It was a typical suburban house in a typical suburban street in an Essex town called Woodford. As I had been requested, I left my car a hundred yards or so past number 42 and walked back. That in itself was a struggle as it was raining and the wind was howling. From under the umbrella that I was trying to stop blowing away, I saw 42 and noticed that it was a well- kept, mock Tudor, quite imposing house with a neat front garden, gleaming paint and sparkling windows. That made me feel good and gave me some faith in what Ben had told me on the phone.
“It’s a very clean, tidy house; you will feel at home with me.”
“Hi you must be Chrissy,” the tall, quite good-looking, grey haired, dark skinned man said when he opened the door. “I’m Ben.”
I walked in and we shook hands. The place smelt clean, he was clean, he hadn’t been leading me astray on that, which gave credibility to the other things he had claimed in the e-mails we had exchanged.
He was about 50 with quite long, grey wavy hair and piercing blue eyes. He was slim and tall, quite good looking and had a very upright posture. He gave off an aura of both confidence and competence. That made me think the massage would be good, that he would have the educated hands he claimed and that he would, in his words. “Ensure I had a wonderful time.”
However, I wasn’t sure that he actually really offered what I was after. I thought he probably did, I guessed that he would make me cum, but I hadn’t been able to summon up the courage to ask him.
I followed him up stairs.
“OK Chrissy, you can change in here,” he said showing me into a small bedroom. “The bathroom is next door,” he added, leaving me alone.
There was a white towelling robe on the narrow bed, which I assumed I should put on. I stripped down to my panties. Should I keep them on or remove them, I wondered looking in the mirror? I saw in the mirror that my long, shoulder-length, blonde hair was a total wreck from the wind and rain and was tumbling down onto my bare shoulders in lank, wet tresses. I grimaced when I looked at my body. I had put weight on my tummy and hips a bit and my B to C cup tits were starting to sag although at forty three and having born a child, they were no too bad. ‘Maybe he won’t notice’ I thought trying to fix my hair into some semblance of order, but that was hopeless so I gave up. But then I thought. ‘What ther hell, after all Iampaying.’
There was a knock on the door. “When you are ready Chrissy please come across the landing, I’ll be waiting,” Ben said.
I slipped into the robe, knotted the tie round the waist, opened the door and went across the landing. Ben was standing just inside the front bedroom, which was dimly lit. There were several candles flickering and some soft classical piano music, probably Bach, playing. Ben had changed clothing. Gone were the jeans and tee shirt. He was now wearing a shorty, silk dressing gown, which, like mine, was tied at the waist, but his was dark blue silk and ended mid-way down his thighs. Where the lapels gaped, I could see his fairly hairy chest, the hairs varying in colour from black to silver. His lower legs were bare and he had nothing on his feet that, for some reason I noted had unusually long toes.
“Come in Chrissy,” he said, holding the door open for me.
He shut the door behind me and dimmed the lights even more.
I was surprised not to see a massage table, but instead there was a mattress on the floor covered by a white sheet with a large blue towel in the middle.
“Yes we don’t use a table,” he said guessing, or seeing my surprise, it’s more relaxing on the floor.”
“Ok,” was all I could manage rather hoarsely, momentarily wondering why on earth I was putting myself through this.
“For both of us he added,” taking hold of my elbow. “Would you like to lie on your front first, Chrissy?”
I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do about the robe, so I hesitated, with my hands hovering by the bow. He turned his back and picked up a couple of towels from a pile on a table.
“Yes take that off please,” he said in a rather officious tone.
I lay down as instructed, oddly pleased that he averted his gaze. The mattress was soft and warm and had a lovely sweet smell; it was pleasant to lie on and quite relaxing. He knelt beside me and covered my body in two or three warm towels. It was just like being in a regular, straight spa. If it hadn’t been for the way he was dressed I would not have even thought that there might be the ‘other services’ I wanted, but wasn’t sure I would request.
I had been divorced for a couple of years and I was desperately lonely. My sixteen year old daughter who lived with me in a smashing flat needed me less and less and although I had numerous friends most were married. It is not easy suddenly being unmarried at forty something for most of your contemporaries are married or at least with partners.
