Erotic Massage for the Horny Man

Terrence pushed through the frosted glass door at half past eight, shoulders tight from a week of conference calls and a contract that would not close. The lobby was dim, scented with sandalwood, and quiet enough that he heard his own breath. He was forty-two, still in the charcoal suit he had worn since dawn, and he had booked the longest session on the board because his body felt like one long knot.

Deborah came around the desk before he could speak. Twenty-nine, licensed, and dressed in a simple black wrap that stopped high on her thighs, she took him in with a slow look that was not professional in the least. Dark hair pulled back, mouth already curved, eyes the color of warm whiskey. She held his gaze a beat too long, and something low in his gut answered it.

“Terrence,” she said, voice soft and sure. “Right on time. You look like you need more than a rubdown.”

“That’s what I paid for,” he said, and his mouth went dry when she smiled wider.

“Then come with me.” Her fingers brushed his wrist as she turned, not an accident, and the contact sent a clean heat up his arm. She led him down a short hall to a private room where candles burned in glass cups and the massage table waited under a white sheet. The door clicked shut behind them. She faced him, hands on the tie of her wrap, and the air between them tightened.

“Clothes off,” she said. “All of them. I work better when I can see exactly what I’m doing.”

He undressed without hurrying, jacket, shirt, pants, briefs, and stood naked under her eyes. She did not look away. Her gaze moved over his chest, his stomach, the thick length of his cock already thickening, and when she met his face again her lips were parted.

“Lie down on your stomach,” she murmured. “We’ll start slow. I like to learn a body before I ruin it.”

He climbed onto the table, cheek against the sheet, and heard oil pour into her palms. The first press of her hands was firm and warm across his shoulders. He exhaled, and the week began to loosen under her thumbs. She worked down his spine with long, sure strokes, hips rocking faintly as she leaned, and every time her breasts brushed his back through the thin fabric of the wrap he felt it like a brand.

She did not rush. Oil slicked his skin until he shone in the candlelight, and her palms traveled the long muscles of his back, the curve of his ass, the backs of his thighs. When her fingers dipped between his legs from behind, just grazing the sensitive skin there, his cock jerked against the sheet. She made a small, pleased sound.

“Already?” she asked, close to his ear. “We’ve barely started.”

“You’re not exactly subtle,” he said, voice rough.

“I don’t do subtle.” Her hands slid lower, thumbs working the inner thighs, spreading them a little so she could reach. Oil dripped. One knuckle brushed the underside of his balls and he hissed. “Turn your head. I want to hear you.”

He turned. She was leaning over him, wrap loosened at the throat, the tops of her breasts visible and glistening where oil had transferred. Her fingers kept moving, slow circles that climbed higher with every pass, never quite taking him in hand, always almost. His cock was fully hard now, trapped and leaking against the sheet, and every graze made his hips twitch.

“You do this to every client?” he asked.

“No.” She dragged a slick fingertip along the crease where thigh met groin, so close to his shaft he could feel the heat of her skin. “Most men want quiet and a happy ending they pretend not to ask for. You walked in looking at my mouth like you already knew what it could do. I like that.” Her nail skimmed the base of his cock through the thin sheet and he groaned. “I like making a man throb. I like feeling him get thick under my hands and knowing I’m the reason he can’t think. I love it when he stops pretending this is just a massage.”

“Then stop pretending,” he said.

She laughed, low, and the sound went straight to his cock. “Flip over. I want to see it.”

He rolled onto his back. His cock stood up heavy and flushed, the head wet, the shaft veined and thick. Deborah’s eyes darkened. She poured more oil into her palm and wrapped her hand around him without ceremony, stroking once from root to tip, slow enough that he felt every ridge of her fingers. His hips lifted off the table.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

“There he is.” She stroked again, thumb circling the slit, spreading the slick of oil and precome. “Look at you. Hard as a pipe and I’ve barely touched your cock. You going to let me have it, Terrence? All of it?”

“Yes.” The word came out strained. “Take it.”

She untied the wrap and let it fall. Naked, she was all smooth curves and tight nipples, a neat dark patch of hair above a pussy that already shone. She climbed onto the table and straddled his hips, knees wide, and reached between them to fit the swollen head of his cock against her entrance. Heat. Wet. She sank down an inch and they both moaned.

“God, you’re thick,” she said, voice breaking. “Stay still. Let me take you.”

She lowered herself in a slow, devastating slide, pussy stretching around him, inner walls gripping, oil and her own slick making the descent filthy and easy. When she was seated fully, clit pressed to the base of him, she rolled her hips once and gasped. He grabbed her waist, thumbs digging in, and watched his cock disappear into her again as she rose and dropped.

