Getting Spanked On The Inside

I’m awfully sad to see tumblr banning porn. Especially since I only ever used tumblr for porn. It’s been a fun ride. Thanks for coming along with me.

Having a really hard time refraining from just straight up asking massage daddy out via email right now.

When I got there on Friday, I was worn out from a pretty garbage day in court. He knocked on the door SO quickly as I was getting undressed and I said “just a sec.” Then I finished and crawled under the sheet and said “okay” and he came in as I was adjusting my hair. Put the bolster under my feet and tugged the sheet down to get his hands on my back.

It was a warm, solid touch that wrapped around the side of my body. I thought I could feel it say “I missed you” but admonished myself for being fucking crazy. It was maybe three minutes before he said: “I meant to ask you how far you are in The Magicians.”

I smiled because I could hardly wait to tell him and because he’d remembered to ask. “I’m halfway through season two and It. Is. So. Good.”

We talked about how the end of season one was kind of rough and I told him about how Julia having the Beast take her shade and then give it back hit me right in the feels, more than anything else. He responded with a sympathetic hum and then his hands slid down to my butt.

He was on the left side, wasting no time sinking into my pain spots and rocking over them. “How is Ms. Hip doing?”

“Much better than the last few weeks. Not perfect but... workable.”

“That’s good to hear,” he said, rocking a little faster.

I felt my body begin to clench and tried to reign myself in. This was friendly conversation and therapeutic work. This was not the time to make this touch into something more than it was. This was not the time to impose my fantasy narrative on the situation.

He came around and up to my shoulders and asked me if I’d heard about the new Tolkien movie project and we wound up talking about The Silmarillion and linguistics and living in Finland to learn language and how I was there when it was dark. He slid down the sides of my body while I told him about how I got my real ID with a fake birthday. He came down to my right buttock while we laughed about about his first cell phone, about explaining old internet to my baby sister, about how he used message boards on AOL, about my propensity for catfishing as a child in the early days of the Internet.

“So, you were that girl, huh?” he laughed.

“Yeah, I guess I was,” I laughed back. The laughter trailed off as his fingers curled over the skin on my right buttock. As before, there was no deep search for pain here—only pleasurable, lingering caresses that seemed to dance in circles, fingers moving independently. The tightness returned. One hand braced at the top of my inner thigh as the right hand continued to dance and slowly began stroking my inner thigh, up and down. There was purpose, direction. I tried not to impute intent, but the rhythm... the feeling of my skin, my muscles, his hand pushing so, so close to where I wanted him and never actually reaching. The flare of hope that he would cross the gap. Two enormous shuddering clenches made for a tiny, unsaftisfying orgasm and then he was gone... down into the sweet little dance in the spot on my calf that sets me on fire.

The force of the strange burst of miniature orgasm seemed to dissipate some, but not in a way that let me cool down. It kept me right at the edge, aching with longing as he moved back to my left buttock and began a gentle caress there, seemingly unrelated to my pain.

I managed not to moan aloud. I tried to remind myself not to write this narrative while he was touching me, tried to keep myself in the moment, tried to focus intently on the simple pleasure of his skin on mine.

I felt the orgasm building again and I wondered if I should say “dinner” because that’s the sign we agreed on for when it felt like this, but I couldn’t make myself. I didn’t want him to stop.

He moved up to my shoulders, then, and one firm caress to both shoulder blades turned swiftly into his elbows digging in deep. I felt the wind escape me, felt his body seeming to press all the way through mine as his elbows ground into my aches. He was so close. So much of his body was over mine and I just wanted more, closer, deeper. I wanted to bury my face in him, wanted to press my entire body to his. More, more, more...

His hands ran from shoulders to hips a few times, lingering on my lower back and wrapping around at my hips a bit. I could feel his breath in my hair for just a second. I found myself panting when me came around and removed the bolster, lifting the sheet for me to turn over.

I propped myself up and looked at the headrest to see how much of my makeup had come off. I turned over, spending more attention on wiping my eye makeup than covering my tits. I blinked into the light, bright after having had my eyes closed, but he had moved down the table to place another bolster.

