The Massage Tightrope

I’ve just booked myself in for a massage after work tomorrow. It’s cheap over here, and a good way to relax before an evening drinks event with a bunch of people I don’t know. Or it should be, anyway: the only problem is that it’s a complete lottery whether I’m going to find a massage relaxing or incredibly arousing, and if it’s the latter I’ll pretty much be good for nothing till I’ve dashed back to my flat and sorted myself out.

That’s what happened the last time I went to this particular spa. I’d had a long day at work, with a couple of fairly stressful meetings, and was looking forward to just drifting off for an hour while someone pummelled my back and shoulders. I was still pretty wound-up when I went through into the treatment room and stripped off to take a shower; even more so after getting the settings wrong on the showerhead and accidentally spraying the floor – and my shoes – with water.

However, the act of vigorously working shampoo into my hair – and giving my scalp a good, therapeutic rub in the process – took the edge off my antsiness, in the way that simple physical rituals often can; it was as if I was coaxing my brain into a state of silence, with all the sources of tension and angst being shut down one by one. By the time I’d towelled off and knocked on the door to let the masseuse know that I was ready, I actually felt ready to abandon conscious thought completely and just enjoy the feeling of someone’s hands on my skin.

With my head already resting in the face-hole, I didn’t see the masseuse enter the room, but as she walked around the table and asked me what sort of treatment I wanted, I picked up enough about her to know that she was young, Polish, petite, and fairly no-nonsense, in a perfectly friendly way. When she put her hands on my back for the first time, they felt small but very warm, and she pressed down firmly in a way that suggested she had the strength required to work all the knots out of my creaking, deskbound shoulder muscles.

It must have been about a quarter of an hour into the massage when my shoulders started to feel like less of a concern. I’d been hovering on the edge of sleep for a few minutes, but I kept getting pulled back every time she worked her fingers into the area just above the towel, at the top of my glutes. It was like being sleepy and a bit drunk in bed with a lover, having one of those almost hallucinatory conversations where the words you mumble flit between the coherent and the nonsensical – the almost-awake and the definitely-dreaming.

Except on this occasion the dreams got increasingly filthy with each passing minute. I had a vivid picture of someone else in the room, watching me from the corner. Watching me, and watching the masseuse gently remove the towel and circle her fingers closer and closer to my arsehole. I saw the scene through the eyes of the mystery voyeur, as my buttocks were eased apart and oil was rubbed into the crack.

I kept my eyes closed, wanting to preserve the intensity and clarity of the fantasy. I didn’t think too much about the intruder’s identity: male or female, stranger or intimate, attractive or ugly – it really didn’t matter. What mattered was what he or she saw. The low light, smudged at the corners, and this short, wiry Polish woman strapping on a cock and squeezing oil over its head. Her hair covering her face as she hopped up onto the table and straddled my arse. The way both of her hands were wrapped round the base of the dildo, her whole body a study in concentration.

I made myself go deeper. What would the stranger hear above the low, piped music? A solitary gasp – from me or her, it wouldn’t really matter – when she squeezed the fat head inside me and let the momentum from that firm thrust of her hips carry her forward till her stomach rested against my arse and her cock was no longer visible. Would there just be the sound of skin-on-skin contact and short, ragged breathing, or would that be punctuated by an incongruous squeak each time she pushed inside me and my torso rubbed along the surface of the bed? Where would her hands be? On my shoulders or the small of my back, pinning me down? Running through my hair as she stretched out along me? Would I push back to meet her on each stroke?

Later, as I half-walked, half-ran home, I embellished the scenario. I added more shadowy figures to the audience. I tried to decide whether the masseuse would reach round and jerk me off while she was inside me, or whether she’d turn me onto my back and get me to masturbate for the stranger’s viewing pleasure. Or whether she’d simply send me off into the night at the end of the massage, without letting me come at all. I told myself the woman at the front desk was watching it all on CCTV and getting off on watching her colleague fuck me. I made the masseuse male, and gave him a real cock, which would fill my arse with real come. None of that is really the point though. I went for a massage with the aim of emerging relaxed and refreshed; instead, I spent the last 40 minutes fighting an overwhelming urge to squirm, grind, and generally use the table under me to bring myself off. I walked the tightrope and fell down on the horny side of the mat, and there was no real rhyme or reason to it turning out that way.

I don’t think the masseuse ever realised what I was going through while her hands were moving over my body. When the hour was up, she waited for me to lift my head, then flashed a quick smile and left me to shower for a second time and get dressed. I rolled over on the table and just lay there for a minute, comically hard under the towel and extremely disinclined to move. There’s every chance I’ll find myself in the same position tomorrow evening: it’s a risk I’m willing to take.