After the final decree came through I had a few dates and a couple of flings eryaman escort that had involved sex, but I wasn’t satisfied or fulfilled by them. It was like a charade. Neither party expected and in my case certainly did not want, to find love so the whole seduction bit seemed a little false. Other friends, however have told me that they find that the most enjoyable part. To me sex without some emotional involvement is rather pointless. Or so I thought. That is until I did some research and read more about it.
Ben started on my back by peeling the towel back a little and pouring warm oil between my shoulder blades. He massaged me fairly deeply all over my upper back and shoulders. It felt good. That finished, he repeated the exercise with each of my legs. Each time merely rolling the towel back to expose the part that he was about to massage and, with both legs, tucking the top in a little round my bum. I was beginning to worry that maybe I had read the situation incorrectly and that this was just a straight massage, so similar was it to all the spa treatments I had experienced. But then, I rationalised even if it was it would be enjoyable for he was giving me a very good massage.
After a while, I had found myself coping ok with the loneliness of being a single woman again. I really did not mind being by myself and in any case through my new job I was making friends. I joined a tennis club, started a course at a local college and began piano lessons. I persuaded myself that these actions were to enrich my life and meet new friends. Deep down I knew that was a lie. What I was looking for was sex. I was not so much lonely as frustrated. After all, during my twenty year marriage I probably had sex on average three times a week; that means I had been fucked over three thousand times. It was that what I missed. But I didn’t like dating so I was in a fucking Catch 22, literally!
That is when I read about women who use escorts. I was very tempted, but could not bring myself to do it because if I wanted sex with him, he would have to come to my home. Oddly, the cold-blooded nature of having a stranger I have just met fuck me did not disturb me that much. It was the detached, business-like nature of it that overcame my normal reservations with dating. Then you have to pretend there is more when there isn’t, with an escort there is no pretence. It is a completely transparent transaction; you are there to be fucked and he is there to fuck you. Simple and straightforward. But there is the where do you do it issue and I didn’t fancy paying out a hundred and fifty pounds for a hotel on top of the two hundred or so good escorts charge. And you could hardly do it in a car could you? It was I thought to myself, though, something I would treat myself to one day
It was then as I was looking at some male escort websites that I came upon a site offering ‘Sensual Massage for Discerning Ladies.’ I read it eagerly and saw that I could access their site to find out more, email the site or have a telephone conversation with the owner; I did all three. Ben was a friendly guy, very relaxed and reassuring on the phone and explained the whole process clearly and in a straightforward manner.
“In the end result Chrissy whatever you choose to do you will get a great massage I promise,” he reassuringly told me as the final persuader.
I was mulling over how it had all happened as I lie on the warm and sweet smelling towel on the sheet covering the mattress. It was then that the massage changed.
I felt him roll a towel upwards exposing my lower back, waist and the top of my bum, just where it starts to flare up into the two mounds of flesh. He poured oil onto the small of my back and started massaging that and my waist. His hands were sliding a few inches up my back all round my waist and onto my hips then back and just up the swell of my bum. It was gorgeous. I could feel the sides of his hands keep pushing against the towel that was draped over my bum covering the crease, moving it down a little. It felt as though it had moved quite a way, but in reality it was probably only inches.
“Feel good Chrissy?”
“Mmmmmm, very nice,” I groaned back finding speaking difficult with my head resting on my arms.
I felt the towel over my bottom being lifted up.
“May I?” he asked.
I wasn’t sure what he meant, but in any case I murmured. “Yes.”
He removed the towel.
“Oh Chrissy what have we here?” He asked, obviously referring to my panties.
They were dark blue, lacy, hipster shorts, cut acutely across each cheek of my bum.
I didn’t reply, I had no idea what to say.
“Very pretty, very nice” he said as I felt his fingers run over them sending my arousal level up a few degrees.
Nothing happened for a moment or two. I simply lay there as Ben, presumably, simply stared at my bum. That excited me. It played to my latent sense of exhibitionism that had come to the fore when my ex had taken ‘glamour’ photos of escort eryaman me. I may even have slightly wiggled my bottom a little.
