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This is the second half of my Beijing massage experience. And yes, it’s actually a true story.

There I was, in this small, dimly lit room, with goodness knows what new age music whispering through the speakers, and I found it to be a complete mismatch to the occasion. Although by the strictest definition of intercourse, I had not not had it–there was no mistaking my sudden realization of this new reality. I, a married woman on vacation in China, had just had sex with my masseur, a complete stranger no more than a half hour ago.

Still breathing hard, he eased me back onto my tummy, and patted the table, guiding my body into a more relaxed position. His hands began to move over my slippery skin once again, but in a more relaxing, soothing way. What I would consider to be a “normal” massage–but in light of what just occurred, I couldn’t make my body stop feeling the ache and fire for his touch. I remember as his hands would slip low down the small of my back to my butt, couldn’t help but shiver with the unknown expectation of what might come next. I felt like all bets were off, and anything could happen.

In this relatively more subdued moment, my mind continued to ricochet from thought to thought, trying to wrap my head around everything. My sister, Kim, had made this reservation for me, and although at the time it was no more than a passing comment, I couldn’t stop repeating one line she spoke to me the night before in my mind. “I’ve been there many times, it’s exactly what you need, Kristi.”

Did she know? Did she know there would be a profound sexual nature to the massage? Was it something she experienced? Had Kim laid where I was laying right now, and felt the explosive butterflies of aching, spontaneous sex with a total stranger? Would I even be able to ask her without giving myself away? In moments of fluttering eyes as I began to relax again, I actually wondered, was I dreaming this? Does this sort of thing actually happen?

My stream of wonder was broken softly by my masseur’s gentle pat on my hip, gently guiding me back onto my back. The pretense of modesty far, far out the window, my heart raced anew as I adjusted my position, my heavy bare breasts flattening slightly across my chest. I took a deep breath and exhaled a sigh as I watched this perfect stranger, who had yet to whisper a single word I could understand, squeeze another small palmful of lotion into his talented hand. Instead of patting this time, he simply made eye contact with me, then to my breasts, then to my eyes again, with the expression of asking permission. A small moan escaping my mouth, I nodded yes.

He started at my shoulder and luxuriously spread the lotion into my breasts in perfect, languid strokes, and I could feel my nipples stiffen. güvenilir bahis I began panting as the “massage” began to tingle into the excitement I used to feel with boyfriends in high school, each of us feeling like we were “getting away with something” in the backseat of a car. We were both naked, I felt completely exposed, and I was reveling in the attention and obvious desire that hung thick in the air.

Until that moment, one could make the case that this was still something that resembled a “massage.” The skill this man had in his magical fingers was almost mythic, but it was still mostly about physical touch, and nothing that would resemble–a romantic episode? That’s not quite the right word, but my mind creates a grey area between the two. It was about to get even blurrier as I watched my man lean in, still caressing my breasts, and open his mouth over my nipple, sucking gently.

I gasped. His hands were still a perfect melody, turning my body and mind into an instrument he was playing with virtuosity, but his mouth, lips, and tongue on my nipple–first one, then the other–was as close to sensory overload as I could take. My body again started writhing and I felt like I was having an out-of-body experience as I could feel another climax building from deep inside me. Was it romantic? Was it physical? Was it something else?

In that moment, it was everything.

I panted. Loudly, and worried that my reaction could be heard outside the room, but there was no way for me to control it. I was having a hard time controlling anything, to be honest. My head was spinning, my mind was reeling, my body was reacting, and my nipples sent an ache coursing through my entire body. When his hand slipped lower, and he again plunged several fingers inside me, curling his fingertips and swirling inside my pussy like a dream, I exploded. My orgasm was so intense, I burst into tears and was stunned to hear myself panting “fuck me, FUCK ME” as my entire body, mind and soul erupted at once.

I still don’t know what language he spoke, but I assume “fuck me” is somewhat of a universally understood phrase, and he responded in kind, pistoning nearly his entire hand inside me again and again, deep and hard, as my body continued to convulse with a climax that was animalistic and violent. As he continued to suck and flick my nipples with his tongue with his powerful hand inside me, thighs spread, I released–everything, spraying a fountain of squirt all over my thighs, the table and floor.

The room spun. I was embarrassed, shocked, dizzy, and spent. We made eye contact, and I suddenly felt even more naked than before. Bare, prone. He could have done anything to me right then. Still breathing fast and whimpering, exposed and wet, his hand now güvenilir bahis siteleri gently withdrawing, he had reduced me to little more than a wanton fuck doll. A body to receive his every pleasure. Even panting and exhausted, my arousal was something I had never experienced. A fuck doll? Cool. I was fine with it.

