fiction friday 18: the massage. (part 1)

Posted on 25 March 2016 by what sandra thinks

A little something I wrote about 13 years ago. Edited for whatever words I hated 13 years later. A bit too long for one post — I think it will be three or four parts. I hope you enjoy the story.

the massage.

massage.

I sat in the corner of the waiting room with a disappointed sigh. All week I waited for this perfect hour. Lying down, eyes closed, warm hands all over my body. But my therapist was not coming. How could she be sick today? Why today? Damn.

“Amanda?”

I stared at the woman before me, no longer bothering to hide my disappointment.

“Thanks for waiting. I do have another therapist who can give you your massage. If you want to keep the appointment?”

I stood with a sigh and a nod and followed her down the hall. Despite my disappointment, I had to concede. The warm, sandalwood-scented room with its dim lights and wine-colored walls soothed me. Maybe it would still be wonderful.

“You can undress and relax. It will just be a few minutes.” She smiled and left me.

I was kind of a bitch. I should probably apologize on my way out. But my therapist is magic with her hands. I wanted her. Who knows what sort of amateur I’m going to get now.

After gently kicking my sandals under the chair in the corner, I pulled my dress off and draped it over the back. And my delicate underthings. I wrapped myself in a sheet and sat on the massage table waiting for the therapist. Eyes closed, I breathed in the soothing scent of the room. I was tense. This therapist had better be good.

I heard a soft knock at the door. I opened my eyes and turned toward the sound. “Come in.” I stared as the door slowly opened. Hello.

Nothing could have prepared me for him. Not a damn thing. He was tall and he was gorgeous. And he wore a simple pair of jeans and a tee shirt like no one else. My eyes dropped to his feet and worked their way up to his face. Legs. Hips. Waist. Stomach. Chest. Arms. God, his arms. Hands. Strong hands. My insides danced wildly knowing those hands would be touching my body in mere moments.

Finally, my eyes met his, but not before admiring his didn’t-bother-to-shave face, his delicious-looking mouth, and the sexy bits of hair falling toward his stare. His penetrating stare. I was convinced he could see through the sheet wrapped around me.

The door now closed behind him, he stepped closer to me. “Hi, I’m Ryan.”

Of course, his voice is deep and sexy as hell. I am supposed to be having a relaxing massage, dammit. Although… this is better.

“Hi… Amanda.” Stunned my attempt at speaking was successful, I cleared my throat and tried again. “Do you want me lying on my back or my front?”

“Let’s start with you lying face down.” I positioned myself on the massage table, unwrapping the sheet from around me until it draped loosely over me. I closed my eyes. I could hear him fumbling around with lotion or oil or something. And moments later, I heard music begin playing. Oh yes, I was supposed to be relaxing. Deep breath. Right.

He placed his hands on my back, gently running them over the sheet for a moment before grasping it. He lowered it slowly, stopping at the small of my back. His hands, covered with warm lotion, glided on my skin, stroking upward to my shoulders and my neck. And I shivered.

“Is it too cold in here for you?”

“No, it’s fine.” Cold? Jesus. I am on fire.

His hands continued their magic on my back, stroking and squeezing my flesh with his fingers. He concentrated on one shoulder, rubbing and working the tension from my muscles. Satisfied, he moved to my other shoulder and repeated every perfect touch. Finally, his hands slowly traveled down my back again, along my spine. He looked for tension… for the places that demanded his attention.

And he found a place. He tended to the knot he discovered in my muscles at the lowest part of my back. I felt the pressure of his touch deep under my skin, slowly releasing the tension inside me. Perfect.

His hands slowly made their way back up my spine to my neck. Every stroke, every squeeze along his path made me tingle with inappropriate pleasure. It only magnified when he sank his thumbs into the flesh around my spine near my shoulder blades. But it wasn’t his thumbs. The rest of his fingers wrapped around me, reaching that sweet spot – the one just beneath my arm at my side where it was nearly my breast. When he touched me there, I had to hold my breath to stifle the moan that surely would have fallen from my mouth.

He took a few steps around me and situated himself at the head of the table. His hands returned to my shoulders. I knew his body was inches from my head and I had to take in a deep breath. I could smell him. Amazing, delicious, intoxicating.

After devoting plenty of attention to my neck, he slipped his fingers into my hair. Again, I feared a moan would escape but I held it inside. His touch was gentle, yet powerful enough to turn my brain to jelly. His fingers loved swimming through my hair, lingering for what felt like hours. But it couldn’t be hours. Right?

His hands returned to my shoulders, squeezing for a moment before slowly sliding down to the base of my spine. He pulled the sheet back up over me and spoke to me in the softest, sexiest near-whisper I could ever have imagined.

“I’m going to have you turn over onto your back now.”

>> to be continued <<

About what sandra thinks

Sandra is a writer, sometimes blogger, poet, artist, emotional disaster. She thinks far too much and sleeps far too little. Sandra lives in the Northeastern U.S. but dreams of an oceanfront home in Italy, but she would settle for a non-oceanfront home in Italy. She loves books, brutal honesty, coffee, and the color black. She hates insincerity, beer, whipped cream, and facebook. And she is uncomfortable talking about herself in the third person.

View all posts by what sandra thinks →