Massage
By Trystor (trystor@yahoo.ca)
The girl was late. The massage girl, masseuse, whatever. Kaylee? Kayla? They always sent him the same one, a surfboard brunette but what did he care how she looked, because her hands were little butter-pillows, and she worked fast to flush the clumps of tension out of him. When Katie (Kathy?) managed to get a one-hour session wrapped up in fifty minutes, that was tip-worthy. But today, she was late.
He shifted his hips, trying to make the raised bed comfortable. No chance. Naked and prone, his gut was squashed against the fabric, his head jammed into the puffy doughnut pillow—not the position he was used to, in his line of work. Here, he felt exposed, even with the linen sheet across his ass. His dick felt trapped beneath his weight. And the room smelled weird. And she was late! How long was he supposed to wait? Should he call it off? Get up, get dressed—a fuckin’ waste of his rich time—
The door behind him clicked and breathed open. “Sorry, sir,” came a sing-song voice. He tried to raise his head, to turn and glare at her, but at this angle, he would never look intimidating. He settled for a grumbling sigh, to signify that Kara (Carla?) would go tipless today. His shoulders and back felt knottier than ever. All this wasted time.
“They sent me...Carlee isn’t able to...there’s been some...” The girl’s voice stammered, and of course it wasn’t the same girl. And now he lifted himself up onto his elbows, freedom from the goddamn doughnut, but he still had to kink his neck around to get an eyeful. This one was blonde, and young, and biting her lip, and her bust all but bursting from her tight white tee. He could see her nipples, big as quarters, through the shirt.
“Who are you? Where’s the other...?”
She kept on chewing her thick lower lip, kept standing back where it hurt his neck to watch her. “Carlee couldn’t make it, sir. I’m sorry.”
Hopeless. Brainless. Whatever. He signalled his surrender by sinking back down into the accursed doughnut. “Just make it quick,” He mumbled into the fabric.
“Is there a lotion you prefer?” She asked, brainlessly. He grunted his indifference. He suddenly felt more exposed than usual, with this stranger in the room. Even with his face buried in the pillow, his eyes closed, he was still imagining her nipple-shirt.
“Because, well...it’s just...there’s a new lotion that they’ve told us...they’ve suggested...if you want to try...”
A fresh vein of tension rippled up his neck, towards his forehead. “Listen, missy,” he snarled, lifting up his head just enough so that he wasn’t yammering into a pillow, “Do you know who I am? Do you know what C.E.O. stands for? I am a very important man, and I am on the clock, and I don’t give a whore’s ass what lotion you use, just do your goddamn job, all right?”
His outburst seemed to flip a switch in the masseuse, because she scrambled to obey. From the corner of his eye, he could now see her at the table, sorting through the products, moistening her hands, ready to work at last. Eyes level to her ass, he couldn’t help but notice how tight it looked, beneath her Lululemon yoga tights. Breathing heavy. Little ripples in her asscheeks. He shifted his hips again, searching for a concave space on the raised table where his thickening dick could hide.
“The new management,” She was saying, “They recommend this lotion very highly, sir. They want your total satisfaction.”
Blah, blah, blah. Coralee never talked this much. He made a mental note to complain to this ‘new management,’ when he had the time. And to find out the name of this new bimbo, and get her fired. “Are we going to start any time soon?” He muttered.
“What’s that, sir?” She flinched like a little bird.
“I said, get on with it!” He snapped. It didn’t sound as imposing as he’d hoped, muffled by the doughnut pillow. So he pushed himself back up onto his forearms, and laid it on the line. “Every fifteen minutes that I lie here, my company loses 50 million dollars. FIFTY. MILLION.”
It worked. His sharp tone, her birdlike nerves. She practically jumped in the air. She was holding the tube of new lotion, whatever, they all smelled the same to him. But when he yelled, she squeezed too hard, and the tube’s top popped right off, and a long spume of oil jizzed out, all over her white shirt.
He didn’t know whether to laugh or curse. She stood there, reddening, while the oily patch bloomed wide across her right tit. Her jaw hung slack, her wide blue eyes full of animal panic.
“I...I’m sorry...” She breathed, heaving. Furious though he was, he couldn’t take his eyes off that oiled melon.