I needed to please him again. I needed to suck his cock. Not the same kind of measured and clinically adherent blowjob I had given to him moments before over the safety of his prophylactic. I needed to taste him. Taste his flesh. Savor the weight and meat of his impressive cock. Not as some kind of mutual massage, or a desperate thank you for the magical experience he had just given me–I lusted him. I craved him. The same passion I had ever felt in a real relationship surged in a way that made me continue to whimper and cry, even as I lunged to him and lowered my mouth onto his bare cock. His hand slipped into my hair, and I growled, taking as much cockflesh into my mouth and throat as I could before spluttering a bit. I threw all caution to the wind in that moment and sucked his sexy bare cock with utter abandon, mouth and hand working in unison, slow, then fast, then slow.

Up to that point, I had not had a lot of sexual partners. I met my husband in college, and had only had a handful of serious boyfriends before that. But I am proud to say, giving blowjobs has always been something I knew I was good at. The intimacy, the release, the power–there were many times I was giving an intense blowjob over the span of my life where I was actually surprised to hear my partner audibly respond, so deeply enamored and single mindedly enraptured by the taut flesh of cock, it was startling to remember there was a person connected to it. I was voracious now, devouring this total stranger. And he liked it. Almost as much as I did.

My masseur was becoming my lover, if only temporarily. I greedily inhaled him. Bobbing deeply on his cock, releasing it to glide my tongue up and down his length before swallowing him again. He began to pant, his breathing ragged. I looked up into his eyes and swooned with a shiver, his sexy, needy stare prompting me to caress his full testicles before drawing them into my mouth with a few gentle swirls of my tongue. God, I am wet remembering the feeling of him and the way he guided his rigid length back into my drooling mouth with a gentle thrusting motion. My masseur was fucking my mouth, and I wanted it. I wanted him to fuck my mouth until I could feel the spasms of his orgasm jetting hot cum down my throat.

Alas, sadly, reality intervened, if only slightly. Afterwards, I wondered if there was some sort of exchange-of-fluids policy that was forbidden at the spa, and I actually hope that iddaa siteleri was the case, rather than his preference. It disappointed me, but only slightly, as he began to tense with his own climax–his second of the session–by fisting a handful of my hair and pulling me back, away from his cock. Quickly putting two and two together (I am a math teacher, after all) I knew he was about to cum, but I didn’t want to surrender him so quickly.

In one motion, I slid off the table and onto my knees. He had already gripped his own cock, presumably to relieve himself safely, but I was having none of it. I placed my hand on his for a moment, and leaned forward, pressing my slippery tits to his stroking motion, finally enveloping his cock between my full, heavy breasts, and pressing my flesh around his. He nodded with a gasp, and proceeded to thrust, hard, in my cleavage, fucking my tits with an intensity that is indescribable. It was almost like he was inside me, and I felt the dull spasm of his orgasm surge through his cock, looking down to watch his creamy white ejaculation spray and bubble all over my tan flesh, soaking me, making me drip with his prodigious mess.

Jesus fucking Christ. He wanted it as much as I did. His eyes closed, and he growled with his relief and satisfaction, as I released him and felt his semen drip down my chest and tummy with warm, gooey legs. I was aware of how I looked. I liked it. It made my entire body hum with excitement. It was my most insane and daring moment. So unexpected, but so needed. I don’t know if I’ll ever have another experience like it, which is fine, because I’m not sure my body could take it.

When the massage was over, I had no idea how to act. No idea how to say goodbye. It was all so weird and awkward. Eventually I got dressed again, and prepared for the end of my session, temporarily alone again in the room. I looked around–wet sheets, wet towels, a little puddle on the floor. My cheeks glowed red with embarrassment. But just when the anxiety crept back up on me, my masseur reentered the room, and gestured with a wave of his hand, and a few soft clucks of his tongue, as if telling me “not to worry.” He had it covered, apparently. So–one answer, finally: this was not his first time. But I was fine with that. Nothing could diminish the euphoria I felt. I felt new. Powerful. Sexy, and wanted. I wanted to scream with happiness.

True to his way, my masseur didn’t lean in to kiss me goodbye. With a soft smile on his face, he extended his hand to shake mine. I ignored it, and gave him a huge hug. And I didn’t care if I was supposed to, or not. I liked this “no rules” new version of me.

I buttoned myself up, and walked out–ugh. Now I’d have to have an even more awkward conversation with my sister. But even that didn’t bother me, shockingly. She was right. This was exactly what I needed. Thank you, Kim.

And, Mr. Masseur. I don’t know who you are, but you changed my life. So, thank you you. You were nothing short of amazing.

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