I need to touch. It’s what I crave and it’s why I chose this line of work. Here, I’m paid to use touch to bring pleasure to others. In turn, through my hands and what I give, I receive pleasure. I love my work, I am good at it, and I am fortunate to get as much out of it as my clients do.

Most of my clients are women. This also suits me, because I love women’s bodies. All of them. And, I know that every woman is sexy in her own way. I have seen it time and time again and I love bringing it out. You see, for what I do, outward appearance is irrelevant. Mix that truth with the feeling of freedom that comes from inviting the intimate touch of a stranger, and forgotten sexuality emerges. It happens all the time, and it is amazing. My clients walk away invigorated and I walk away proud to have woken that up. But for a few rare clients, that is just the beginning.

She is coming in today; my favorite client. I don’t know much about her outside of this room, but what I do know is that she is my perfect opposite. She needs to be touched. For her, it’s about more than just massage. With her, skin is the gateway to a true sensuality that lies deeper. Having someone else’s touch fulfills her the way touching someone else fulfills me. I see it in the way she changes when she comes into the room. I hear it in the way she breathes when I work on her. It is subtle and beautiful.

She has been coming to me for about a year. Our sessions have always been pretty straight-forward, but today she has something on her mind. It is clear when she walks in the door. Every now and then this happens. A client will want something off-menu, but it’s an art, reading her and finding ways to invite her to ask for it. I hope that I am right. I hope we can go down this road together. I hope she has the courage.

Standing on the opposite side of the table, she looks nervous, slightly uncomfortable, but excited. Her skin is flushed pink and she won’t look me in the eye. The anticipation of what she might say is killing me, but I keep quiet. In this conversation, she needs to be the first to speak.

She looks down as she begins. “I was hoping for something different, today.”

Inside I’m smiling from ear to ear, but I keep my face professionally blank and my voice matter-of-fact. I ask simply, “What would you like?”

“You always say the most wonderful things to me. You always compliment me and it sounds sincere, so I believe you.” She bites her lip. It’s not meant to be seductive. She is taking a little detour, thinking, avoiding the actual question. She has no idea that she is teasing me. I know what I want her to say, and it’s hard to let her go at her own pace. I know that with a little patience this will pay off for both of us, but after several moments it looks like she might lose her nerve. I take a chance and try to draw her out. “I have never told you any lies, but it sounds like you are referring to something specific.” With an encouraging gesture, I ask, “Are you willing to tell me what is on your mind?”

She takes a breath and continues. “You tell me that I am beautiful. You tell me that I have lovely skin. You tell me all these things, so I wondered, do you actually enjoy giving me my massages, or is this just a job for you? I mean, I know it is a job for you, but do you like it…what you do…when I am your client?”

If only she knew! I keep that exclamation to myself and answer as calmly as I can, “Are you asking me if I find you attractive in a personal way?”

“Yes.” She glances at me and then away almost immediately. “I’m sorry. I know this is totally unprofessional…”

I cut that thought off right there. The last thing I want her thinking about right now is what is professional. “Don’t be embarrassed. I’m glad you asked me. I want to tell you the truth. And that is, yes, I do find you attractive. And yes, I do look forward to our sessions.”

Relief covers her face. She has crossed that first dangerous line. “I don’t want to offend you or embarrass you. And…of course you can say no. I don’t want to get you into trouble. You can even tell me to go away and never come back, but I’ve been working up my nerve, trying to figure out a way to say…I wanted to ask you…” She pauses and looks as though she might pick up her bag and bolt. That can’t happen.

“Please,” I say. Her internal conflict makes her so enticing right now it’s hard not to beg her to go on. “It’s ok. I cannot say these things. I cannot bring them up, but you can. You can ask me.”

“Do you know what I want to say?”

“Not for certain. Not exactly. But,” I offer her my vulnerability, “I have hopes.”

“Hopes?” Her voice is full of them as she says the word. My response is a smile and a nod. She continues. “I wanted to ask you if you would touch me.”

There it is! My joy goes through the roof. This woman is a once-in-a-career client. She is fantasy incarnate. I encourage her. “In a way different from the way I usually touch you during our sessions?”

“Yes.”

“I think I understand, but if we are going to do this, I need you to be specific. Ok? What I can tell you is that nothing you ask for will offend me. I will tell you yes or I will tell you no. Do you understand?”

“Yes. I do.”

“So. You say you want me to touch you. How do you want me to touch you?” Give this to me. Give me the words so that I can give us both what we desire.