“Very nice and very sexy” he went on quietly, resting a hand right on my cheek. That excited me even more, but nowhere near as much as his next words did. “But also, very unnecessary.”
He didn’t ask, he simply assumed and took over; that also excited me.
“Lift up a little” he said quietly as he slid his fingers into the waistband. “We don’t want to get oil on them do we?”
“Fuck he’s taking my knickers off,” I thought as I did as he asked and lifted myself up. That is exactly what he did, took my knickers off. It was an amazing feeling to be lying there on that mattress, my eyes closed, the room dim with soothing, classical music playing as this older man, kneeling beside me his bare leg, pressing against mine slid my panties down my legs. I knew that he must have seen all of my bottom and probably my pussy to from between the backs of my slightly parted thighs, which I closed.
I knew then, that with that most erotic of gestures that this was definitely not going to be a straight massage. And from then on it wasn’t. His touch became softer, more of a caress than a massage, he went nearer to my more intimate places and his body, mainly his knees and legs came into more frequent contact with mine.
I had expected that when ‘the action’ started I would be nervous and be torn as to whether I would really go through with it and do whatever sexual act or acts turned out to be top of the agenda. But I wasn’t. In fact, it was quite the opposite. I enjoyed being naked, having his fingers run over my bare bum and have his eyes gaze at me. I had found him removing my panties to be an incredible turn on, his light touches to be soothing yet arousing and his bare legs pressing against my hips and legs exciting. The combination of these did make me a little nervous for clearly I knew they were the precursor to me doing something much bigger; just what that was I wasn’t sure. But what I did know was that I would do something sexual with this intriguing masseur.
I felt him remove the towels covering my legs so that both of them were bare. He shuffled behind where my feet lay on the mattress and took hold of both of my ankles. Without asking, he pulled them apart, wider and wider. He didn’t say anything at all but I suddenly got the most stringent charge of sexual arousal as I felt his fingertips brush up the inside of my left thigh, stopping just millimetres from where my pussy lie open, wet and waiting. But waiting for what I wondered; a finger, several of them, a tongue, his cock, all of them or, perhaps,something else?
I felt his knees against the soles of my feet, he was pressing there as he caressingly massaged my inner, upper legs. Even in the dim light, he could not have avoided seeing my pussy lips, I wondered if they were glistening with my excretions.
He lifted one foot. He caressed and massaged that, the ankle, my instep, the arch and each of the toes. That was surprisingly erotic. He lifted my foot further and pressed, quite hard, on the sole, massaging all over that and the ball of my foot. Then, he rubbed the bottom of my foot against the silk of his dressing gown; I was not sure, though what part of his body that was covering, well not at first that is. But then I gasped with sensation as I felt the bottom of my foot being pressed against what was obviously his bulge through the silk. He wasn’t erect, but there was some hardness there. It was such a charge. I loved it.
I felt him shuffle between my opened legs, his knees pressing against them, just above my knees pushing them even wider apart. I knew he must be staring at my open pussy. His hands found my bum. He squeezed each cheek and rolled the flesh around, kneading and squeezing it and then pulling my cheeks apart. I could feel him leaning forward and then had I a fabulous sensation, one that I had never experienced before. I felt him blowing his breath firstly, along the crease between each cheek, then right on my bum hole and then all along the cheeks of my pussy. It was an amazing feeling and I couldn’t stop a deep grunt of pleasure slipping from my mouth as my entire body jerked and my bum wiggled at him.
“Nice?” He asked, moving his face away.
“Mmmmmmm” I moaned back.
“Good,” he went on rewarding me by replacing his breath with his finger running softly right along the length of the crease in my bum. “Are you anal, Chrissy?”
I wasn’t sure quite what he meant so maybe rather naively I asked. “You mean anal sex?”
“Yes, do you like anal play as part of your foreplay?”
“Yes,” I grunted feeling amazed that he was asking such questions.
“And penetration?” He asked pressing his finger right on my hole.