She rode him like she had been waiting all day for it. Up until only the head remained, then down hard, ass slapping his thighs, breasts bouncing. Her hands braced on his chest. Every grind dragged her clit along his pubic bone and she chased it, circling, grinding, fucking herself on him with shameless little sounds. The candles threw gold across her skin. The room smelled like oil and sex.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Use my cock. Rub that clit on me. I want to feel you soak me.”

“I am,” she panted. “You’re so deep. Every time I sit I feel you in my stomach. Don’t you dare come yet. I want this.”

She leaned back, hands on his thighs, and the angle changed. Her pussy clenched around him in rhythmic pulses as she bounced, and he could see everything: the way her lips clung to his shaft, the shine running down his balls, the tight bud of her clit swollen and pink. He thrust up to meet her and she cried out, nails biting his skin.

“Yes. Fuck up into me. Just like that.”

They found a brutal rhythm, her dropping, him driving, the table creaking under them. Sweat mixed with oil. Her moans got higher, less controlled, and when she ground down and stayed there, rolling her clit hard against him, her whole body shook.

“I’m going to come,” she gasped. “Don’t stop. Don’t you fucking stop.”

He held her hips and fucked up into the spasm of her orgasm, feeling her pussy flutter and gush around his cock. She rode it out with her head thrown back, mouth open, until the aftershocks made her slump forward onto his chest, still impaled, still twitching.

He did not give her long. Need had him by the throat. He sat up, kissed the salt from her throat, and lifted her off his cock with a wet sound that made them both groan. “Over the table. Now. I want that ass in the air.”

She slid off, legs unsteady, and bent over the end of the massage table without argument, chest down, cheek against the sheet, ass raised and offered. Oil gleamed on the curve of her. Her pussy was swollen, open, dripping onto the floor between her feet. He stood behind her, one hand spreading her, the other guiding his cock back to that soaked entrance.

“You want it hard?” he asked.

“I want it filthy,” she said. “Fuck me like you paid for the whole night.”

He slammed in to the hilt. She shouted, fingers clawing the sheet, and pushed back to take him deeper. He set a punishing pace, hips snapping, balls slapping her clit with every thrust. The sound was obscene, wet and rhythmic, filling the small room. He gripped her hips hard enough to leave marks and drove into her, watching his cock vanish again and again into that greedy heat.

“Listen to you,” he said, voice wrecked. “Soaked. Taking every inch. This what you wanted when you smiled at me in the lobby?”

“Yes,” she moaned. “I wanted this cock the second I saw you. Harder. Don’t be gentle. I can take it.”

He gave it to her. One hand slid up her spine to the back of her neck, holding her down, the other hauled her hips back onto him. She met every stroke, ass rippling, pussy clutching so tight he had to grit his teeth to keep from finishing inside her. Her moans turned ragged, broken into pieces by the force of him.

“Touch yourself,” he ordered. “I want you coming on my cock again before I pull out.”

Her hand flew between her legs. He felt her fingers brush his shaft where he entered her, frantic circles on her clit, and her walls seized. She came with a choked cry, shoving back, milking him, and the pulse of it nearly undid him.

“Fuck, Deborah. I’m close.”

“Pull out,” she panted, still shaking. “I want it on me. On my tits. Come all over them.”

He yanked free with a groan, the sudden cold air a shock after her heat. She spun and dropped to her knees on the rug, back against the table leg, breasts thrust up, nipples tight and shining with oil. Her hand found his cock immediately, slick with her, and she stroked him hard and fast, twisting at the head, other palm cupping his balls.

“Give it to me,” she said, looking up, mouth wet, eyes bright. “Cover me. I want to feel it hot on my skin.”

The sight of her—kneeling, flushed, tits offered, fist working him—snapped the last of his control. He came with a rough shout, hips jerking, thick ropes of come striping her chest, her collarbones, the upper swell of her breasts. She kept stroking through it, milking every pulse, aiming him so the last spurts landed across her nipples and dripped toward her stomach. She did not look away. She watched his face while she wrung him dry, thumb smearing a pearl of it over one tight peak, and only stopped when he shuddered and went sensitive.

They stayed like that a moment, breathing hard, the candles guttering. Come gleamed on her skin. His cock, still half-hard in her loose grip, twitched once more.

Deborah rose, unhurried, and reached for the stack of warm towels on the side table. She wiped his cock first, slow and thorough, then cleaned her own chest, the cloth dragging over sensitive nipples until she shivered. When they were both decent enough to stand close, she stepped into him, rose on her toes, and kissed him. It was unhurried, tongue sliding against his, tasting of salt and the long week he had walked in with. She pulled back just far enough to speak against his mouth.

“Book me again,” she purred. “Soon. I haven’t finished with this cock.”

He was already half hard again against her thigh, and she wrapped her fingers around the sticky length, gave it one last filthy squeeze, and smiled like she owned the rest of his nights.

“Next time,” she said, voice low and dirty, “I’m going to sit on your face until you can’t breathe, then make you fuck that load so deep in my pussy I drip you all the way home.”