He picked up the headrest. “Did you get mascara all over my pillow again?”

My stomach flipped, my mind suddenly flashing with the idea of staining his sheets with my makeup. With the idea of being in his bed. I fumbled thorough something about having more paint on my face than usual, immediately regretting my failure to use the opportunity for innuendo.

He was moving my hair and wrapping his hands around the back of my neck before I could retreat too far into it. I felt his fingers creep up around the sides, pressing in at the choke spots slowly, almost hesitantly. The sort of touch meant to imply the hand around my throat I’d blushingly admitted drove me wild without actually crossing that line. He tilted my head to one side to focus on the other and I nuzzled into the hand holding the side of my face as his other hand dug in firm at the side of my neck, gripped my shoulder without mercy before a caress that moved back up into my neck with a maddening build back to the certain pressure where he’d started. I heard his breath, almost as ragged as mine. My lips parted and I tried to keep breathing through my nose, but the occasional gasp snuck in through my lips.

He tilted my head to the other side and a barely perceptible whimper left me as he repeated the grip of my shoulder right over my scar, sliding tenderly up my neck into the near choke. And again. And again. I began panting openly.

He came up under my skull, working into my scalp and the place where my head met my neck, fingers occasioanlly threading in my hair. Then he came around to my temples. His fingertips brushed over me between strokes, curving over the shell of my ear, down the side of my face to my jaw, a fleeting kiss to my earlobes between index finger and thumb before pressing in at my temples, at my jaw, digging into where it clicks when I’m stressed.

His hands paused before pressing both my shoulders down, pressing my chest down from where I’d scrunched up with the panic of desire. I willed his hands to slide down over my breasts, willed his fingertips to find my nipples—which were more sensitive than I can recall them ever being.

They didn’t. Instead, he walked around to my left side, sat down on the yoga ball beside the table, and picked up my hand in his. We held hands, palms together but fingers not threaded, linked at the split between index finger and thumb. The warmth and the intimacy of it was almost too much as he worked on my shoulder, my bicep, my elbow, my forearm, my wrist with the other hand. When he reached my wrist, he squeezed my hand a little tighter before working into the split between each finger. I remembered the last time I came from his touch there, and felt embarrassed for thinking it might happen again. My heart quickened, but only just before he stopped and moved to the other side. He held my hand again, but seemed to hyperfocus on my elbow, my wrist on the right side. His fingers linked with mine for the briefest second and I came, a gentle fluttering thing.

There was still something bigger behind it—something all-encompassing, something complete just beyond the surface that would not let my body come to rest or return from the precipice.

I knew I should say “dinner.” I should say something. He should hear that I was dying over his touch, that the need was too great. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I didn’t want him to stop... and I didn’t know how to explain that this touch—so far from anything explicitly sexual or illicit—was so blindingly intense for me. I couldn’t figure out, in that moment, if there was anywhere on my body he could have touched me that wouldn’t have felt the same way.

He came back to my left side and sat on the table, so that my lower leg could feel his body seated next to me. He pulled the sheet aside and exposed me up to the hip. The sheet pooled loosely at my crotch and I sucked in a deep breath as his hands smoothed up from my knee to the top of my thigh.

With one hand under my knee and the other sliding around to the inside of my thigh about midway up, he eased my thigh open just the tiniest bit to give him access. Holding my knee and occasionally dancing his fingers in the crease there in something between a tickle and a caress, his other hand pressed into the flesh of my inner thigh, moving up so slowly I held my breath. He paused about two inches from where I wanted him and went back down again. Then he did it again and I felt my breath come out hard. Then again, and I felt myself mouthing “please” as I panted.

The hand at my knee found the pain spots in the outside of my thigh without warning, dug into them in ways that made my whole body go tight again. The hand on the inside of my thigh danced near the top and I felt the flutters start again, and crash over me when he took that hand down to the crease of my knee again. With one hand deep in my pain and the other creating a ticklish pleasure in the crease of my knee, my body seized for two or three beats—no more.

