The massage parlour - part I.

I read the ad for this new massage place and thought why not. Walked in, wondering if they offered more than just the usual rubs. They did. The moment her hands settled on my shoulders I felt it—warm, deliberate, nothing hesitant about it. She worked slow at first, knuckles digging just under my collarbone, then let her fingertips trail lower, skating the line between back and hip like she was testing a theory. By the time she asked if I needed a full release, her palm was already cupping me through the towel, heat bleeding straight through the cotton. I spread my legs wider. She slid the towel aside without ceremony and wrapped her fingers around my cock, giving one firm stroke before she knelt, breath ghosting over the head. Her tongue traced the slit once, slow enough that I felt my stomach tighten. Then she took me deep, lips sealing, throat working in one smooth glide. Every time she bobbed I felt her hum vibrate right through me. When she pulled off, spit slicked her lips; she used it to stroke me again, twisting her wrist at the crown. I came across her tongue while she kept her mouth open, eyes up, not missing a drop. She swallowed, stood, wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, and asked if I wanted the same treatment next week. I booked the slot before my legs stopped shaking.