The British Accent

The massage room is quiet, and dark too under the velvet blindfold. Lying face down the towel is light across your exposed back and down to cover your red thong. The air that caresses your skin is gentle and warm. Your breathing settles and your mind tumbles with the day's events: your daughter bundling into your bed unfeasibly early all bounce and love and impossible energy, the drive to work, the first client of the day, the barren small conversation with the boss you think of as 'The Pig'. This is your time now and you sigh as the first tendrils of relaxation thread themselves through your muscles. In the darkness sounds are accentuated, the click-click of the air conditioning, the slow, muffled bump-and-grumble of traffic somewhere far away, the muted laughter of the reception staff......

Your mind returns to that special secret place that warms you and you think of your cyber lover. You smile when you remember his reaction this morning when you described yourself on the massage bed in nothing but your 'naughty knickers'. Time with him is so easy. He has this manner, a beguiling bundle of laughter and flirtation which is compellingly sexy. He is unashamed of his constant arousal and articulate enough to make the prospect of a sexual encounter seem real, vivid and compelling. Fragments of this morning's conversation come to mind and you feel the warmth spreading in your abdomen.

There is the faintest click of a door opening and the air on your exposed shoulders flutters momentarily. Footsteps approach and you scent aftershave - today it is to be strong fingers and a directive approach. The surface of your skin sensitises itself in anticipation. There are unhurried sounds of preparation, the opening of oils and the arranging of towels. The footsteps approach and fingers gently reposition the towel to half way down your naked back. With exquisite care he lifts your hair and exposes your neck, then the sound of oils being applied to his hands. His first sweep starts at your neck, traverses your shoulders and the exposed skin of your back. A pause, more oils being applied, and the second sweep begins at the top of your thighs down to your calves and ankles. More oils and then he begins work in earnest on your toes and feet. The heat bubbles up from his fingers and you sigh with contentment. As the strong fingers begin a firm, elegant kneading of your calf muscles your mind returns to your online conversation of the morning and once again you feel the heat in your groin. 'Fuck', you think to yourself, 'that man knows how to turn me on'. The thought stimulates an undeniable stiffening of your centre of pleasure. As the fingers work up to the backs of your knees, you abandon yourself to thoughts of your lover and the Paris afternoon he has created so vividly for you. You can almost smell the boulevards and the cafes, see the half-light of the street where he proposes a heavy kiss, sense his warm breath in your ear as you exchange intimacies in the bistro, and feel his fingers working you under your micro skirt beneath the table. In your mind the fingers of the masseur become your lovers' and the liquid fire begins to flood between your legs as the fingers harmonise with the fantasy and move to your upper thighs.

Involuntarily you widen your stance a fraction and the fingers follow, oiling the inside of your thighs and working closely to your apex. You are momentarily grateful for the biology of female sexuality which enables your arousal to be concealed, although that makes you think of your lover's anecdotes about being caught out in public with an erection, and you smile. The fingers are working dangerously close now and you have a momentary concern that you are close to that point where your wetness leaks and the scent of your arousal will betray you.

It is precisely at that point that a finger strays and brushes directly over the place where your swollen clit is straining against your thong. Shame and electricity flush through your body, tautening your nipples and your throat. You are caught in the moment - should you protest? Should you adjust your body to deny another opportunity? But the shock and the fear of an embarrassing scene paralyse you. You realise you are holding your breath, waiting, waiting as the fingers continue their rhythmic sweep, waiting to see if the encounter will be repeated.

It is.

Once again a flush of shame jags through your body. Once again the moment passes before your paralysis can be overcome.

The hands finish work on your legs and you hear more oils being applied. Has the awkward moment passed? You don't want to make a scene but you can't do nothing. You feel the towel being removed. This is normal but, in the confusion, has the faint resonance of a sexual gesture. You realise you are holding your breath.