She does. “Every time I visit you, I receive such pleasure. I know that that is what I am paying you for, but I wondered if you receive any pleasure from what you do and I thought that maybe, if you genuinely think I am attractive in the way that you make me feel attractive, that you might want to touch me in other ways. Have you ever wanted that?”

“You want me to be honest?”

“Yes.”

“Yes. I have wanted that.”

“I have wanted it, too,” she says. “So, I would like it if, today, you would touch me the way you want to touch me.”

She is perfect: her desire, her need, her uncertainty, and the way she is carefully feeling her way through her proposition. She is a little older than me and that is a huge draw. Younger women are complicated and unpredictable. Mature women know what they want and, once they feel comfortable, they aren’t afraid to ask for anything. That is a major turn-on. I don’t want complications. I don’t want to play head games. Well, not those head games... I’m into pleasure. Clear. Defined. Pleasure. A slow burn has begun deep inside of me and it manifests in the spreading smile that I give to her. “I can do that. I would like that. Tell me more. Tell me more about what you want. What you need.”

She has her permission now. She knows she won’t be rejected. She can be bold.

“I want you to touch me in the way you would touch me if we were just two people. Not a professional and a client. I want you to explore my body the way you would if I were your new lover.”

“And, do you want to be my lover?”

She hesitates, looking up at me and then down again. “I…I don’t know.”

Her answer is disappointing, but not as much as she might believe. Plunging my cock into a willing woman is an incredible pleasure, but that’s not what this is about. This, what is happening between us right now, is exciting on a different level entirely. This is purely erotic, an exchange of sexual energy that does not necessitate a pay-off. It is seduction for seduction’s sake. It is the end in itself.

My thoughtful pause causes her to back-pedal. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I was wrong to ask. This is inexcusably selfish. I’m sorry.”

“Please. Don’t do that. Don’t feel ashamed. Don’t feel selfish.” I take her hand, making first contact, reassuring her and solidifying our agreement. “I want what you are asking me. More than you know. Yes. I will give you what you want because I want it, too. You are. This is. My fantasy.”

Finally, she looks me straight in the eye, beaming. “How do we do this?” Her new confidence is insanely cute.

I want to be near her, so I come around the table, moving just a little closer than I normally would, crossing that line that intimates and lovers can cross. “How about this,” I say. “Let’s begin like normal. I will go out and you can get ready. When I return, I will begin your massage, but it will be in the way that you asked. I will touch you. I want to touch you. I will explore your body, and as I touch you, you can tell me if you like it or not. There will be no obligation on your part. I will bring you pleasure, and through that, yes, I will receive pleasure. We will give this to each other. If you want me to stop, simply say so. Ok?”

Her radiant smile shows me all the fantasies she has ever had about me, about massage, about other lovers, anything she has ever been afraid to ask for, bubbling up into her conscious imagination. She is about to have the sensual experience she has always wanted. It is going to be life-changing, and I get to give it to her.

There is no more hesitancy as she replies, “Ok.”

I leave her alone in the room and close the door behind me. Looking up and down the hall, I check to see if anyone is around. No one. That’s good, because if any of my co-workers see me right know, they’ll know something is up. I’m buzzing, and these pants…well, they don’t hide much. Women get aroused on my table all the time, and I’ve been propositioned by clients before. I’ve even taken a few of them up on the offer, but those were shallow, base encounters. She is different. She is not just trying to get off. She is offering herself up to me and I want her. Not just the turn on, the excitement, or the danger, but her. She wants my hands and I want to put them on her.

When I re-enter the room, she is on the table, face down. The sight of her there, laid out for me, waiting, turns me on like a switch. My heart beats faster and my temperature begins to rise. She is mine to touch. I want to dive right in, take off the crisp sheet that covers her and devour her, but I remind myself that I have time. We have time. I will unwrap this gift that she has presented me with, slowly and purposefully. I will savor every moment. Every touch.

I begin as I always do, the way we agreed. I put scented oil on my hands, hold them beneath her face and softly tell her. “Breathe in.” She inhales and exhales. “Once more.” She does, again, deeper this time.

“That’s good,” I say, keeping my voice low and gentle. Not a whisper, but soft, so that only she can hear. “Are you comfortable? Warm enough?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

I take a moment to look at her, deciding where and how to begin. Her hair. The soft curls run slowly through my fingers as I draw them to the side. The curve of her neck is graceful and I trace my fingers down from her ear to her shoulder, adding more pressure as I begin in earnest, following the usual pattern of the massage she likes. Shoulders first, then down over her back, enjoying her skin and the curves of her body. Her breath deepens and steadies.