“Can we just get on with this?” He asked. It took effort to remember why he was here.
“I...should I go and change my shirt...?” She stammered.
“No. You were late. This is intolerable.” He took a deep breath, then tucked his head back down into the doughnut. “Just take your shirt off. I won’t look.”
There was a silence in the heady room. Then he heard the slide of fabric on flesh; she was obeying him. Some part of him thrilled at the thought. His cock was uncomfortably hard, pressing aggressively into the table.
After she set the soiled shirt aside, he heard her move into position alongside the table. He felt the sheet adjusted. His back exposed, finally. But when her hands spread out across his skin, he didn’t feel the same release he felt with Karley. Her hands were sloppy. The lotion felt nice, but this bimbo didn’t know him. She was guessing.
“Lower. Further out. No, too far.” His instructions, muffled by the pillow, only made the girl more lost. She splayed her hands across his back, grasping for a distant muscle, and for an electric instant, he could swear he felt her bare nipples graze his spine. He groaned and ground his hips into the table.
“What should I do, sir?” She asked plaintively. The tone of voice was strange to him, here, but he recognized it from boardrooms—the desperate need to please. Of course, he thought foggily, she knows she’s this close to losing her job. She knows how important I am. She’ll do anything.
“Push harder,” He told her. She complied. “Use your whole hands, not just the fingers.” She obeyed. “Now, up and down the spine. Use your forearms, too.” On the one hand, it was ludicrous, demeaning, that he would need to tell this twat her job. But on the other hand, it had a nice vibe, to bark instructions and feel instantaneous obedience, pressed directly into his flesh.
What’s more, he could hear her breathing. Heavy. Aroused.
He went out on a limb. “Climb up on my back,” he said, eyes still closed against the doughnut pillow. “Spread yourself out on me. Cover more ground.”
For a minute, he heard nothing. He was afraid he’d crossed the line. He didn’t really fear the consequences—worst case scenario, he’d have to find a new massage place—but for a minute, it was crushing, and confusing, that she wasn’t doing as he told her. This new, nameless, blonde masseuse...he thought they had an understanding. Would she break that now?
But then he heard the quiet squelch of lotion, and with a sharp erotic jolt, he realized why she was hesitating. She’s rubbing the lotion on herself. After an agonizing wait, her light, lithe body straddled his upon the table, and then slowly, maddeningly so, she eased her slick, bare, aromatic torso down to meet his naked back.
He groaned and thrust involuntarily. Her huge boobs spread out, flattened in the space between their bodies. Her quarter-nipples found his nuggets of tension. It was suddenly, utterly, the best massage he’d ever had. As she worked herself into a lather against him, his mind shunted back and forth—foggy with lust, then sharp with vicious glee, then foggy again. In his lucid moments, he marvelled: this masseuse was utterly compliant. He could tell her to do anything, he thought deliriously. The tea-tree aroma seemed to confirm it; thick as mud in the room now, it seemed to banish all his inhibitions. He took a long, deep breath.
“Did you get oil on your tights?” He asked her. His voice was slurring slightly.
“Y-yes,” She froze on top of him, terrified she’d anger him again.
“Take them off, then,” He said, trying to sound nonchalant. “Take everything off.”
Another pause, but then she lifted herself off him and obeyed. He opened his eyes—looking down through the doughnut pillow, he could see her feet as her cotton tights shuffled and settled down around her ankles. He could see her kick them off, and then her socks. He heard the squirt of the lotion again, but he didn’t get to see—from this angle—where she was applying it onto herself. The possibilities made his cock throb.
She was still, then, standing nearby, breathing. She was waiting for instructions. He was so accustomed to giving orders, in his own world, but this was a different level of command and obedience. His throat went dry as he choked on the next instruction.
“My ass...there’s a lot of tension...j-just work on it. Work it out. With your...”
Even as confident as he was—the most powerful man in the city, much less this room—he still floundered for the right word. But it didn’t matter. She seemed able to read his mind, now—that’s how much in tune they were—and wordlessly, she climbed back onto him and slowly started working out his tension, grinding hard against his gluteal muscles with the muscles of her snatch.
