Reality, Fantasy

“When you go to the massage therapist this afternoon, I want you to imagine…”
That’s how it started. Innocent words.
Okay not so innocent, since at the time I was straddling him, sliding his cock in and out of me as I listened to his words in my ear.
But anyway.
Four hours later I was face-down on a massage table, naked under a thin sheet, imagining exactly what W had told me to about my massage therapist.
Reality: He’s young. Like really young, with over-sized tortoise-shell glasses and the kind of facial hair that you aren’t sure is actually deliberate, or is maybe just an accident of shaving.  Also, he’s short. But that will come into play later.
Unbeknownst to W, I’d deliberately made this appointment on the evening of the day that he was leaving, knowing (hoping) that I would have been at his house, playing, the day before.  And I had been, and we had played–a lot–and so my plan to get a massage right after was a good one.  Most people would avoid an unknown massage therapist after having been beaten, whipped, strung up by their wrists and knocked around. But me?  Nawww…
W was leaving for a week. I wanted to feel every bruise, every whip-stripe, every mark and pinch and place that he’d thumped me with the big meaty thumper-stick or mauled me with his hands. I wanted to remember his hands in my hair and his growl in my ear and his fingers finding all my tender spots.
I wanted that boy to make me remember.
So I made that appointment deliberately, knowing that every time my little massage therapist found a sore place, every time I felt his hand wander over a welt or a bruise, I would remember W’s hands or tools there, and smile to myself in pleasure–even as I winced.
And I did.
Fantasy: “Imagine him getting hard as he touches your body. Imagine his hands rubbing a little too close, his fingers straying…”
The sheet is so thin. When he comes in, it lays across my skin so lightly, and I’ve tucked it in just snugly enough, that the landscape of my rings is visible beneath it, curious ripples and rises, dips and shapes between my legs, where none should be.
He looks away, but he can’t unsee the shapes, can’t unknow that something is there.
His cock twitches, a wholly unexpected (and unwanted) response.
I shift, hide my rings, make him question he ever saw them.
The massage begins.
As his hands press into those tender spots, into those bruises that W has brought to the surface so well, I moan and shift again, unable to help myself.
“Is that okay?” he asks.
“Oh yes,” I reply, my voice a sigh, muffled by the face cradle. “I…like it.”  I feel his momentary hesitation as he considers this response. Then I feel his fingers trace the line of a welt on my back, the work of the vicious little quirt. This is not a massage technique, this curious, questing stroke of the fingers.
Abruptly remembering himself, he digs in, denying the damage to my skin, to my body, erasing it with the heel of his hand.
I gasp.
“Breathe,” he says.
I do, and the scent of my arousal, and more, the smell of W’s and my sex, of W’s semen in me, of my own juices, wafts up to me.  Because this is something else that I have done: not washed our lovemaking from my body, knowing the odor – man, woman, sex, semen, girl-come and arousal – is pungent; unmistakable.  The massage therapist, this boy, must smell it too.
His hands push, pull, dig in. He is rough – perhaps rougher than he might be otherwise?  He adjusts the sheet lower on my back as he begins working in that area, and below. The sheet slides back, revealing the top of my misshapen tailbone. His hand brushes across my buttocks. A professional, clinical touch? I think not, by the sound of his quickening breath. As he leans far over me to reach all the way down my back with long, smooth, strokes, I feel the bend of his waist against my arm, my shoulder – and more. Is that a hardness I feel there? A bulge? The fact that he is short is to my advantage. I pretend to need to shift; rub my shoulder along that bulge.
Feel his sudden stillness.
Perhaps recalling himself to his professional capacity, he moves away abruptly once more.
His hands on my thigh now, lifting up one leg to slide the sheet under and around, exposing my thigh and one buttcheek.
A cheek freshly whipped and criss-crossed with the marks of that whipping.
There is no mistaking the sharply indrawn breath I hear. I can feel his intense interest now, the heat of his eyes on my skin, the questions in his mind.
Or perhaps there are no questions, for when he resumes massaging me, it is with something close to ferocity, pressing and kneading the welts and bruises until I cry out.
“Breathe,” he says again, his voice quiet, but harsh, demanding.
I do. And I feel his hand moving ever closer to the vee between my thighs. Now it is me whose breath catches, waiting…waiting.
And then it happens. I feel the backs of his fingers brush against the sheet-covered rings. I feel them move, imagine the tiny clink of them striking together, feel the slide of my pussy lips against each other. Because I am wet, dammit.
He goes absolutely still. Takes a deep breath.
There is the tiniest chiming sound from somewhere.
“I…” he starts, then stops.
He swallows. I breathe. I feel him shake himself out of the trance-like space we have both fallen into. He reaches over and pulls the sheet carefully back up to cover my form. “I’m sorry, but our time is up,” he says.
A short time later, after I have dressed, and shaken his hand (him hardly able to meet my eyes) and used the restroom, I pass by the massage room on the way out the door. The door to the room is closed, but I hear the unmistakable sound of movement inside. I pause just outside, listening intently.
And hear a very soft expulsion of air and then a deep, drawn-out sigh. I smile. I have no doubt, were I to check those sheets we just used, that they would be sticky and wet – and not only with my juices.