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.

May 2013 (Crossing the Line)

bK and I get along surprisingly well during May. Some minor bickering but generally things are pleasant. It probably helps that we officially standardize what used to be an occasional dress code: boxer briefs (and socks) for him and bandana, sports bra (optional), thong, socks and sneakers for me. Just trying to do what we can for the environment – less clothing cuts down on laundry cycles and conserves water. Of course the new uniform is also helpful for more skin-on-skin contact. I like to provide “support” when he demonstrates certain exercises while he tends to take full advantage of the access provided by certain other exercises. Suddenly waking up to workout is a lot more fun…

A combination of family events leads to a short training month – but we do make time for a massage…

May’s massage falls on Malcolm X’s birthday which turns out to be a good omen…

As always, bK starts with my neck and then works down from my shoulders to my back. His hands are strong and the pressure is firm. So far nothing inappropriate, but my body recalls the last time his hands were on me and I’m already tingling with anticipation by the time his hands reach my lower back. What will today’s massage bring? bK takes his time moving further along…he skips over my ass and starts massaging my legs. My bum is bummed by the neglect. bK massages my left leg, my left foot, each – freaking – toe. It feels nice but at this point I want his touch much further above my knees. I have been trained to expect a different massage. I want a different massage. And yet he moves to my right leg and then my right foot. PLEASE MOVE ON [I scream silently]. After what seems like an eternity, his hands finally start to work on my inner thighs. Patience is a virtue. But the last thing I feel like being right now is virtuous. His fingers slow down and his touch softens as he works further along the inside of my left thigh. I might just be trembling a little bit but it’s because of the A/C not because I’m thirsty for his stroke. And finally bK eases two fingers inside me. Praise Jesus. I don’t have the strength to endure a tease session today. He caresses me softly, his fingers barely moving inside me. But then after a few moments – he suddenly stops. What? Why? What is this new level of torture? He slips his fingers out and I hear me step away from the table. I try to remain calm, maybe he just needs some more massage oil (though I think we are good on other lubrication). Then I hear the foil packet tear. It is sweet sweet music to my ears.

After what seems like ten minutes but was probably one, I feel bK’s hands on my waist as he swings my lower torso off the table and towards him. My right leg is wrapped around him while I am using my left leg for balance. He slides into me gently and starts to move his hips against me. Somehow my right arm has snaked around and I am clutching his right cheek like I might drown if our bodies are separated. The shaft of life. We have been holding back for so long that it is a passion free for all in those initial minutes. Some stranger has made her way into my apartment and is urging bK to go deeper, deeper. Wait – that’s me. He whispers “like this” with each long stroke. Hhmmm. I guess that’s also me whispering yes over and over. bK and takes a handful of each cheek and buries himself inside me. Cervix tickler and we can’t seem to get enough of each slow deep stroke. The meditative chanting from the massage playlist is now accompanied by our unrestrained moaning. His left hand moves from my ass to my left nipple (sorry right side) and then further down. Then he stops and I’m thinking no, no, no – too soon.

Thankfully, it’s just a position change. Phew. bK straightens up, takes the top sheet (finally being put to some use) and lays it on the carpet and asks me to lie down. Sure, let’s just reconnect stat. I lie down and he places each of my legs on one of his shoulders and thrusts deep. And we begin to move again. My hips are rising to meet him with each thrust. bK is ensconced so far inside me that his nuts (we are back on friendly terms) are nestled against me and providing their own caress with each stroke. The contact against my sensitive skin is delicious. Up and down, side to side, the motion continues. Is it wrong? Yes. Does it feel good? Absolutely. He is whispering something urgently but I don’t even know if it is English. I’m more interested in the language his body is speaking. Mmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

When he climaxes he shouts aaah repeatedly like it is being ripped from the depths of his throat with each spurt. Since I’m writing this, I will say that I was in better control of my vocal chords in the moment. Afterwards we linger on the sheet catching our breath before the return to reality. Then I thank him for the massage and help him put away the massage table and he leaves. No brunch today but my appetite has already been satisfied.

Massage Rating: 10/10. The faint line we were straddling is crossed. The only negative is that afterwards, bK suggests that the given the end of this massage it should cover all remaining massages. I respectfully disagree.

We did not use the “lovers after all” playlist” we had something like this going in the background:

But more appropriate might have been something like this:

In Like a Lion, Out Like a Lamb

At my birthday dinner we are all having a good time until we get into an argument after I feed a friend some food.  bK sees no irony in his reaction, but it’s my birthday so the party continues. 

