Massage Confessions: The Married Man

“My wife booked the appointment for me…”

Now, in my experience - and I’ve had a lot of experience, as you can read about here - a guy will tell me this, ahead of him popping his clothes off and lying down on the massage table, for one of three reasons:

1. He’s a genuinely sweet guy and his partner has done a lovely thing, and there’s no more agenda to it than that.
   (This is the most common instance!)

2. He’s a paranoid guy who’s heard tales of seedy Thai massage parlours and is wanting to firmly establish from the outset that he’s a happily married man and has no interest at all in THAT kind of thing, thank you very much.

3. He’s a man who’s been with the same woman for X number of years and so is politely warning that me that he’ll almost certainly get an erection when I start touching him, and that if all that nonsense he’s read about seedy Thai massage parlours IS actually true, then he’d not be against the idea… As long as you don’t tell his wife.

It may or may not surprise you to learn that, after eight years of being a professional massage therapist - and even more years during which I was an enthusiastic amateur - I can usually tell from the moment the line is uttered which of the three categories the man in question will fall into.

Often because, if it’s number three, he’s usually saying it while taking in a substantial eyeful of my tits.

This is a tale of one such an occurrence. I’ll save you the lengthy backstory and my philosophy as to who gets themselves some ‘extra attention’ and why, as i’ve covered it all previously in this post. However there’s no obligation to read it, this can be enjoyed entirely standalone.

Professionally, I split my time between providing massage and therapies in an a luxury high end spa, and carting around my own portable massage table to see clients in their own homes. Needless to say, it’s usually the latter in which any ‘extra curricular’ situations tend to occur.

Because I’m an excellent employee who would never, under any circumstances, do anything that might bring the exceptional reputation of the wonderful Spa in which I work into disrepute. Obviously.

So if any of my bosses happen to have glanced upon this page; fear not, you can stop reading right now.

Everyone else, read on and enjoy.

Hi. I’m Robyn. And this is another confession of a masseuse.

“My wife booked the appointment for me…” said the man, making no attempt to disguise sliding his eyes up and down the length of me, a little smile reaching the corners of his mouth suggesting he wasn’t exactly unhappy with the view.

Not that it took him long to take me in. I’m only 5ft 3. I have to keep an emergency box in the corner of my usual therapy room to stand on in case of reach issues.

“I bought her the spa day for our anniversary, but she insisted I treat myself too.”

This, I could only assume, was a not so humble attempt at a humble brag. The Spa describes itself as ‘luxury’ which, in non-corporate speak, translates as 'is fucking expensive’ and a spa day for two including treatments would easily be costing him more than a few hundreds of pounds.

To put it bluntly the man, like most of my Spa clients, positively reeked of wealth. This, inversely, often makes me remarkably un-inclined to indulge in any additional fun with them. All too often excessive wealth brings with it an undertone of presumption and expectation which, of nothing else, is usually a significant turn off.

But there’s a difference between a humble brag that misses the mark and an actual brag, and this man - Leo - had at least been attempting something relatively humble. Plus, he had that rarest and most alluring of features; grey eyes, so I was actually quite enjoying having them all over me and relished him taking me in.

“She’ll just spent most of the day going back and forth between the hottub and the sauna via the bar though,” he paused, he grey eyes twinkling, “so she’s at least saved you the awkwardness of a couples massage.”

Couples massages can indeed be the most toe-curlingly awkward thing on the planet. Or, in one very specific incident, one of my favourites stories to tell when I’m drunk. But we’ll save that for another time. And when you’ve all bought me lots of alcohol.

Pre-assessment complete; no; this wasn’t his first massage, no; he had no allergies, yes; he liked it firm, “be as rough as you like with me,” he’d said with what I was sure was a knowing twinkle, I stepped out of the room to let him undress and get himself on the table. While he did this, I took a brief lap of the spa facilities wondering if I could guess which was his wife.

The female clientele of a luxury spa tend to fall into one of three categories; the genuinely beautiful, the ones who *think* they’re beautiful, and those who have spent a small fortune in trying to look beautiful but have abjectly failed.

Instinct told me that Leo’s grey eyes would have secured him a beauty and, while I couldn’t be certain, the slender and legy brunette beauty at the bar struck me as very much his type.

Perhaps he wouldn’t be so interested in this short-arsed busty blonde after all.

In the treatment room, Leo had made himself comfortable on the table. I’d been mildly concerned that with him lying face down and his alluring eyes restricted to gazing at the floor I’d have nothing of note to look at myself, but was delighted to discover that Leo clearly kept himself fit and was in possession of some incredibly attractive back muscles.

The joy was twofold as 1) I’m a pervert who loves nothing more than to gaze upon a handsome torso and 2) being able to actually *see* the muscles makes the massaging process significantly easier.

Every massage therapist has their own ‘starting move’. Some will begin with hands on the lower back working up, some provide a gentle rub across the neck/shoulders to assess tension.

I start with my forearms.

I position myself above the client’s head, lean over them and press my forearms either side of their spine and slide outwards.

It’s a beautifully relaxing sensation, lets me feel if there’s anything notable to deal with, and the immediate satisfied breath out they’ll usually deliver upon it’s completion helps relax both them and me into what will follow.

Leo let out an exhale that seem to come from the depths of his soul. It was tremendously satisfying and gratifying to hear. He immediately followed this up with:

“Fucking hell. Your boyfriend must LOVE you!”

Ah, the games we play and the dances we dance. Yes, this could be looked at as merely a compliment, and indeed a very kind and sincere one. But you know better than that, don’t you, reader? You know exactly why he said that, using those precise words.

