I stepped out of the winter air and into the lobby of Paradise Massage. A bell on the door jingled as it closed, alerting a woman to my presence. She emerged from the nearby hallway and stepped demurely towards the desk.
“Hello,” she greeted me, a slight smile upon her lips, her fruity voice as lovely as her tall, ravishing face. She looked mature, but still youthful. I guessed she was about forty from the few barely visible crinkles at the edges of her dark, crescent eyes. But her amber skin glowed and her jet black hair shimmered with the vitality of a woman half her age.
“Hi. I have an appointment for 1 o’clock.”
She checked the schedule in front of her. I took a look around. A bouquet of crimson azaleas sat in a stout vase on the desk. Behind her, a golden dragon adorned the wall, dancing beneath gilded Chinese characters, reminding all who entered that this was, indeed, an Asian massage parlor. A little on the nose, I thought. Opposite the desk was a sofa and a small refrigerator, filled with various drinks. I made a note to grab a Coke on my way out. On the wall hung wooden carvings of women engaged in various rustic professions: farming, fishing, and sewing.
“Ah, yes, here you are. Roger. My name is Lin, and I’ll be your masseuse today. Please, follow me,” she instructed. She led me through a keyhole door and the subsequent hallway, her plump ass swaying hypnotically, her shorts revealing a pair of long, toned legs. She stopped at room three and ushered me into the dimly lit room. “Please undress and lay down on the table. You can leave your clothes on the chair,” she told me as she closed the door.
I did so and lay down on the table, only to realize I couldn’t find a towel or anything with which to cover myself. I looked around for something, but I couldn’t see any draping. Had she forgotten? Or was its absence intentional? Was that just how they did massages here? Or was more than a massage on the menu?
I hadn’t gotten a massage in years, but had decided to reward myself with one after an intense month at work and a suggestion from a coworker. This place had had a coupon online, and its reviews were good, so I made an appointment. None of the reviews had mentioned anything illicit, but then again, they probably wouldn’t, would they? It was hard to imagine someone writing, “Awesome blowjob! 5 stars!” or, “Great handjobs. Even better than my wife’s. Definitely coming back!” on the parlor’s Yelp page.
Still, I felt like an idiot laying down naked on the table, my ass in the air. Was she going to think I was trying to wrangle a happy ending out of her? Would she tell me to get out? Call the cops? But without anything to cover myself with, it was hard to see what else I could do but wait here bare-ass naked. Worst case scenario, she’d probably just tell me to cover up and forget about it. I plonked my head down into the face cradle and waited.
It wasn’t long before the door opened and footsteps entered the room. I didn’t hear a gasp or a scream of disgust, so I figured I had made, if not the right choice, an at-least-tolerable one. The door closed and classical music began to play softly. The lights dimmed. “Do you prefer hard or soft?” came a familiar, accented voice from above me.
“Hard, please.” Her hands pressed against my skin as she commenced the massage, putting heavy pressure into my knotted muscles. A groan escaped my lips as she slid her palms along the length of my back in slow, smooth strokes, her hands stopping at my tailbone. So, no towel it was, then. That was fine. I wasn’t very modest, anyway. But still, I moved my legs closer together and wished I could see just how immodest I was being, though. Just how exposed was I? It was too bad I couldn’t astral project. It would be really handy right now to be able to see myself from the outside.
Her manual skill soon dispelled any worries from my mind, however. She was good. I felt I was going to melt into the table. She removed her hands for a moment, and when she returned, she came bearing oil. Soon my skin was slick with the scented oil, and the aroma of lavender enveloped us. The table creaked as she climbed on top of it and continued to massage me, her thighs straddling my buried head, her hands kneading my shoulders. If only I had been facing up...
“How is this?” she inquired.
“Perfect. You’re amazing,” I mumbled, surrendering myself to her powers.
“Thank you.” She continued to work her magic on my body. Once she finished with my back, it was time for my arms. First my left, then my right. She held my arm, my hand resting against the inside of her thigh. I resisted the strong temptation to caress her and slide my hand upwards. Did she realize where my hand was? She must. How could she not? Her hands pulled down my arms in rapid succession, all the way from my armpit to my wrist. Then, she took my hand in hers, our fingers interlocked, as she popped each one. Oh, how I wanted to squeeze.
From there, she went to my buttocks. She was forceful, her arms strong. I felt like a piece of dough under her hands. Her hands delved between my cheeks, exploring every inch of me. For a moment, I worried I was going to end up with a finger someplace uncomfortable. I had to remind myself that my ass had muscles, too, that this wasn’t necessarily sexual. But I could already feel my cock stirring, ignorant of this fact. I tried to banish my fantasies from my head, but how could I, with this Chinese goddess caressing me? I bit my lip, hoping I could keep things under control. Yet, I had to admit, the thought of her noticing awakened a desire inside me I didn’t know I had. She might see it and be impressed, maybe even flattered. Maybe she’d even want to reach out and continue the massage where I was most stiff, where I mostly badly needed her warm touch...
I quivered as her hand gripped my upper thigh. My balls contracted: a strange but not unwelcome sensation. The cremasteric reflex, an ancient high school memory informed me. I moaned deeply as she rubbed my thighs. It felt that she would brush against my balls with each stroke, but she turned back each time with the precision of a surgeon. She must have been missing them by millimeters.
I wondered whether my hardening cock was visible to her yet, or whether it still lay hidden beneath my scrotum. It wouldn’t be much longer before it began to poke out, despite the room’s brisk temperature. I prayed for her hands to travel just a bit farther, just a few more inches, to cup and caress my balls as deftly and thoroughly as she was my legs. My cock pressed urgently against the table, the friction caused by her pushing against me only contributing to my problem. She must be able to see it, to see my arousal, to see what she had wrought upon me. All she had to do was grasp it and it, I, would be hers. But then, her hands cruelly departed and the door opened and closed.
I looked up. The room was empty. Where had she gone? The doorknob clicked and I put my head back down as the door swung open. A hot, moist towel was placed on my back as she rubbed away the oil from my skin. Oh, now she had towels. Where were they before? She finished and the towel was taken away, replaced with a chill as the air hit my dewed skin.
“Turn over,” she told me.
.... There is more of this story ...