He moaned again. Her pussy was the same kind of wet as the oil, only hotter, fiery hot against his sweating skin. He twisted and thrust while she did the same above him, working her labia against one cheek then the other. When she bucked her hips low, he swore he could feel the tiny rude nub of her clitoris. As she ground against him, he could hear her breath, ragged and alarmed, as if she kept discovering herself on top of him, and what the fuck was she doing here, but then succumbing again to the thick smell of the oil and her own need to obey—
“Get offa me,” He slurred. “Gotta turn over.”
She complied. His mind was foggy as he laboured to roll over. The linen sheet got tangled in his legs; he kicked it onto the floor. There she stood, statuesque in front of him. Naked and slathered in oil. Her eyes stared dizzily into the middle distance, but once he’d positioned himself on his back, she swiftly zeroed in on the rod between his legs.
“You’re doing a good job,” He said, at which she flushed with pleasure. “Now get some’a that lotion onto this.” He gestured to his cock, which was twitching of its own accord.
Now that he could see her face clearly for the first time, he marvelled at the storm of uncertainty that seemed to roil behind her eyes. She knew this was wrong, he realized, but at the same time, something was keeping her from any act of resistance. Her face was still flushed with happiness as she retrieved the bottle of lotion, but her eyes were flustered as she squeezed another glob of juice onto her hands.
“On my cock,” He specified. “Rub it in good. Atta girl.”
This seemed to be enough to focus her. She crouched down near his thigh and began to slide her palms smoothly up and down his shaft. His mind went nova. He lost track of time, of everything, as the rhythm of her hands eclipsed his breath, his heartbeat. When they ventured up to the tip of his cock, he squealed and writhed from the intensity. When they plunged down to its base, he felt sure that he was going to lose control. His mind became obsessed with the image of this anonymous blonde, dripping with tea-tree oil and spunk.
“Stop!” He could barely summon up the strength to say the word, but he wasn’t going to let this opportunity pass him up. She straightened up, standing somewhat limply. By now, he was fully, irrationally sure that something had drained her of all her free will. She had entered the room a ditzy masseuse, but she was now nothing more than a slave. His slave.
“I wancha ta fug me,” He gasped. His own hand had replaced hers upon his cock—it was far too needy, now, to be left untouched, even for an instant. He stroked it feverishly as she stood there, fighting with herself.
“Fug me,” He slurred, adding, “Do yer job.”
“My...job?” She stammered, eyes a-glaze. “Yes...my job. Is there a lotion you prefer?”
He gritted his teeth, pumping his cock frantically into his hand. “Whatever. New lotion, yeah yeah. Jus’...fug me!”
She snapped to attention, and with a fluid movement brought the thin-necked bottle of lotion around to stand at the foot of the table. He lay back, filling up the table, his head jammed against the goddamned doughnut. His cock felt enormous and enflamed between his legs, and it ached for the feeling of her pussy sliding down on top of it.
But that was not the sensation that followed. Her slick, oil-stained hands swiftly parted his thighs, and after a brief, sudden pressure on his asshole, he suddenly felt a long, hot spray of fluid flowing deep inside him.
“Wha’ the fugg—?”
While one hand held the lotion bottle, her other wrapped around his cock, pumping and squeezing forcefully. He was helpless. Recoiling from the pressure in his ass only brought himself more firmly into her vise grip. His mind was going white again.
“The Management,” She was saying, “This new lotion comes courtesy of the New Management.” She gave the bottle another squeeze. “The Management wants you to be satisfied. She wants your obedience, sir. Will you obey?”
“N—nuh—” He groaned, inarticulate. The lotion was dissolving rapidly inside his body, sucked up by the thirsty, absorbent flesh around his ass. Waves of heat pulsed up from his groin, dissolving all tension and resistance.
“You should obey,” The masseuse said, confidently. Her hand thrust and twisted to the base of his shaft, and his cock and balls exploded with ejaculate. He stared at the white fountain, amazed. It took a full second before the orgasm reached his mind. Then it took a minute to subside.
While he was cumming, the girl calmly removed the bottle’s nozzle from his ass. “You will obey,” She said, running a finger lightly across the slick spot.
“I will...obey...” He gasped. The room was careening. Time made no sense. The tension was gone, lost in bliss and obedience.
He was under new management.