He moved back to the sweet spot on my calf and I felt myself release into the tenderness of the touch there. Still, the need would not abate.

He tugged the sheet almost haphazardly over my left leg and came around to the right. Uncovered me to the hip and wasted no time spreading my leg a bit wider this time. One hand rested on my hip, thumb digging circles in the exposed flesh at the outer corner as his other one moved maddeningly up and down the inside of my thigh. My panting became more insistent. I wanted to beg him. I knew I needed to say dinner. I felt my body arch into him barely perceptibly, even as I tried to control it. I heard a breathy voiceless laugh escape his lips. I nearly whined, nearly opened my eyes, could not make myself do anything because the sensation was everything. It was all I could feel, all I could think. His hands languidly explored my inner thigh like a lover and my entire being was consumed with the desire to melt into him.

I approached orgasm again—gradually and then suddenly—and it felt enormous. My breath felt like screaming. He moved into my calf too quickly for me to process the loss and it tingled but it wasn’t enough. I needed more. I needed more.

He stood and moved to the end of the table and took my foot, pressing into the arch in a way that caused me to stifle a moan before taking each toe between his fingers, sliding down and up into the spaces between them. I didn’t think I could build more, but it seemed to climb higher with each toe. The urge to say something was growing and then...

...he pulled the sheet over me and rubbed his hands over the front of my legs as though to wake me up. “Alright, B.”

A whine came out of me—not quite big enough to express the ache of losing him on the edge of something so monumental. He hesitated as my arms came up to cover my face’s agonized contortion, but then left.

I laid there, reeling, for a few moments, unable to catch my breath. It hurt, I realized, to have this much need and nowhere for it to go. My hands eventually slid down my body, but the electricity was still trapped with nowhere to ground out. I was drenched and aching and bereft and devastated.

I stood on shaking legs and hissed at myself to pull my shit together, to not be a fucking weirdo about it. I looked behind me and felt to make sure I hadn’t left a wet spot. Shakily pulled my clothes back on, fixed the smeared eyeliner under my eyes. I put my bracelet back on and opened the door and was surprised to find him immediately outside. I turned away and fasted my necklace, feeling my face flush at the small intimacy of dressing in front of him.

I turned back and he made a quip about an article he was reading. I laughed. He sat down on the table and met my eyes. “Are you okay? You were... gone for pretty much the whole session.”

I laughed and looked away and blushed beet red. “Yeah, I guess I was.” My eyes searched for a place to settle.

“Are you okay to drive?”

I laughed again and looked at my hands. Looked back up at him. Smiled. “Yeah, I... think I’ll be okay.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t know if I’m even okay to drive. Today was...”

“Long day?”

“Yeah,” he laughed.

We gripes about work and somehow moved into my phobia about global plagues and the zombie apocalypse. Had a brief philosophical argument about whether the zombie apocalypse or current state of American politics was more frightening. Chatted about video games we were playing. He told me a story about his time in the Navy. He looked at the clock and said: “I... really should get going.”

I looked st the clock. It had been 32 minutes. I blushed. “Oh, shit. I’m sorry...”

“No, don’t be. It, uh... it’s nice to be reminded that my job isn’t so bad.”

He pulled out the square reader. I paid. We wound up chatting for another ten minutes. I pulled on my jacket and walked towards the door at the end of his story of being in the lottery to be a baby daddy to a woman who wound up never contacting him again when he was in the Navy, when he might have been caught because he had good insurance and a stable paycheck. I started down the hallway and he followed me, walking me to the door.

He teased me about needing to say no more often to my array of commitments. “You need a t-shirt so you can just unzip your jacket and have it say no.”

“I could tattoo it on my hand and just hold it up,” I suggested.

“Aw, no, I don’t like that. It seems too harsh,” he said, before hastily amending: “But you should do whatever you want with your body.”

“Yeah,” I laughed.

“I’ll allow it,” he said, with a very masculine smirk.

My stomach flipped. “Oh, okay,” I laughed, eyebrows raised.

