He is gazing into my eyes and says “I have a theory”. So I asked him what is it?
“A kiss reveals about 87% of a person’s abilities in bed.”
“Interesting,” I replied, pulling him in for a kiss. As we broke apart, I teased, “What about the other 13%?”
“We’ll have to find out. Let’s go to your place or mine?”
Our walk back to my apartment turned into a slow journey, hands roaming as we pressed against walls and doors, lost in our need for more kisses.
Near my house, I leaped into Ramon’s strong arms, pinning me against a glass restaurant door until an unexpected thud interrupted us.
“Umm, we’re here,” the Uber driver said, bringing me back to reality. I noticed he had been waiting and seemed entertained by my flushed smile.
I regained my composure and entered the spa, introducing myself to the receptionist. She informed me that my originally booked masseuse, Ana, was unwell, but another therapist could take me.
“Alright,” I agreed.
She led me to a private room where a young man named Adam awaited. With toned arms and a friendly smile, he instructed me to undress, leaving only my underwear on, and lie on my stomach.
I follow Adam’s instructions, regretting my choice of underwear as it’s my glutes that need attention.
He asks if I’m ready, and I reluctantly confirm. Once inside the small massage room, his warm smile puts me at ease. I inform him that, as a yoga teacher, I’ve overextended my glutes, resulting in tightness and pain down the back of my thighs.
Hesitant but professional, I point out the exact spot of discomfort, located intimately between my pussy and ass. Adam maintains his professionalism and assures me he’ll do his best to help.
I surrender and lie face down, trying to relax as he applies oil to my sore thighs.
His technique is impressive, strong yet nuanced, making me grateful that Joan isn’t available, as her hands aren’t as powerful as Adam’s. As Adam works his way up my thighs, he instructs me to open my legs slowly for better access to the pain’s source.
When he hits a particularly tight spot, I instinctively tense, expressing my relief while attempting to remain composed.
He encourages deep breathing as he adjusts his pressure, checking in with me throughout the process. I reveal my tolerance for strong massages from my time in Thailand, embracing the pain.
“Ah, really? Yeah, I really like it rough, I mean hard, too,” he stammers, breaking the silence that hangs thick with tension and arousal.
His hands hesitantly approach my source of discomfort, which is awkwardly positioned.
“I’m sorry to ask, but can you open your legs even wider? It’s difficult for me to reach as it’s, uh… pretty deep there,” Amdam admits.
“Is this wide enough?” I ask, spreading my legs wide, aware that my black G-string reveals much.
“That’s perfect,” he replies, though he hesitates. “I can stop or see if a female masseuse is available if you’re uncomfortable.”
“My muscle pain is in an intimate area,” I laugh nervously. “But really, don’t worry, please, just do whatever you have to.”
Did I just say that?
“I’ll do my best,” he assures, his authority wavering.
“Please turn over; I’d like to approach it from a different angle.”
As I roll onto my back, our eyes linger longer than appropriate, shifting the room’s energy.
“Please bend your right leg,” he instructs, flushing.
His hands glide between my thighs, applying warm oil as he diligently works, but his grip inadvertently wanders, crossing boundaries.
