The words stayed with me longer than the massage. Longer than the heat of his tongue or the press of his palm. Longer than the trembling that followed.
We were meant to be having the kind of holiday you remember for all the right reasons — sunshine, laughter, matching tans. But things unraveled, as they sometimes do. My mum got really really sick. I was carrying the weight of worry, trying to keep everything stitched together — my daughter happy, my mother safe, and my own sanity intact.
I’d been to the resort before, years earlier with someone I loved, and it was the familiarity I was clinging to now — the sea, the soft towels, the quiet spa hidden away beneath it all. It was the only place I remembered feeling truly calm.
When we first checked in, I’d asked if the spa had any massage appointments. They were full. I nodded politely, already swallowing back disappointment. But a few days later, when things were at their most frayed, a cancellation came up — and I took it without hesitation.
He was already there when I arrived. Tall, calm, with warm hands and a knowing smile. I remembered him from before — he’d worked on me years ago. I remembered his touch. This time, though, it was different. I was raw. My body was tense, aching. My skin was hypersensitive from both stress and the kind of longing you don’t say out loud.
The first few minutes were routine — oil, gentle pressure, his palms finding knots I didn’t know I had. But then something shifted. I don’t know if it was the way I exhaled, the way my hips subtly moved into his touch, or the tension practically vibrating beneath my skin — but his rhythm changed.
Firmer. Slower. More purposeful.
He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
And when his fingers slipped between my thighs, it didn’t feel invasive — it felt like surrender. Like he knew exactly what I’d been holding back. Like he’d waited long enough to let me break open.
I came almost instantly — full-bodied, soaking, shaking. I gasped through the face cradle, trying to catch my breath, but he didn’t stop. His tongue replaced his fingers, coaxing wave after wave from me, relentless in the most exquisite way. There was no small talk. No apology. Just wet, messy, soul-deep release.
When he finally flipped me over, I was glassy-eyed and breathless. He took his time — stroking, teasing, exploring — all of it still for me. Not a single request for anything in return. Just generous, attentive, obscene pleasure.
When I was finally able to sit up, the clock had long passed my original appointment. He opened the door and disappeared into the hallway while I shakily got dressed. My legs still weren’t cooperating properly.
At reception, I fumbled for my wallet. He stepped in, took my hand gently, and said, “You needed that. No charge.”
I could only nod, cheeks flushed, as I stepped back out into the sunshine — straight into the family pool area, where children squealed, parents reapplied sunscreen, and I was still soaked in orgasmic afterglow.
When I walked back into the hotel room, my mum looked up from her pillow, still pale but alert enough to study me for a beat. “Good massage?” she asked, her voice thin.
“It was wonderful,” I replied, meaning every word.
She raised a brow, eyes glinting just a little. “You had an orgasm, didn’t you, darling?”
I froze.
She smiled.
I didn’t correct her — though the truth was, I’d had at least six. |