“Yeah, you know.”

“Yeah,” I laughed, stumbling towards the door, since it seemed like the only thing left to do. “See you soon.”

“See you,” he laughed.

Friday saw me whimpering into his hands as he sought to manage a flare. I didn’t come until he was working on my right hand, fucking his thumb into the space between my thumb and forefinger as he caressed the back of my hand with his. A breathy soundless laugh escaped him and I made an inquisitive sound, to which he replied barely above a whisper: “I hadn’t meant for that to make so much sound.” Then he caressed the side of my face like a lover in a moment that seemed to stand still, apart, before he seemed to snap back into massaging my temples. I might have believed it was an accident, but for the way he teased over my earlobes.

I was settling into the ache of waiting two weeks to come back when I hurt myself on Saturday night. It took waking up unable to walk Sunday morning to make the decision for me and I booked a slot online.

I came in dejected, embarrassment all over my face. “I am so fucking stupid.”

He asked me what happened, with a smile that said he knew it was going to be good.

With a hapless, high-pitched, good-natured sort of distress, I explained how I hadn’t meant to go dancing, but I got drunk and my friend was in from out of town and we somehow wound up at Bubba’s at 11:45 and my only dance moves involve leading with my butt in ways I KNOW will fuck my hip up but I just couldn’t help it.

He laughed. “To be fair, it’s not the worst thing someone has done while drunk.”

“I guess not.”

He sent me back to get undressed. I hadn’t dressed up for him, much. Monday usually involves a a pretty neutral makeup look for me. I wondered if he liked that better as I took my clothes off and crawled face down onto the table.

He came in as I was shifting. “You poor thing. It hurts just lying there, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah,” I whimpered, as he lifted my feet and put a bolster under them.

“Does this make it better or worse?”

“It’s about the same.”

“Okay.” He put his hands on my lower back over the sheet, slight pressure, but mostly warmth. “Oookay.”

He tugged the sheet down to just above my butt and then smoothed his hands down the sides of my body, ever-so-slightly grazing the sides of my breasts as he did. It was hard not to gasp, but I told myself it was too early to feel that way. It’s too early to make this about sex.

His hands came to rest on my hips, sinking in as though searching for something before he put both on the left side and began to circle there. “It looks like you’re limping less than you were Friday, though,” he said casually, as one of his hands moved under the sheet and began digging directly at the center of my pain.

“Yeah,” I managed. “I WAS feeling a lot better, which is why I went along with it. It was stupid. I’m stupid.”

“Optimistic, maybe.”

I sighed. Then the hand under the sheet slid around the side of my body and under the front of my hip as the one over the sheet pressed down and I felt myself get wet. Just a little more... just a little farther...

It was short lived. He pulled out of the sheet and both of his hands slid up my body. He came around to where my head was and slid from shoulders to hips a few times and I let myself wonder if he would touch me like that if I lifted my head and nuzzled into his crotch. He went back to my hip and the front of his jeans pressed into my limp arm. His hands worked my left hip over the sheet and he murmured: “This probably isn’t nearly enough pressure for you, is it?”

“Well...” The ache was dull, but sweet and tender. It felt incredible, but probably wasn’t doing much in the way of restoring my mobility. I laughed.

“I know,” he said, sinking in hard.

I whimpered. “I’m gonna regret that...”

“Oh?”

“It’s a double edged sword. Because, like, less FELT really good but I know I will feel better if it doesn’t feel as nice now.”

“Mmm.”

His elbow sunk in. I made myself resist the urge to clench, made myself let him in. Told myself to give this to him, to give him my pain, to offer my body to his control. Subspace came at a crawl, like a watercolor with more water than paint building in slow, deliberate washes of color. My mind toyed at whether it was okay to use subspace to move through chronic pain.

As though he could hear me, his smiling voice asked: “Aside from the intense torture, how you doing down there?”

“Good?” I eked out, followed by a torrent of giggles.

He started making sounds as though to ask a follow up question to the giggles and I shut it down: “Nnnnoooope!” He was warned, I thought. He knew where my mind was. He wouldn’t want to know more.