“Maybe,” I sighed loving the pressure,
I moaned and jerked again so intense and lovely were the sensations he gave me as his finger slid in a little way. But he eryaman escort bayan stopped. Then he moved his hands up my body and started to massage my upper back, shoulders and neck. To reach them he moved further between my opened legs. Deeper, until the front of his knee pressed lightly against my pussy. That brought another big jerk and moan from me. He pressed more firmly. I pressed back, he pressed more, I tried to close my legs round it, tried to sort of ride it, I suppose, but he stopped me.
“Not yet Chrissy,” he said in a rather schoolmasterly way as he gently admonished me.
He moved away and said softly. “I think it’s time for your front now. Turn over please.”
It was so incongruous, I thought, that as I struggled my body over from my front to my back, he averted his eyes. He compounded this charade of being discrete by holding up a large towel, just as straight masseurs do who are trained to avoid looking at the client’s naked bodies. But they only provide muscle relief, not the sexual relief I was expecting from him and that I was paying him to provide.
He laid the towel over me. It covered me from my breasts to my ankles.
Lying there on my back, naked and covered in just a towel I got the chance to have a good look at Ben, my masseur. He was better looking than I had at first thought, but I realised he was probably older, possibly late fifties or early sixties, that shocked me for some reason. Kneeling beside me, he leaned forward and placed a pillow under my head, gently lifting my neck up: that was a nicely tender touch; I liked his gentleness and consideration.
I also liked the way the lapels had now slid very widely apart showing his hairy chest. It was open to his waist; there was no sign at all of a bloated stomach, in fact, what I could see above the tie, looked firm, taught and flat. Nice, I thought.
He shuffled from alongside me to behind my head, out of my view. Before he moved out of sight, though, and as he shuffled alongside me, the bottom part of his robe gaped. I wasn’t sure, but it looked as though he was naked under it. For some daft reason, considering I was here for him to give me sexual satisfaction, that seemed incredibly exciting and made me want to plunge my hands under that robe and grab at the bulge, my foot had experienced earlier.
As Ben gave me one of the loveliest scalp and face massages I had ever had, something I find immensely erotic even when performed by a straight masseur or a hairdresser, my mind was consumed with wondering whether he was naked under the robe. That seemed such an important issue. My mind was buzzing with curiosity and queries. Was he naked, was he hard, how big was he, was he circumcised and would he later offer to fuck me with it, or simply let me hold it? Would he present it to my mouth for me to suck and if he did what would he taste like?
Those questions had to remain unanswered, though, at least for a while, for he had started to massage the front of my shoulders along my collar bone. My eyes were tightly closed, but I knew he would have to be leaning forward from his kneeling position. Frequently I felt the silk of his robe, probably the cuffs or elbows, brush across my face; a heady sensation indeed, silk is so sensual, I find. Then I opened my eyes and saw that it was not the cuffs or elbows, but the folds covering him beneath the waist, the part covering his, what I was sure would now be, his erection. I still couldn’t see that and how I stopped myself from reaching up for it, I have no idea. It is so unlike me, but I had such a desire to feel and stroke his cock that my body was exploding with want. Perhaps that was his plan, I wondered?
I closed my eyes again and gave into the feelings, sensations and emotions that Ben was creating in me. He certainly knew his stuff, both from a technical massage and an arousing a woman angle.
His hands were softly massaging that area between my collar bones and where the flesh became fuller as my breasts flared out from my chest well more small puffs than flares! His fingers, for I think he was just using those now, were rotating in little circles, moving steadily downwards, although when he moved down a few inches he would then go back up again to near my collar bone. Down, then up, up towards my shoulders, down towards my breasts, up to nice feelings, but not sexual and down towards the erotic playground of my breasts and nipples.
But now, as his hands and fingers slid downwards, each time I felt them push against the towel, the edge of which was just where my breast flesh erupts from my chest.
That of course meant two things.
One, that each time he pushed the towel the edge moved up the swell of each boob and two that as he did that, so the edges of his hands touched that beautifully sensitive flesh.
Although I knew, or thought I knew, that soon my full breasts would be bare and he would gaze at them, touch them, squeeze and caress and maybe even suck them, and although he, presumably, knew that as well, we both continued with the charade. The charade of pretence, the game of not knowing, the play of anticipation, building the suspense and creating the hope and expectancy of impending sexual delight. The theatre of tease that we all experience some time; it was lovely.