A long time ago I read Diane Ackerman’s A Natural History of the Senses.  While reading it, I learned that each of us is ruled more by one sense than all the others.  For some of us, smells elicit the strongest emotional and primal reactions.  For others, it is purely visual…or auditory.  For me, it is touch.  Blindfold me and let your fingers lead the conversation – that would be my choice, above all other things.  Sweet nothings in my ear are nice, a beautiful smile is a turn on, the taste of salt on skin is enticing, and the smell of cologne can be intoxicating…but I will take touch any day of the week.

This is why, today, I am thankful for massage.  I try to go at least once a month, for my mental and physical well-being.  But, it’s hard, when you’re a deeply sexual being, not to derive at least some sensual pleasure from being naked in the room with another human, indulging in skin-to-skin contact.

The lavender chamomile massage oil, the soft music, the dark room, the pretty girl with glasses whose hands warm and soothe my muscles.  It’s amazing to me that not every single person on the planet takes advantage of this.

I go mainly for my back, but since it is always offered, I take the full-body massage.  And I’ve had enough different massage therapists that I’ve learned to appreciate the ones who have fewer “boundaries”, so to speak.  And I wonder, if just maybe, they sometimes have the same feeling…that tingle of interest as their hands slide, palms open, across the small of a person’s back.

The majority of my stress sets up shop between my shoulder blades and at the sacrum, where sciatica is an unwelcome, occasional guest.  Since that has begun to happen, painful knots have been growing in places too intimate for a massage therapist to attempt on their own.

But what if…

I walked into the dim room, removed my clothes, and slipped under the soft flannel sheet and smoky blue down comforter.  Face down, I eased myself into a comfortable position, placed my hands at my side and waited.  When she returned, tapping softly on the door to alert me to her presence, she said nothing.  With my eyes closed, I could hear the tiny clank of bottles and her hands rubbing together, slippery, heating the oil in her palms; the scent permeated the room. 



She began at my shoulders, gliding her hands down my spine, following the curve as it dipped down and then back up to the top of my ass.  Kneading, and circling her palms, she searched for areas of tightness to loosen.  As she worked her way from my neck down to my lower back, my breathing evened and I let go of my entire day, sinking deeper into the table.

Per our earlier conversation, she spent a good amount of time on my neck and my shoulders, which felt so good that it was impossible not to let out a little moan of pleasure and approval.  I felt a bit self-conscious about it, but somehow, it seem to encourage her.  She put a bit more pressure in to her movements, pushing her thumbs deep against my spine until they reached the lowest part of my back.  As was expected, this was the place that ached most for her attention.  It took very little time before her actions were eliciting from me sharp intakes of air and appreciative whimpers that, I’m sure, told her all she needed to know.  She moved lower still, no more than inches away from my anus.  The knots abounded here, and the feeling of pain and pleasure mixed enticingly, making it hard to stay still.

“Do you mind if I move on to the table, to help secure your position?” she said, in a buttery voice.

“That might help,” I replied.  “This is the place it all seems to congregate…my husband tries to rub them out, and it helps, but they keep coming back.  I have no idea what causes it.”

“Let me know if the pressure is good, or if you want me to move.  I’ll need you to move your arms up toward your head.”

She placed her knee on the table and I felt a slight flush of air as her leg brushed over my head.  Her knees rested on either side of my torso, her thighs holding her hovering above my shoulders.  From here, she continued to push and prod her fingers all over my behind with intention.


As the tightness finally began to let go, she gracefully climbed back off of the table, hardly making a sound, and pulled the sheet over my back, covering my shoulders.  She peeled back the sheet from my leg, pulling it outward a bit to expose as much as she could while still allowing for my modesty.  I heard the tiny clank of bottles again as she poured more oil between her hands and rubbed them together.  She began at my calf, moved up to my knee, and then to the back of my leg.  Her fingers moved up underneath the sheet to the inside of my thigh, fingertips just brushing the edge of my labia.

Then the other leg…and just to the edge, once again.

Once she had finished my feet, she asked be to roll over on to my back.  She held the sheet and comforter up toward her, allowing me to twist around under cover without knotting the blankets up.  I situated myself, and she pushed the blanket back from my leg.  Again, the calf, the knee, the quadriceps, the inside of the thigh, and the hint of an intimate touch, held for just a moment longer.


Then the other leg…just to the edge, and then a pause.  Her fingers briefly traveled into the crevice between thigh and lip, small massaging circles, as if testing for a reaction.  I stayed still and moved my leg, just slightly outward in subtle encouragement.


Her slippery finger traced the outside of my shaved outer lips, upward…and then the inside, downward.  She may not have been able to tell, with her oiled fingers, that I was wet, and I tried very hard to remain still.  I didn’t want to question why or what, just relish the moment, which was fleeting…leaving me with that sort of delicious disappointment that licks at ones deepest desires – teasing and torturing the lust to the surface.  The want that is not fulfilled.


She replaced the blankets and moved up above my head, sitting on a stool.  She peeled the comforter and sheet down to expose the just the upper swell of my breasts, and began pushing her fingers below my collar bone, to the indentation before my shoulder.  Both hands in sync on either side of my upper body, she worked several paths from my neck between, around, and above my breasts, just barely allowing the edges of her palms and the tips of her fingers to brush them.  On her final sweep upward, she let her hands graze my nipples, which were completely extended, sending gooseflesh down my entire torso, connecting one erotic zone to the other in a conversation of mutually unfulfilled hunger.


My arms, my hands, my head…

And she ended by holding her hands to my temples long enough for her heat to mix with mine, the pulse above my ears and the pulse in her fingers speaking a language only the body knows.  Wordless.

“Take your time getting dressed.  I look forward to our next appointment.”  And she swept from the room.

As do I…as do I. 

I have to admit, that while I definitely took liberty with reality here, all of this is based on true experience.  No, she did not actually touch any of my intimate places, though she came closer than most of my prior therapists.  And I do deride some sexual pleasure from this.  She did not straddle me, but she did place one knee on the table to ground herself and allow her to put greater pressure on my sciatic area.  Basically, every sexy part of this story was just one or two steps past the real experience.  I don’t expect that it will ever reach the extent that I have drawn out here, but my mind can go there (which I promise you it will), with my eyes closed, senses overcome by herbal relaxants.
  

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