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:

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.  🙂

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.