he strokes the heat and wetness of my p—sy but my hips start rising off the table of their own volition, twisting in his direction to guide him towards the exact pulsing place upon which I want his fingers to focus. Today is not the day for any of this but here we are and it feels too good to say stop. Then his fingers hit upon the right spot. Mental circuit break — I am no longer thinking rationally.

bK’s bent fingers have struck gold and they are flicking, stroking and tap-tap-tapping my g-spot to mindlessness. He combines a gentle drum beat with light circular touches but that tender beat is my undoing. The blood is rushing between my thighs as the pressure builds within me. I feel bK watching me even with my eyes are shut. We make brief eye contact when I open my eyes but it’s hazy since I am only focused on the intense pleasure emanating from inside me where we are connected. I register his excitement but do nothing about it. Selfish mode.  My hips keep rising from the table, doing everything possible to ensure bK’s fingers don’t leave the molten shelter now being offered until the right moment.

He continues to massage my g-spot as the pleasure spreads like wildfire throughout my body. Down to my G-D toes. The only breaks to the silence are the sounds of my moans (and the meditation music that is the soundtrack for these massage sessions). I kind of wish I could stop but my voice has joined the list of body parts no longer interested in listening to my brain.

I am surprised by the intensity of my orgasm under the circumstances.  And even more surprised by the amount of fluid that gushes all over his hand and the table. But it does relieve the tension. 🙂 We maintain a now peaceful silence until he suddenly breaks out in a huge smile and says “I thought you were going to kill me with that A/C.”

As I get dressed he mentions that I didn’t help set up and we start joking about the day. Things are back  to normal. For now.

Massage rating: 10/10. G-spot session. We both felt good about it, possibly for different reasons. Sensual massage series ends on a good note.

April/Blurred Lines

Our first workout after Easter is a mess.  As soon as I start warming up on the treadmill, he starts going in on what a farce Easter is, fake holiday blah blah blah.  I’m Catholic lite but the attack was so unwarranted that I am compelled to defend Easter.  Plus if I had done the same thing regarding anything to do with Islam, I know we would have been in silent workout mode with serious voice for exercise instructions.  The hypocrisy is galling.  The entire session turns into a stupid debate over priests (you can guess the go-to argument there) and all the fallacies of Catholicism.  Nothing on Islam though.  I am ready for the workout to be over.  It’s doubly tiring to argue/shout while on a treadmill.  Later in the day bK sends me a classic “if I offended you or your faith” apology that he immediately undercuts with his observations about the increased blood circulation between my thighs while I was doing ab work during our debate.  I mention but then drop the pervasive double standard in these conversations.  If I had a bigger vocabulary, I would use another word for dysfunction to avoid repetition – sorry. 

At some point, we take a break so that bK can travel for a family funeral.  While down south he texts me that he needs to extend his stay because his sister is dealing with pregnancy issues.  Funny enough when I ask how she is doing a few weeks later he acts like he doesn’t know what I’m talking about.  I don’t bother pushing, I know how this movie ends  – if I push he’ll get evasive or defensive and it will escalate into a fight.  Ain’t nobody got time for that!  At least not this time…  And so April continues in roller-coaster fashion and at the end of the month we negotiate a new rate at the end of the month at a deep discount (I deserve it 🙂).  bK mentions a new sunning location for 2013.

Massage: 