In a massage, the sheet is a specifically important prop. It gives clients a sense of safety and privacy in a situation where they are offering their bodies up to my hands. I can move it to access or cover different body parts, but it is done with purpose. It is a gentle but clear and, almost clinical, demarcation line. Touch here. Not there. Look at this. But not this. This time, as I make my way across her skin, I break those rules. There is no neatly folding it out of the way. I run my hands down the long muscles of her back, pushing my fingers underneath it. As I move it down to her waist, it crumples, gathering and bunching. It is no longer a spa sheet, crisp and pressed, but more like the rumpled bedsheet I would love it to be. With this change, my table transforms from something discrete to something intimate.

The lighting in the room gives her skin a warm glow and I spend several moments exploring her back, watching myself touch her, enjoying the feel of her under my hands. As I move them up and down her torso, I let my fingers trail just a little further down her sides than is professional, touching the curves of her breasts. She adjusts her position and lets out a little sigh, so I do it again, this time reaching far enough underneath her that my fingers find her nipples. She reacts by lifting her body, allowing room for my hands to tease them into stiffness. I want to pass my wet tongue over them and suck them into my mouth.

Withdrawing, I turn toward her hips, never breaking contact, keeping my hands on her the entire time. Her hands form gentle fists. I can hear her breathing under my touch. It is not the same as in other sessions. Neither is mine. I reach the edge of the sheet and, ever so slowly, move it, slide it, exposing her buttocks and then her thighs. As it moves down, my dick stands up. She is laid out bare before me, now, skin glistening in the places my oil-slick fingers have touched. She is vulnerable, but does not protest. My excitement swells.

  I take my place at the foot of the table, and start to work my hands up her legs, massaging and caressing my way. My movements make the flesh of her thighs and buttocks jiggle, so I take my time, enjoying the sight. When I reach her lovely rear end, I dribble oil on it and smooth it over her skin, covering her ass with my hands, kneading and fondling. The view I get from this is fucking amazing: her luscious pussy beneath, on display for me for the first time. I have imagined it a million times. I have imagined touching it, licking it, sliding into it, and now I actually get to. She is giving me access.

I push her buttocks together, then gently pull them apart. Her soft slit glistens, also spreading and opening for me and then hiding again with the motion. Little moans come from her as she tries not to squirm, so I spend some time playing. Working my way around her folds, I tease her moistening lips the same way I have with her ass, loving how pulling her beautiful lips apart and pushing them back together again changes their shape. I know that this is tantalizing for both of us when I am rewarded with a contraction that ripples all the way to her pucker.

The temptation to plunge in, to use my face and my tongue to get her off right then is so hard to resist, but we have both been waiting for this and jumping straight to the end would waste the opportunity. Instead, I cover her with my hand and, as I make my way back around to the side of her body, drag my middle finger over her from clitoris to opening in one smooth, firm motion, then pause with the pad of my finger covering her tempting hole, but not entering yet.

She gasps and her hips clench.

I do it again and her cry is more intense. Then a third time. On this pass, I sink my finger into her pussy. Her sounds turn carnal, greedy. Her body undulates as I add a second finger and massage the inside of her, searching for and finding that magical, ribbed, spot that will send her over the edge. This encounter between us is already so powerful that it only takes a moment before she reaches her orgasm and comes all over my hand.

I do not immediately remove my fingers, but bend over her and place a kiss on the small of her back, continuing to rub her g-spot and her swollen folds as she settles. She gives me a final sigh and I kiss my way up her spine, covering her with my torso in an almost-embrace. My face fits perfectly in the nape of her neck and I bury it there, breathing deeply of her scent.

With my lips brushing her ear, I ask, “Are you ok?” The urge to join her in that climax was almost overwhelming, and as my whispered words come out, I can hear my need. I wonder if she can, too.

She answers, “Yes. It’s wonderful. You are wonderful.”

I am on fire, rock-solid, and I decide to show her. She is malleable now and offers no resistance as I reposition her on the table, moving her arm. As I do, I slowly drag her hand across my crotch. Happily, she takes advantage of the opportunity, opening her fingers and exploring the shape of my dick as they pass over it. It bucks at her touch and I let out an involuntary and painful groan, but I also chuckle, enjoying myself, excited for what will come next.

“Turn over, please.”

