I’ve never considered myself a nymphomaniac. Rather, be realistic: sex is a pleasure, and the more often you get it, the healthier your mind and body are. But the last three months have been dry in every sense. Moving to another city, a new job where I disappeared for twelve hours, a rented apartment with cardboard walls and an eternally sleepless retired neighbor – all this did not encourage either acquaintances or adventures. My main lover became a vibrator, and he, frankly, got fed up.
My name is Lika. I’m twenty-nine. According to my passport, Angelica, but I hated that name since childhood and introduced myself briefly to everyone. I’m of medium height, brown—haired, and have a sporty figure rather than a model one – thanks to three years of crossfit and genetics, which gave me a nice ass and a narrow waist. My breasts are small, but it’s never bothered me: but without a bra, I can at least go on the red carpet. In general, I liked myself. And I knew that men liked me—it’s just that I haven’t come across any suitable specimens lately.
My back started hurting about a month ago. At first, I attributed it to an uncomfortable chair in the office, then to stress, then to everything at once. A friend of Lera’s, with whom we once went to fitness together, after learning about my torment, threw up her hands via video link.:
— Lika, are you stupid? You need a massage, and a sports one at that. There’s a guy here, Arthur. I went to see him for six months after my lower back injury, and he got me out of the world. Hands are something. And make an appointment for the evening, he somehow gets especially emotional after eight.
— What do you mean, “especially mentally”? I grinned, sipping my tea.
“You’ll find out for yourself,” Lera winked and dropped the contact.
I studied his social media page. Artur Korneev, thirty-five years old, a certified massage therapist with a bunch of diplomas. The photo shows a tall man with short hair, a neat dark beard and calm eyes. No vulgar selfies in the spirit of “look what a jock I am”, no flirtatious captions. Only photos from seminars and rare travel shots. It was fascinating. A serious professional is what you need. No nonsense.
I made an appointment for Friday night. Seven thirty is the last window before the weekend. I’ve been looking forward to this day all week with anticipation bordering on obsession. I was reviewing his photo, imagining how his hands were kneading my shoulders, and I pulled myself together.: You’re going to heal your back, not for sex. But somewhere deep inside, a worm of curiosity was already stirring, which I unsuccessfully tried to pin down.
On Friday, after work, I popped home, took a shower, and put on fresh underwear—modest but cute: black Brazilian panties and a strapless top under a sweater. She put on perfume easily, almost imperceptibly. I looked at myself in the mirror and grunted: am I going on a date or something?
The office was small, but very cozy. Dim lights, lavender scent, relaxing music — everything is as it should be. The massage therapist’s name was Arthur. When he came in, I whistled to myself. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with attentive brown eyes and a neat beard. His hands were sinewy, with long fingers, and he was obviously a pro. He spoke softly, with a slight drawl, and his timbre sent chills down my skin.
I stripped down to my panties and lay down on the couch, covering myself with a sheet. Arthur started with my shoulders, and I immediately began to swim. He flexed his muscles as if he knew my every pain point with his eyes closed. At some point, I caught myself biting my lip and slightly spreading my legs under the sheet. The fantasy did not draw therapeutic pictures at all. I pulled myself together, but my body wouldn’t listen.
“Your lower back is very tense,— he said, lowering his palms lower. — If you want, I’ll go deeper. It will be a little intense, but then it will get easier. I nodded into the headrest and mumbled agreement.
He folded the sheet in half, exposing my back almost to my buttocks. The oil flowed down the sides, his fingers lay on both sides of the spine and began to knead the muscles in circular movements, then sinking deeper, then slipping to the surface. I gripped the edge of the couch with my fingers, trying to keep my breathing steady. The muscles inside my stomach began to contract involuntarily, and I felt a sweet languor pulling at my bottom. I prayed that he wouldn’t notice how I was reacting.
He worked in silence, concentrating. When his palms rested on my buttocks and began kneading them through my panties, I almost whined. The fabric between her legs was treacherously wet. I squeezed my hips, but he gently asked me to relax.
“The clamp is in the piriformis,” he commented, pressing his thumb somewhere very close to the inner thigh. — It also causes lower back pain. Breathe deeply.
I took a breath, and his finger slid even deeper, touching me through the wet cotton. I exhaled sharply and lifted my pelvis a little. For a second, his hands froze.
—I’m sorry,— I breathed hoarsely. “I think I am.”..
“Nothing,— he interrupted softly. — Roll over on your back.
I obeyed, blushing at the thought of him seeing a wet spot on my panties. But Arthur only looked into the eyes. He draped a sheet over my chest and began massaging the front of my thighs. His fingers slid along the inside, rising higher and higher. I couldn’t stand it and caught his hand. She hugged him to her, where it burned the most.
He looked at me for a long moment. And then he removed the sheet.
“We still have half an hour,” he said calmly, as if prolonging the session. “I have to finish my work.”
He pulled off my panties and spread my knees apart. His fingers, still slick with oil, brushed over her labia, smearing the moisture. I bit my knuckles to keep from moaning out loud. He bent down and ran his tongue over where his fingers had been. Long, slow, as if trying on sexrasskaz.com taste. I arched up and grabbed his hair. His tongue played with her clit quickly and teasingly, then pressing against the entire plane, then passing the tip. My hips trembled, and I came into his mouth, squeezing his head with my legs and burying the back of my head into the headrest.
He stood up, wiping his beard with the back of his hand. I still couldn’t catch my breath, but I was already reaching for his sweatpants. Beneath them was a hard cock, thick and slightly bent up. The head was shiny from the protruding grease. I pulled myself up on the couch, took him in my mouth and moaned — I missed it so much. I worked with my mouth greedily, helping myself with my hand, circling the bridle with my tongue and taking in the testicles in turn. Arthur was breathing heavily, squeezing my shoulders.
Then he jerked me around with his back, put cancer on the couch. I heard the condom foil rustle. A second later, he entered from behind, abruptly, all the way in, filling me completely. I screamed and immediately clapped my hand over my mouth. The receptionist was still working behind the thin wall. He fucked me silently, intently, hammering me into the couch with every thrust. His fingers dug into my buttocks, leaving marks. I felt my clitoris and started waving it to the beat. The feeling of being overheard made my excitement go through the roof. I came again, this time with him. His final thrust was especially deep, and he froze, pressing his groin against my ass as the throbbing inside me subsided.
We were both breathing heavily. He went out, pulled off the condom and threw it into the bucket by the table. I collapsed onto the couch. Oil, sweat, the smell of sex—everything was mixed up.
“Would you like more?” “What is it?” he asked with a grin, wiping his hands on a towel.
I laughed and shook my head. By the way, my back is really gone.
A week later, I signed up again. This time for an hour and a half.