“Oookay.” His hands came back and pushed into from the top to create an excruciating sunspot of pain behind my eyes.

I giggled a pain giggled and squealed: “Okay! Okay. You win, it’s torture.” My giggles subsided. “I’m all for recreational torture as a hobby but, I mean, damn...”

He chuckled, easing up a little and smoothing over where it hurt. “Everyone has to have hobbies.”

I laughed again. Swallowed hard as one of his hands sunk in on the inner part of my upper thigh, just below my butt—SO close that I felt the sheet move over where I wanted him. “This one time... I did a hook suspension...”

I proceeded to tell him about what it felt like, how it hadn’t really hurt because of the adrenaline. His hands began separating the cheeks of my ass and then pushing them back together as we spoke.

“Was it for fun? Or spiritual reasons?” He asked, hastily adding: “I mean, you don’t have to answer that if you don’t want to.”

“No, I mean... it started out recreational but it wound up being a very spiritual experience. When I went up... it’s hard to explain. The ropes tighten and you think it’s gonna get worse, but it just sort of changes. And then I felt like I was covered in this thick layer of asphalt and it was just cracking open and sloughing off in huge chunks and there was just all this bright white light underneath it.”

He asked more technical questions as he moved up to sink his elbow into the rough spots at my shoulder blades. I felt the wind rush out of me, but kept telling him. His fingertips danced over my upper back, but the scars couldn’t be found in the light. We talked about practical concerns. Licensure.

When he moved back to my butt, I told him a story I’d heard about a woman who’d tried to suspend through her labia. Made a little noise about informed consent. His thumbs lingered on the center crease below my ass and I felt myself start to come, but it stopped.

He cleared his throat. Asked: “Is it okay if I do the frog leg thing?”

I stifled my laugh and managed a: “Yeah. I mean, provided my leg will bend that way right now.”

“Oh, it’ll bend.”

I gulped.

He began bending my leg up. I practiced focusing on my breathing.

“Is this okay?”

“Yup!” My voice came out really high.

His hand returned to my butt and then he paused and picked my leg up again. “I’m just gonna move it a little further. This okay?”

I felt the wetness between my legs, open to the air beneath the sheet. I could feel the sheet on my legs, but wondered where the bottom touched down. It definitely wasn’t tucked in. I managed another: “Uh-huh.”

“Is it too much?”

“No. It’s, um, manageable.”

“Okay.”

He worked into my glutes hard and I could feel myself getting wetter by the second. His knuckles ground into my sit spot like a spanking where the connection between blows never breaks. I felt the sheet move between my legs and wondered where his face was. Where his other hand was.

He paused and lifted my leg up more, further than I thought possible. “This okay?”

I whimpered. “Uh. Yeah?”

“Where does it hurt?”

“Um,” I gulped. “It’s difficult to say just now.”

He laughed. One hand came to rest flat on my lower back, the knuckles of the other still pressed into my sit spot. “Is it because—“

I didn’t let him finish. “There’s no, uh, specific sharp pain just now. Sort of more a... dull all-over ache.”

“Good.”

Both hands worked into the spread-up cheek of my ass, thumbs occasionally spreading me wider. He was breathing deep and loud enough for me to hear. I breathed in gasps, exhaling in whooshes. It would take nothing from here, from this angle. It would take nothing at all. Maybe he was looking at me, spread wide for him under the sheet. Maybe he was breathing in my scent. Maybe—

He pulled my leg back down, tugging it straight until my hip popped. Then he came around to the right side of me. My hand, having fallen limply off the table, did not move with the brush of his hips, did not shy from the fleeting press of the bulge in his pants as he tugged the sheet down and tucked it to leave my right side fully exposed.

Having had him move from my tormented left hip to my relatively normal right before, I expected uncomplicated pleasure... but I found no mercy. He went in with an elbow and it made me gasp. If anything, he seemed to be more intent, more bruising with the other side—as though to give my aches symmetry. One hand pinned deep in the joint as the other circled deeply, punishingly in my sit spot with a virulent slowness seemingly hell bent on forcing me to carefully calculate how and when my clenched little cunt would begin to unravel for him.

