It was late when he first messaged me online. I was drunk and horny, and his tweets were clever. A girl can only take so much. He was funny in the messages too. Not hilarious, but witty in a way that made you chuckle at every message. We hit it off in an instant and he had my number after a day or two.
When he asked to give me a spa day, I laughed. We all know that what they mean by a spa day is a haphazard neck rub before they go into foreplay and then it’s sex. I explained that I was married, happily, and that he had to forget about any hint of love. He insisted that he just wanted to pamper me, that I was a Queen who needed to be loved endlessly.
I got to his place on a bright Saturday afternoon, still a little hung over from the previous night. We sat on his balcony and he lit a blunt. We passed it between ourselves and his housemate, until my thoughts clouded over. In the cloud, my husband was not yelling at me as he had last night, and I found a strange peace I had forgotten could exist. On a balcony at the end of the building, I watched a young man wearing nothing but boxer shorts finish his cigarette. He had the lazy demeanor of a man who has been in bed all day after a night of very exhausting sex.
“Are you ready for your spa day?”
The young man next to me had just broken my reverie. I smiled indulgently, waiting to make fun of his so called spa day, but I also nodded quietly. He went into the house and came back with a blue basin containing warm water. He lifted my feet gently, put them in the basin and started to soap them up. I sighed deeply, turned back to watch the man on the balcony. He had finished his cigarette and a middle aged woman joined him now. She was wearing a nightgown (and probably nothing underneath). I now knew for sure that last night had been great. And exhausting. She sat next to the young man and struck up a quiet conversation. On our unfurnished balcony, my young man was now earnestly scrubbing my feet. I would ordinarily have been jumping about because my feet are ticklish as hell, but the weed had gotten me too relaxed to really feel the tickles. I giggled a bit, and that made him smile. He alternated between scrubbing my soles and applying pressure to my feet and I started to feel really relaxed.
On the balcony of interest, a new entrant had arrived. An elderly white gentleman. I started to conjure the things that had happened the previous night in that house. When my young man saw me giggling in earnest, he got curious.
“I’m not that funny, am I?” he asked
“I’m laughing at your neighbours. I think they had a threesome!” My voice had dropped to a conspiratorial whisper by now.
“What?” he turned to look, incredulous.
I explained my theory. The white guy decided his girlfriend/wife needed some dark chocolate and he likes to watch. He brought the energy while the white pensioner brought the love and the gentleness. Maybe Mr Energy was a little kinky and had made the pensioner suck him off while she watched. Maybe the pensioner had liked it and the wife had orgasmed from touching herself and watching her husband’s humiliation. Maybe the pensioner had been left wanting while Mr Energy pummeled into his wife’s aching pussy. The pensioner had probably eaten out his wife afterwards, enjoying the taste of their juices mixed together, and Mr Energy had pushed just one finger, one knuckle into the pensioner’s ass and it had sent him over the edge so that he came harder than he ever had in his entire life.
And now here they were, at the balcony, sharing a cigarette.
“You have a problem.” my young man said, shaking his head a little but laughing too because he knew I could be right.
“Yes. I’m hungry.” I responded, chuckling.
He got up in that instant, his speed blinding my slow drugged self. He returned with snacks and I tore into the onion flavored one and started munching happily. He really had thought about everything!
The water was cooling now and he lifted my feet gently from it into his lap. They were immediately folded into a towel. He dried the feet deliberately, and the sexual tension crackled between us like the licks of a flame.
“It’s time for your massage.”
He sat back on his heels as he said this, and I took a moment to observe him. Slight, but built. His eyes were sad, his hands bigger than him. Skin dark as the moonless night, smooth as oil.
“Let’s go. I have the oil ready.”
I got up gingerly, made it inside to his room. It was spacious and well lit with natural light. I knew he would see me naked, but some vestige of modesty made me ask him to turn around while I took off my dress. I had nothing underneath except a plain black bra, one of those favorite ones that I had worn for generations. I folded the clothes away, lay on my stomach.
I felt him move around, my eyes closed. He opened his drawer, retrieved the oil, knelt at the foot of the bed. I tried to breathe deeper, really relax. I figured if I was going to cheat, I may as well release all my tension and leave feeling calmer.
I could hear him rubbing the oil between his hands to warm it. When I felt the warm oiled hands on my calves, I sighed and smiled. I suddenly knew this was worth my time. His hands were firm but gentle, and he knew just the amount of pressure to apply. He was insistent so that my tension was eroded like my will to leave him alone. By the time he got to my thighs, I was already wet with anticipation. I wanted the long fingers inside me. He teased me, skipping my ass to go to my back. My body started to vibrate with need, but he kept up the torture going, his hands kneading and teasing in one go. When he got to my back, he straddled me and drizzled the warm oil over my spine. He started at the small of my back, working his hands expertly over my tired muscles. He was moving towards my sensitive neck when he found a spot in my back that made me come hard, my body ransacked with tremors, my mouth open with shock.
“Did you just come?” he asked, sounding as incredulous as I felt.
My “yes” came out in a soft whimper.
“Looks like I just found a good spot.”
I could hear in his voice a large satisfied grin.
He moved up further, and I could swear I heard him soundlessly debate on whether or not to go back to THE SPOT. I was now putty in his hands, my body pliant for him. He focused on my shoulders now, and they hurt from the pent up pension. His pressure remained insistent, until the pain turned to a dull ache and then to pleasure. I swallowed a moan, suddenly aware of how my legs were opening involuntarily.
“Turn around” he whispered.
He climbed off me, and I noticed a significant bulge in his sweatpants. Guess it’s true what they say then. Skinny guys are 70% dick.
“Stretch your legs out.”
I flushed, suddenly aware of how forward I had become, spread eagled on a low mattress for a man whose last name I did not know.
“We’ll get to that.” he said gently when he realised I was embarrassed.
The torture resumed, again from my feet. He lathered every inch in oil, his fingertips dripping with magic. His movements over my thighs rubbed against my damp lips in a fluid motion every time. I started to pant from the teasing, my body moving towards him. He ignored me, his eyes closed in concentration as he moved to my breasts, passing right past my hard nipples every time.
When he put his mouth over my pussy and began to lick in languorous strong strokes, I found myself groping for his pillow, my mouth open to let out moans. He ate me as expertly as he massaged, his movements deliberate and firm, his strong hands holding my thighs apart for reach. He found a spot on my clit with his tongue and I heard myself come again, my thighs squeezing his head without any regard to whether or not he could breathe.