The hands resume, but on your upper back. As the pressure of the massage recommences, you realise how taut your nipples have become and the constant frotting against the towel on the massage table is beginning to send flashes of electricity from them to your definitely swollen clitoris. Your body may be relaxed but your mind is on full alert now - fuck, this is a difficult situation. But the hands stay firmly on your back and the anxiety diminishes, although the arousal doesn't. Retreating once more into your daydream you find yourself wondering how it would be with your lover. For all his charm and intuition you sense in him an assertive self-interest. You are sure he would be direct with you, taking what he needs, knowing how to excite you by taking his uncompromising pleasure from you. You try and assemble the fragments of images in your mind, to visualise him above you, mounting you, your legs over his shoulders, how it would feel being taken roughly by him, his hot breath in your ear. Fuck, you want to be taken hard like that, fuck, no one has taken you like that for a long time. You remember a one-night stand, long before you were married, when the illicitness carried you over the edge so many times. You re-live the scene in your mind. The sensual fingers are working your lower back hard and the sensations mix with the part-memory part-fantasy and the frustration on your clit is so intense that, involuntarily, you widen your stance again.

In an instant you snap back into the present, holding your breath because the movement must have been obvious and you know that the masseur has observed and understood it because suddenly his hands are stopped. There is an agonising pause. Then slowly, quite deliberately, he lifts one hand and entangles his fingers in your hair. And then slowly, and deliberately, his other hand reaches between your legs and cups your mound. This time there is no mistaking the gesture and, in the brief moment which it takes for you to fully understand, he has located your stiff clitoris through the fabric and is stroking it with power and precision.

Shame, embarrassment, confusion shoot through your body, pulse racing in your throat. A thousand phrases come to mind for you to use and cascade before your darkened eyes.

But the only sound that breaches the silence is a deep, wanton, soft groan. It is you.

The grip in your hair tightens and the finger stroking your pressure point slides the fabric aside and probes your wetness. Fuck, the sensation is overwhelming, taunting, and irresistible. Another moan breaks from your throat and for the first time you scent your own arousal. You are shamed, angry, momentarily defiant and utterly in heat. The finger returns to your clit and circles it expertly. The sensation is too intense and the moans are now beating rhythmically in your throat. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, I want this to stop, I want this to stop, groan, I want this not to stop. Your hips are thrusting back to engage the finger, on your clit, in your soaked pussy, anywhere, anywhere oh please anywhere that will prolong the sensation. The thong is expertly removed and somehow a line is breached - you spread your legs in a primal gesture of invitation, fuck that feels good to open yourself out, offering yourself up. The hand guides you, pulling your knees forward so you are on your knees, your pussy now totally on offer - fuck oh fuck that feels good. Your head is still firmly held pressed sideways into the couch and your hands are above you clawing at the towel beneath.

The fingers resume their probing, a careful, directive mastering of you, working first your clit then sinking into your soaked pussy, then back to your clit. You are being skilfully worked to orgasm, your sensations calculated, anticipated, controlled and manipulated. The intensity builds somewhere deep inside you and you recognise the imminence of the coming orgasm. You groan deeply and with abandon. As your bottom lip begins to quiver you sense rather than feel the hard cock and you open your mouth to receive it. The velvet hardness fills your mouth, you feel the heat and the pulse. The masseur is groaning lightly too now as he gently fucks your mouth. His fingers still control you by the hair, and continue to work your clit and pussy. The intensity centres in you and starts to spread - and at that precise moment an oiled thumb presses your anal rosebud for a second and, even as the guttural groan of desire escapes your throat, pushes past and fills you. You are lost and the orgasm starts to shake you. He is coming in your mouth, hot spurts of thick cum splashing against the roof of your mouth and leaking from your lips onto the towel. His groans are mixing with yours, your bodies wracked in a wild resonance. He holds you in position for what seems an eternity and then, as his softening cock slips from your mouth, he gently releases you, lowering your hips to the couch. The last sensation you have before drifting into a profound sleep is that of being tenderly wrapped in a clean, crisp sheet.....

You come slowly to your senses, disorientated, confused, surprised. Was it a dream? You rip off the blindfold and blink in the soft light. The room is empty, just a standard room, rows of oils stacked on shelves, clean towels and a few magazines. You sink back onto the couch and think for a moment. 'What the fuck happened there?' Did anything happen there?' Gathering yourself you sit up and wrap yourself in the sheet and ready yourself for the shower. Suddenly a memory strikes you - you remember the 'masseur' groaning as he came - he was definitely groaning in a very British accent...