The moment the tiniest spasms began, he pulled back and smoothed the sheets down my legs. I realized they’d gotten tangled in the midst of his pulling my leg up. He struggled with them a bit, clearing his throat as he tented it up for me to flip over. I made a small sound, part pain and part feeling the beginning of my orgasm slip from my grasp and part sudden shyness at how exposed I was. I turned over, making a lame attempt to cover my breasts with my arm as I did. He put the sheet back down, only just barely above my nipples. I opened my eyes to look up at him, feeling bold for a moment, but he’d already moved back to my legs, lifting them to tuck a bolster right under my butt.

When he came back and slid his hands under my neck, I tried again, but he wasn’t looking at my face. His eyes were somewhere further down, but I couldn’t tell based on the angle, and I felt compelled to close them again before he caught me looking at his chin.

His hands were less punishing, but still firm at my neck at shoulders. The side of his finger pressed down just enough to tell me he would, he could find where to blood choke me as he gripped into the meat of my shoulders. My head lolled back and forth as he switched sides, a hair’s breadth from nuzzling into the arm supporting me. Next time, I thought. Next time I might.

I stopped breathing when both hands pressed into the sides of my throat simultaneously and waited for him to slide his fingers around to encircle me. He didn’t, but the pressure on both sides was almost enough to bring me again. The tiniest whimper as he released and did it again. Held it there—held me there. Then his fingers found my scalp, tugged almost imperceptibly at the roots of my hair as they massaged at the space where my head meets my neck. I felt like sinking into him, felt myself go so slack that I was sure I was getting heavier. He moved to the sides of my face, fingertips lingering in tender play with my earlobes, then the shells of my ears. I shivered and his hands left for my shoulders, pressing down where they’d crept up, pressing down on my collarbones. My nearly-exposed breasts moved enough that I opened my eyes to make sure my nipples were still covered when he stood and exposed my leg.

I held my breath again as he pulled the sheet back, wondering if the cool air would hit me where I was so drenched I could feel my body side against itself when he pulled my leg out—just a little, just enough to work on, barely spread at all. The bruising force was back as he dragged up both sides of my thigh and I whimpered again. One hand gripped my hip, thumb working into the ache as the other sunk and dragged though lines in my thigh, seemingly painting a trail of bruises in its wake. I trembled a little. I didn’t think I could get wetter. He repeated on the other side and I couldn’t tell if he was willing my legs to open more, or if I was pushing back against him. It was almost too much.

He covered me again and then his hands were on the outsides of my hips, over the sheet. Slowly, deliberately, they moved in until his thumbs were pressed into the top outer corners of my pubic triangle. The pressure built slowly up to the same bruise and then he circled and couldn’t find my breath. The sheet moved over my wet slit and I didn’t dare open my eyes, didn’t dare look to see how close he’d leaned in, didn’t dare to take in what he looked like over me with my legs slightly parted and his hands framing the place I wanted him most, pressing, bruising, rhythmically driving.

My lips parted and I drew a panting gasp, as though I might speak, but then it was over. His hands slid down my covered legs. “Alright, Madame.”

A small whine. I didn’t slide into my usual stretch. My body had become need, and nothing else. He hesitated before walking out. When the door closed behind him, I didn’t move for another few seconds.

Then I stretched. Wrapped my arms around myself. Sat up and felt again how wet I’d become. Berated myself to get dressed and get back to work. My shaking doe legs carried me to fumble back into my clothing.

I opened the door to let him back in and gave him a shaky smile. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Be careful at your show this weekend. It’s Saturday, right?”

“Yeah,” I managed, and nodded.

He fumbled with his Square reader, made some noises about how it struggled to establish a secure connection. I remembered how the last time his hands had gone THERE, he’d talked about the same issue and I’d thought he was speaking in metaphor and we’d gotten coffee. I didn’t say anything. He gave me a discount for being a frequent flier. I paid and smiled at him and put on my coat. “Have a good rest of your day,” I said, smiling with all the warmth and light of a sunny spring day at 4:45PM.