At his birthday bowling party we are all having a good time until we get into an argument over one of the bills.  This one also blows over by the next day.

Training is still bipolar.  Some days it’s a good time and we have great conversations.  Other days, it is a tense and unhappy environment and we barely speak (other than serious voice for exercise instructions).  At some point, bK suggests that maybe I am perimenopausal.  Hilarious – and tempting fate since this is a guy who wants a child within the next year and is getting married to a woman two years older than me.  But, at my age, I guess that is a good go-to passive aggressive way to call me a bi-ch.  I counter with accusing him of suffering through prolonged PMS symptoms this winter.  None of it is very productive or mature, but at least we know where we stand.    Instead of two fat ladies in the kitchen and out and about the countryside, it is two bitchy teammates in the exercise room.  I’d like to think the resulting body is every bit as hot and tempting! 

Despite this unhealthy state of affairs, we continue with periodic naked training days and discuss investment opportunities in the village and other locations.  Honesty may not be his strong suit, but he is a good businessman with investments in a number of places, including a local lounge uptown that has some great classic drinks.  We typically discuss these opportunities with little follow through but maybe one day, plus it is a topic that doesn’t lead to fights.  At this point, things are tense enough that I consider ending the training sessions at the end of the first quarter.  Instead, we negotiate a set of make-up days and additional massages to make up for cancelled training days.  It doesn’t make sense to me either, but I did it.  

And then the massage:

By the time my next massage rolls around at the end of the month, we are close to complete silence, and definitely only serious voice, so I don’t know what to expect.  What I get is an excruciating, wonderful and openly salacious challenge to my continued attempt not to succumb to the carnal pleasure on offer…As usual, he starts out with more traditional massage of my neck, back, legs and other non-obviously erogenous areas.  And then he gets to my thighs and it all changes:  The pressure turns lighter, his fingers linger more with each motion and he massages my ass and thighs for long enough that he could probably mold them out of clay in the dark – and I damn sure want him to continue.  I know it’s not going to get better when I turn around, and by the time I do I’m dripping and the wet spot on the sheet isn’t small.  As soon as I flip over, the siege continues – his hands start at my lower thighs and slowly trace upwards in a “V” towards my sweet spot.  With each stroke his fingers get closer and closer together until his fingertips are touching and just barely tracing my inner lips.  Those treacherous lips are trembling (a first from a massage) and begging me to give in, “say uncle” and get to the main event.  But pride is a mutha.  I concentrate on keeping my mouth shut and breathing slowly.  The massage oil on his fingers is now heavily mixed with me, but he keeps going and switches up this stroke with a massage of my pubic bone that places just enough indirect pressure that my cl-t is getting some, but not enough, attention.  Help! We both know what the reasonable next step would be, but neither one of us wants to be the one to make the next move.  Can women get blue balls?  This goes on for at least 30 minutes when I think the timer goes off.  Saved by the bell!  I say thank you and hop off the table.

In a familiar state of relaxation combined with tension, I start getting dressed.  (You know I have brunch plans.)  Then we get into an argument because bK accuses me of taking advantage of him with our deal on massages.  Sigh.  Bye bye good vibes.  Our exchange continues on the subway and then by text when I have to get off (at least I get to do that when it comes to the metro;) 

As it turns out the vodka spiked mimos at brunch (new experience, tough Monday) give me enough liquid courage at some point in our text exchange (3 deep) that I finally let him know I’m pissed he didn’t think it was worth mentioning his engagement to me.  Too bad this portion the exchange was by text since it facilitated mutual cowardice.  He rationalizes that he figured I’d find out from our mutual friends and anyway it’s not appropriate for us to discuss it under the circumstances because it would completely change the context of our interaction. (Shouldn’t it change??)  I don’t view acknowledging something and discussing it as the same thing and I tell him as much, especially using code names for something we are both aware of.  bK says he understands that but stands by his main point.  It’s the 2013 No Apology tour.  

Massage Rating:  9.9/10; I second guessed my resistance well into brunch.  My resolve is fading, but the mood was soured by the post-massage argument.  The massage/argument combo does thaw the frost between us.