bK starts out with a normal massage as always – my neck, shoulders and back.  He uncovers my lower body and starts with my legs.  By the time he begins to work on left thigh, I am already tense with anticipation and a little wet.  bK’s hands start to massage my inner left thigh, his fingers grazing my lips with light teasing touches.  Forecast calls for high temperatures and a lot of precipitation.  After a few minutes I have had enough and I ask him to move further up and inside.  He is coy about it and asks for more specific direction – but we both know there is only one direction he can head.  His hands creep higher into my groin area and then two fingers finally slide into home.  Hmmmmm!  How do you spell (temporary) relief?  T-w-o-f-i-n-g-e-r-s-g-e-n-t-l-y-i-n-s-e-r-t-e-d-m-o-v-i-n-g-i-n-c-o-n-c-e-r-t.  He strokes slowly, at first barely inside, but then gradually he explores deeper, fingers firm and lingering along my vaginal muscles and plunging deeper still.  Aaah, lady nani is happy at last to be a guest at the massage party and as luck would have it she is the guest of honor.  This is not a happy ending as much as an homage to my p—y.  I’m trying to keep the moans to a minimum and take it all in stride (some of this is still about control).  Soon it becomes obvious that every part of my body did not get the internal memo and before I am fully aware of it, my treacherous ass is bucking off the table, drawn by the sweet siren song of his magic digits.  Dammit.  But it feels so good.  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know this is wrong, but I can’t stop and I have been so good for so long.  There should be some award for that. 

When he asks me to turn over so that he “can massage from the front”, I flip so quickly I almost rollover the table.  Having it my way this afternoon and now bK is showcasing his dexterity.  He softly massages my clit with two fingers, yet another two are pleasuring me from inside and yet another plays with my ass.  I am not typically into finger play but damn.  Somehow over the course of the massage he sprouted extra fingers and the sensual assault that he has unleashed is almost too much to bear.  My body is on fire.  bK has a look of intense focus and I appreciate the dedication to his craft!  An initial small orgasm but the ode to the V continues and with each touch the throbbing in my clit rebuilds.  I’m gaining momentum towards the release that all the previous massages hinted at.  Waves of pleasure roll over me with increasing intensity.  He is standing on my left side by my waist and I take advantage of his positioning to massage his right thigh with my left hand.  Gradually I work further up his thigh and into his boxer briefs and grasp his thickness.  bK hangs (and rises) to the left so even lying down from this angle I can stroke his stiff dick, kinda like grasping the clutch if you have ever driven stick in a foreign country.  I have. Well.  I let my fingers work up and down his dick slowly, intermittently stopping to show a little love to his increasingly moist tip.  He has a very sensitive tip.  I use his wetness as lube to further stroke him since I don’t have the benefit of massage oil to work with.  His fingers pick up steam as he gets more excited and soon I want more though I am trying not to break.  But pleasure is pleasure and I do break and ask about condoms so we can progress (safety first!).  He says none for him and finishes me off.  OK.  I guess the line is drawn at no intercourse.  For now anyway.  I thank him for the massage and get dressed while he uses the mix of almond oil and my juices on his hands to moisturize his body.  Watching him do so is a fresh turn on, but oh well.  For the first time in a while I go to brunch feeling nice and relaxed after a session.  And two and a half hours late.  I don’t look anyone in the eye when I blame my extreme tardiness on a late start to the day’s workout. 

Massage Rating:  9.9/10.  Self-control is overrated.  I played Lincoln and set our hands free.  I’m not sure I can go back to normal massages.  We get along well for the rest of the month after this massage.  🙂

December 2012

On the first day of Christmas my trainer gave to me:  one bottle of almond oil; two hands rubbing said oil all over my body; four warming pads; ten fingers gliding up, down and around my ass, thighs and groin; countless trailing feather touches along my lips; teasing pressure everywhere around (but not in) the throbbing honeypot; and frustration in a pear tree. 

The cover sheet pretense is over and I stopped worrying about my body’s obvious response to his touch two massages ago.  Tranquil chants and music play in the background but the only thing I meditate on is how to make it through without moaning or escalating things.  I should mention bK gives me these massages in his underwear.  Physical and visual temptation in the desert – without any angels offering relief or reward if I survive without surrender.

Massage Rating:  Approximately 60 minutes long.  9.8/10.  Thoroughly enjoyed what was offered but did not ask for more.  Resolve steadily deteriorating.  I went to brunch very relaxed…and very tense. 

Whether rain or shine, pleasant or tense, serious voice or jokes – the workouts continue.  I am in the best physical shape I have been in since grad school.  Tomfoolery aside bK is a good trainer.