“You, too. Try not to fall on any donuts.”

“You know, technically speaking, it’s really the strawberry syrup and the plastic drop cloth that are going to be the hazards for this show.”

He chuckled. “You lead a very interesting life.”

“Burlesque is a hell of a drug,” I replied, with a comic shrug. “See you a week from Friday.”

Massage Daddy is fucking killing me. I am dying.

I had sooo much hip pain and he was going into it soooo hard, but sooo slow and I kept whimpering because it hurt so much but then I would get sex feels and MY BODY IS SO CONFUSING. The first whimper he checked in and asked if he could change something and I whined: “Noooo, I know I need it.” The masculine laugh that followed... guh.

We chatted and joked and he made fun of me for being drunk last time. He did the thing where he spread my leg up and worked into my butt and I didn’t really get *~sexy~* from it because I was in so much pain. His fingertips pressed into the pain center and he laughed and said: “Whoa. Okay. Well... that’s... that’s a texture that’s happening in your muscle.”

His body grazed and pressed into my hands a few times. There were occasional flashes of arousal because he basically spent 45 minutes on my left butt cheek, but mostly I was just sort of hoping he would make my body stop being a jerk.

And then he sighed and said: “Don’t worry. I’m almost done torturing you.”

💀

So he did a little bit more of the rough work and then covered me up and came around to sit on the other side and just caressed my right calf sooooo gently. His fingertips found the magic spot and I let out a sigh that turned into a giggle and said, in a silly voice, “and nowwww for something completely different.”

His voice was all caring and sympathy. Smooth. Almost mockingly sweet, with a laugh just below the surface. “Yeah, you poor thing. I promise I’ll be nice for a little while.”

💀💀

His fingertips teased the sweet spot in my calf and another whimper came out—maybe because there had been so many from the pain before or maybe because it Just Felt So Good. He stayed there for a few minutes and we were silent and I let my body sink into the sheer pleasure of it.

He went up to my shoulders after that and, when his grip closed on my scar, I burst into tears. It was a long day talking about hospice for my grandma and a client who’s in too deep and it was as though everything just came unraveled. He stopped, asked if I wanted him to stay away from that spot.

“No,” I said, sniffling. “It’s just... there was a lot of sad right there all of a sudden.”

“Ah,” he said, resuming tenderly. “Picture doing that in a room full of like thirty people and that’s massage school. Subconscious body memories? Hope your ready for your classmates to find them. Something tells me they don’t do that in law school.”

I told him a story about how I used my tits to get my lawyer-friend’s ticket reduced in traffic court this week. About how my boss had caught me teaching my friend to use my patented tits-and-tears method for getting out of tickets. We talked about sexism briefly, and about how I’d hoped I wouldn’t have to rely on that shit as much after passing the bar. Ruefully, I sighed: “Well, those tricks really only work on guys who don’t see me as human, anyhow.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think you could probably get some leverage with... at least one of those things.”

I laughed, but it died in my throat as his hands smoothed over me, coming back up to sink in at either side of my neck. I was putty.

Then it was time to flip over. I did so with only a little struggle and he came to sit behind me. Traced his fingers through my hair. “Got your... trademark wild hair here,” he murmured, before sliding his hands under my shoulders. I made a small whimper in response, melting into his touch. He worked under my shoulders and over to my neck and I felt myself sinking into him, letting the hand he was working with guide me into a sort of passive nuzzle against the one holding me steady.

His fingertips kept approaching the center line of my neck and retreating. I sighed on one particularly close approach and his hand hesitated and then pushed down into my collarbone.

He pushed both of my shoulders down and then worked down my left arm, down into my left hand. The space between my fingers made my breath catch in my throat, but he didn’t linger long. Then the right side... he seemed more focused on my hand on the right side. As if reading my desire, he sunk into the space between my thumb and forefinger. Another whimper—very clearly not pain.