She does and, as she settles herself onto her back, I take her in. A woman looks different when she is lying down than when she is standing. Her body shape changes in the most inviting way, becoming soft and open, rather than defined and posed. It becomes naturally sexual, rather than intentionally so. This is the way I prefer to see her.

I move to stand at her head. Her breasts are full and spread over her chest. Her hips are round. Her thighs, shapely. I can’t wait to caress them all. I spread my hands over her collar bones. She has kept her eyes closed. Her breath comes through parted lips and makes her chest rise. I slide my hands up to her jaw, turning her head to the side and adjusting her hair, then I bring my mouth to her ear and whisper, “You are beautiful.”

She grasps the edge of the table, stifling a gasp.

I glide my hands, out, over her shoulders, back to the center of her chest, through the luscious valley between her breasts, down to her waist, then back up her sides, coming full circle, touching every part of her torso except her breasts. It is maddening, but I want to make her burn as I am burning. I repeat the pattern, leaning over her so that she can feel my body close to hers. She arches up into my touch as I wrap my hands around her sides. It is becoming harder and harder for her to keep still.

I walk around to her side and lean over her as a lover would. My fingers are in her hair when I cradle her face in my hands and whisper in her ear once more, “You are beautiful.” She gasps again and I brush my cheek against hers. “You are beautiful.”

With that, she loses herself to me. She turns her face to mine and captures my lips. She does not reach out with her hands. They remain firmly attached to the edges of the table. Just her mouth, her lips, on mine. She kisses me with a deep and almost desperate abandon. I respond in kind, covering her lips with mine, delving deep into her mouth with my tongue.

I have no ability for patience anymore.

I leave her mouth behind and feast on her skin, travelling down to her breasts, taking them in my hands and mouth, sucking them in, feeling their fullness, grasping them, squeezing them. I make my way down the center line of her body with hungry, full-mouthed kisses, licking, tasting, devouring. She squirms beneath me, emitting sounds that make me forget where we are.

I purposefully put my body within reach of her hand and she stretches her fingers to caress me in passing, but does not actively reach out to touch me. As amazing as that would be, I love that she continues to let me lead. I want her pliancy. She has offered herself to me in this way and I want all of that gift.

I want to cover her. I want to be on top of her, but this is not the time or the place. Instead, I keep one hand on her breasts and reach down to her thighs with the other, kissing my way behind it, slowing and breathing in as my face reaches her pelvis. Her hips move ever so slightly. My hunger peaks as I position myself to see the beauty that is waiting for me at the junction of her thighs. I put more oil in my palms and draw them down in firm strokes over her hips, to her knees. One and then the other, I bend her legs and arrange them so that she is spread open for me.

She is breathing heavily now. My own dick is pulsing in my linen pants.

She is wet, oh-so wet, and I can see her contract in anticipation of what I might do. With determined hands, I rub my way up her inner thighs, spread her lips open and cover her pussy with my face.

“Fuck!” She cries out as she writhes on the table.

In this moment, her pleasure is mine and I want to sink into it, so I reach up with one hand and push my finger into her mouth. She sucks on it desperately and I wonder what that hungry tongue would feel like on my dick. With that thought, I redouble my oral efforts, seeking out her core, playing with her clit, bringing her up to the edge of climax and back down again. I suck at her swollen lips and fill her with my tongue until she floods my mouth with the taste of her orgasm.

I stay there for long moments, lapping up her sweet taste as she rides out the waves of pleasure that are washing over her. When her body calms and she stills, I straighten and wipe my mouth with the sheet. I finish her massage, putting more oil on my hands and smoothing them all over the front of her body, soothing her hot flesh, easing it back to a state of languorous calm. Finally, I pull the sheet up to cover her, then lean over her and ask, in a tone that fully betrays my primal sense of accomplishment, “How do you feel?

She sighs, “Indescribable.” Then with a serious smile she adds, “Thank you.”

I smile back. “It was my pleasure.”

After she leaves, I return to the room to clean up. Still reeling, I stand for a moment, just staring at the table, reliving everything that happened. In a moment, my raging hard-on returns. There is no way I will get through the afternoon in this state, so I take out my dick, and do something about it. With images of her body in my mind and the taste of her pussy on my lips, it doesn’t take long. I come hard, convulsing with the strength of my orgasm and spurting onto the crumpled sheet. When my vision clears and I can stand up straight again, I put myself to rights and begin the process of prepping the room for my next client. In the little jewelry bowl, next to a generous tip, I find a small card. On one side are the words: “What you have given me is a gift. I would like to give you one in return.” On the other is an address and a time. It seems that we have scheduled our next session.