 

January 2013

The outlet for the increasing tension between us is usually an argument or debate over one trivial matter or another.  One of our dumber fights starts when bK visits me at work.  I made the mistake – keeping in mind that I usually see him in sweats or shorts (or nothing at all) of noting his monogrammed suit pockets and (very nice) fancy watch.  Sigh.  Just like that a pleasant surprise visit turns into a silly fight about whether I know him or my assistant better.  He suggests that maybe he should stop training me nude since he is apparently a stranger and adds that he thought I knew him better.  LMAO.  Ironic.  I let a perfect chance to segue into his yet to be acknowledged engagement pass, and choose peaceful resolution.  Always channeling Gandhi…  I would like our remaining months together to be pleasant – at least by our standards. 

Per the usual, we return to peaceful co-existence by the following day.  FLOTUS’ birthday has him in a good mood…just not one good enough to keep him from commenting on the increased circulation between my thighs during the workout.  Note:  If you exercise with someone that you are physically attracted to, do not have him (or her) standing naked and watching you within your line of vision while you do floor exercises.

Despite the semi-hostile undertone of our exchanges, my mind keeps returning to bK’s “master” offer.  One last bite at the apple before his relationship is “official” for old time’s sake.🙂  A lapse in judgment caused by our bipolar relationship and a moral compass weakened by a recent dry spell.  But when I mention that it is unfair that I only got one (or 3+) shot at being the “master” during massage sessions bK claims that I forfeited the right since I failed to “actuate” and carry out my duties on all previous occasions.  😦  Fine, but no master status means no more sensual massages.

One person is always manipulating the other in this relationship and it isn’t always clear who is playing what role.

Massage Rating:  8.5/10; He had nothing but a tank top on and ended with an intimate yoga tutorial, but we argued the whole time.

 

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.

 

Foundations of the “Scandalous Workout”/Third Massage

New training rules: If bK reschedules within a 24-hour window or loses certain bets, he trains me naked; and if I reschedule within a 24-hour window or lose certain bets, I workout in “essential gear” of socks, sneakers, bandana, sports bra and a thong.  The scandalous workout is born. Level One – look but mostly don’t touch.  I know better, but (Clay Davis voice) shiiiiiiiit.  Who amongst us is not naked under their clothes?

On his nude days, bK uses my treadmill warm-up time to rub lotion all over his body.  I have to fight the urge to offer to help him reach the small of his back.  After all my focus is on improving my physical fitness. 

One memorable occasion, I signed a deal and then negotiated a nude day for him the next morning in celebration.  The next morning, I am doing v-sits while he stands naked by the table watching…quietly counting the reps whenever I think I am almost done.  Over the course of the sets his cock swells until it is thick and engorged – alert and also watching and sporadically twitching.  It is a naked day for him so there is nothing to conceal his arousal.  Not that I can talk, I’m the one doing v-sits with only a thin and increasingly damp film of lace shielding my excitement.  Less than three feet and a centimeter of flimsy fabric separate us from taking the next step we obviously want to.  But with our unspoken competition to maintain composure we may as well on opposite sides of the Mediterranean with only a skiff to cross the sea (and in some ways, just as dangerous).  So we continue to exercise and talk about everything but the fog of restrained lust blanketing the room.  Nothing is acknowledged until the end of the workout when bK tells me I would have gotten a better show if I had opted for a naked massage – and of course, later a text message to remind me that increased “circulation” between my legs was not unnoticed.  Just another workout day…   

Massage Rating:  Set It Off level except no candles, beads or happy ending. 😦  9.95/10.  A combination of massage/ode to my p-ssy/tribute to my ass.  100% a test of how much I can take before I ask for it.  The sheet is drenched by the end and it is impossible to cross my legs comfortably for almost an hour afterwards.  Mind (telling me no) over body (screaming at me yes).  We all have our crosses to bear.

Second Massage

The second in-home massage is at the end of September. I appreciate that bK is willing to lug the table on the train.

The first half hour is like any normal massage – neck, back, legs, arms, etc. Then he gets to my inner thighs and the pressure of his touch changes. Danger on the horizon….His fingers are teasing and caressing, feather touches along my lips, stroking along my inner things and massaging my p—y from the outside slowly, very slowly. Mmmmmmm. This is unlike any spa massage that I’ve ever had. Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit. The cover sheet is gone – on the couch somewhere and I have nothing to hide the fact that I am soaked. All I have to do is shift towards those magic fingers or say the word for more. I want to….but MUST. HAVE. DISCIPLINE. I concentrate on the anklet like it is a wedding band and remain motionless and silent (maybe a stray moan or two, but I am only human).

Massage Rating: A 9.9/10. 90 minutes of pleasure/torture. Massages are supposed to relieve not heighten tension.