The rhythm was murderous and I felt my body tighten. My breathing went ragged and I careened over the edge with his thumb sunk deep into the web of my thumb and forefinger, his fingers excruciatingly gentle in their pacing back and forth at the back of my hand.

He put my hand back down and I heard a voiceless laugh—three little bursts of escaping air—as he came back up behind me. I hummed an inquisitive little sound. His voice was throaty, barely more than a whisper, as he replied: “That... made more sound than I meant it to.”

I gulped, my mouth suddenly very dry. His hand came up to the side of my face and caressed down the side of my cheek twice—first with the pads of his fingers and then with the backs—and it was so unbearably tender that I almost burst into tears again. The back of his fingers lingered for barely a second before both hands set about massaging my temples, my jaw. As he did this, though, his thumbs caressed over my earlobes in the sweetest, softest way. I wanted him to never stop. I still want him to never stop. It is taking literally everything I have in me right now not to email him and beg him to please, please touch me again.

💀💀💀

Then the front sides of my legs. My aching thighs, my murderous hips. The outer corners of the crease at the top of my bikini line. The shiver in my breath as the play, press, dig of his fingertips there spread into broad, smooth, warm, full hands down the front of my thighs,

The last thing he did was return to my left hip, dancing back into the deepest ache of me with fingers and thumbs and palms that knew both pain and pleasure were ready to burst just below the surface. The delicate dance of turning my pain into delight. The sense that he could, at any moment, bridge the less-than-an-inch gap between his touch and my bits. The sensation of becoming too wet. The way deep pressure on your thighs can resonate elsewhere. I was panting. I was drowning. I was biting my tongue to make sure I wouldn’t beg. I let one tiny whimper creak through my clenched jaw. He didn’t stop.

Not then, anyway. After my body seemed to heave a deep, shuddering sigh into his relentless teasing at my hip, he covered me up, ran his hands down my legs over the sheet, and said: “Alright. You survived another one.”

A tiny moan from a closed mouth as he walked out the door and I stretched.

💀💀💀💀

I got dressed in a daze, unable to relinquish the thought of that breathy little chuckle. When I opened the door and he came back in, he breathed: “Wow.”

I tried to look busy with getting my coat off the chair. Burrowing myself in it.

He walked over to the corner and adjusted the heat. “I didn’t, uh, realize it was so hot in here.”

“Felt nice,” I mumbled.

Just got home. Accidentally got a little drunk before I got there. My appointment didn’t go into his calendar right, so he asked if I could come at 7:15 instead of my usual 6:30. Which feels like a date-time and is also too late to reasonably expect me not to go to a happy hour beforehand after a week like this.

We had a lot of laughs. He stumbled over the yoga ball and it was really funny. And then he gave me a field sobriety test and I made a crack at him from the time he took one and he got all stern with me and I sigh-moan-giggled. I made more sounds than usual. I came from having my elbow massaged. I’m a mess.

Honestly, I don’t know how to not *~catch feels~* for someone who will massage my calf gently while cogently debating my tipsy ass about the utility of state operated professional licensure.

Someone who goes suddenly silent when running his hands all the way up my leg and lets the silence hang as he explores every inch of my lower back and caresses my ass.

Someone who will cradle my head and neck as though I am far too delicate to hold them up myself and press his fingers into the sides of my throat just enough to make me feel encircled without actually doing so—always so careful to stay a hair’s breadth from the line of impropriety.

Someone who can make me come from literally massaging my fucking elbow.

Someone who will genuinely get a little worried when I don’t fight back hard enough at his nonsense, and who will tell me that it worries him.

Someone who grips my stupid fucking scar as though he can exorcise the pain that has been there for most of my life and then silently apologizes with feathery fingertips and leaves me bathed in golden light.

Someone who will laugh at all my dark jokes about the worst parts of humanity and who reminds me that this darkness is not indicative of some failing in my heart.

Someone whose eyes crinkle indulgently at my bursts of mock indignant rage.

Someone who makes me feel warm all over when they hold my hand.