Cosmopolitan (UK)

MY BEST SEX EVER WAS… with my massage therapist

Kim’s* masseur had a very hands-on approach to relaxation…


I go to a pretty fancy gym – the type with loads of additional ‘extras’ that cost a bomb on top of your monthly membership. Stuff like oneon-one yoga lessons, physiother­apy and massages. I couldn’t really afford any of it – but I enjoyed using the treadmill by the reception desk. Why? Because the masseurs were very attractive. One in particular.

He always wore a tight white T-shirt through which I could see the outline of his six-pack, and his arms were perenniall­y tanned, with strong biceps.

He always waved at me when he walked past, and I started wearing less baggy grey tees, more fitted sports vests. Sure, he seemed to flirt with every woman in there, but it couldn’t help to try, I reasoned.

Then, two months later, I began to train for a marathon. I ached all over, and a friend suggested I book in for… a massage. I scheduled one with ‘Mr White T-shirt,’ who I learned was called Rob.* Before the appointmen­t, I’d had fantasies about what he might do to me. They’d been so vivid that by the time it rolled around, I was wet as soon as I walked into his treatment room.

After that, all the regular things you’d expect ahead of a massage happened: I made myself comfortabl­e, face down, a towel resting over my bum, and anticipate­d him re-entering the room. There’d been none of the usual flirty behaviour I’d come to expect from him – he was very profession­al, asking me where I wanted the most pressure.

His touch was like magic. As he got to work kneading my tight muscles, I couldn’t help but moan. He knew exactly where I needed him to go harder, and where he needed to be more gentle.

It was about a third of the way in that things got more interestin­g. A few more moans had escaped me and he commented on it. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?” he asked. I couldn’t see his face, but from his tone, I knew he meant it in a sexual way. I murmured a “yes”, and his fingers starting edging closer to my crotch. I was trembling with anticipati­on. Was this really happening? But just as I thought he was going to go there, he moved back to my shoulders. I was so frustrated!

“Roll over onto your back now,” he said, and I obeyed, but my heart wasn’t in the massage any more. I knew it was wrong, but if I couldn’t have sex with him I didn’t want him touching me. It was just too much.

But, as I lay on my back, he began working on my thighs again, looking me right in the eye.“I can go further, if you like?” he asked. This time there was no mistaking it. I had to stop myself from screaming ‘yes’ at the top of my lungs. Instead, I nodded, and he moved his hand up, up, up, until one finger was on my clitoris – massaging me as expertly as he had done my muscles, while the other hand remained on my thigh, stroking up and down. He can’t have been touching me for more than two minutes when I shuddered into orgasm, biting my lip to stop myself from crying out.

He then did a few cursory strokes of my calves and turned the lights up to signal the massage was over. I simply thanked him – and walked out of the room. I got a personal best when I ran that marathon. Maybe it was the massage...

“‘I can go further if you like?’ he asked”

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