It was an inoffensive and non-creepy means of ascertaining whether or not I had a partner, so that he could adjust his expectations for what may follow accordingly.

Yes, reader, I know all the tricks.

As it happened, I didn’t have a boyfriend at the time.

Not that having one had ever stopped me having fun at work, obviously. But he didn’t need to know that.

“Yeah!” I said, eagerly. “He’s a big fan. That move either puts him to sleep every night or…” I paused salaciously, “or wakes him up…”

I considered clarifying ‘IN A FUN WAY’ rather than inadvertently inferring I was his human alarm clock every morning, but the awkward giggle and slight readjustment of his hips suggested Leo had taken the innuendo as precisely as intended.

A solid thirty minutes of, even if I say so myself, damn fine massage work ensued. Leo’s shoulder-blades clicked, crunched and cracked like they were made of bubblewrap, and it was an incredibly satisfying time for all concerned. The idle conversation throughout would be best described as something between ‘charged’ and ‘frisky’, but falling short of ever tipping over into overtly ‘flirty’.

Leo’s wife - Anna, I’d since ascertained - had booked him a full body massage, which meant we’d reached the always exciting (for me) moment when her husband was going to have to roll over, and I’d get to see how he dealt with the potentially awkward and often exciting moment.

I’ve discussed the psychology of the ‘roll over’ moment here, so I’ll not rehash it all again.

It turned out not to be all that much of a ‘moment’ in this case anyway; the firmness of the massage had kept Leo firmly ‘in the zone’, and there was no awkward erection to hide.

Yet.

Leo looked even better from the front. In his late thirties, his naked torso was toned and attractive without being excessive. His grey eyes blinked and sparkled under the treatment room lights.

If I wasn’t so professional I’d likely have attempted to mount him there and then.

Instead, I re-oiled by hands, and began to slide them up and along his calves.

There’s a significant psychological difference between being face up and face down in any given situation. It’s true for sex, and it’s true for massage. Face down and you can relax and be at peace with whatever nonsense is going on around you. But face up, suddenly everything feels that little bit more exposed.

I was running my hands along his legs, just as I’d been doing when he was lying on his front. But now I could see his face and his reactions and, crucially, he could also see mine.

Or he could have done, if he hadn’t been looking directly at my tits again.

“I’m just going to say this now before it gets awkward,” said Leo, tearing his eyes away from me for a moment, “there’s every possibility that I might accidentally get an erection during this. I’m really sorry and I can put my hands over it to cover it if that’d help, but I don’t want you thinking I’m just playing with myself…”

I laughed. He’d aimed for confident and ended up gabbling.

“Don’t worry,” I said with a smile. “Happens all the time. Nothing to be embarrassed about.”

I waited until I saw his shoulders relax before I continued.

“After all here’s me rubbing bits of you only your wife has got to see for however many years. Totally understandable that’d make you a little excited.”

I almost winked when I said excited, but I managed to stop myself. Because I’m a professional.

Maybe it was the mention of his wife. Maybe it was the breaking point of the increasing tension. Or maybe it was because I’d moved up front his calves to his inner thigh. For whatever unknowable reason it might have been, this was the moment Leo’s cock decided to leap to attention.

And when I say leap, I mean LEAP. The thing shot up like a jack in a box on a tightly coiled spring. There was no gradual increase, no stage of a semi at all. It was zero to hero in the blink of an eye.

“There it is!” I said, desperately trying to stop myself from guaging the size of the mound beneath the towel. “And now that’s happened, you can relax again…”

Leo literally let out a sigh of relief. Which was precisely what I was waiting for.

“Unless Anna booked you in because she thought that part of you needed some attention, of course?”

Yes, It was a bold move actually using his wife’s name at that specific moment, but like any good massage at this point I figured it was probably go hard or go home.

Leo was speechless. He tried to summon something to say but seemed utterly incapable. All of his early bravado and confidence had entirely evaporated. All he managed was a weak nod.

“Is that a yes?” I said, locking eyes with him. “Because I kinda need to know for certain before I switch to doing something that would definitely get me fired if anyone ever found out…”

“Yes! Yes, absolutely yes!” he said, suddenly finding his voice again. To reiterate the point, he reached down and whipped off the towel that was currently covering his midriff, revealing a pair of grey Calvin Klines that were visibly straining under the tension of his erection.

His underwear was almost the precise same shade of grey as his eyes, I thought to myself. Then I suggested he might want to remove the underwear too, and the similarity never crossed my mind again.

Now lying naked on the table, his cock hard and raised like a monolithic sundial, Leo sat upright eagerly.

“So are there any rules I should know?”

“Don’t make too much noise, don’t get caught and don’t get me fired!” I said, sternly. He nodded in sage agreement looking like an orphan hurrying through saying grace so he can finally eat.

Putting one hand on his sculpted chest, I gently pushed him back to a lying position and took his cock into my oiled other hand. Immediately on my touch I felt it tense and throb in my palm.

“Fuck this is going to feel so good!” said Leo.

“Sssh.” I said, putting my finger to his lips.

A finger he promptly took into his mouth and sucked on.

He was going to be one of *those* guys. Clearly, I’d have to set the terms.

I’d usually start with something more sensual, but instead gave his cock a couple of firm tugs while I pulled my finger from his mouth and him a very gentle smack on the lips.

“Sorry,” he said, meekishly. “I’m used to being the one in control.”

“Maybe your wife lets you do whatever you want with her,” I said, feeling his cock throb when I said the word ‘wife’, “but this is my room, and I’m in charge.”

The grin on Leo’s face suggested he wouldn’t have a problem with that.

Which meant it was time to have some fun…

To be continued…

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