The Last Massage

The massage studio smelled like sandalwood and sweat, but underneath that was something sharper—her perfume. Lena. She’d been watching me all evening from behind the reception desk, and I’d been watching her back.

I came for the deep tissue. Stayed for the way her fingers dug into my shoulders like she knew exactly what she was doing.

“You’re tense, Mark,” she said, her voice low, almost a whisper. She pressed her palm flat against my lower back. “Really tense.”

“Long shift,” I muttered into the face cradle. “Bartending. You know how it is.”

“I know how to fix it.”

Her hands slid lower, over the towel covering my ass. She kneaded the muscle there, slow and firm, and I felt my cock stir against the padded table. I tried to think about something else—the clink of glasses, the hum of the cooler—but her fingers found the edge of the towel and tugged.

“Lift up.”

I did. She pulled the towel away and tossed it on the floor.

“You have a nice body,” she said, like she was stating a fact. “But you’re all locked up in here.” Her hand cupped my ass cheek, squeezed. “Let me work on that.”

I turned my head to look at her. “Lena…”

“Shh.” She smiled, slow and dangerous. “Don’t talk. Just feel.”

Her fingers traced down the crack of my ass, and I sucked in a breath. She circled my hole with her thumb, pressing just enough to make me gasp.

“You like that?”

“Yeah,” I breathed.

She laughed, soft and dark. “Good. Because we’re doing this my way.”

She pulled her hand away and walked around the table. I heard the click of a bottle opening, then felt something warm and slick dribble onto my back. Her hands spread it, working down my spine, over my ass, between my cheeks. Her fingers found my hole again, and this time she pushed in.

“Fuck,” I groaned.

“That’s it.” She worked her finger deeper, slow and steady, while her other hand gripped my hip. “You’re so tight. When’s the last time someone fucked you?”

“Been a while.”

“I can tell.”

She added a second finger, and I buried my face in the cradle, moaning. My cock was hard, pressed against the padded leather, and I wanted to touch it so bad, but she hadn’t said I could.

“Don’t move,” she said, reading my mind. “You move when I tell you to.”

She pulled her fingers out and I heard her undressing—the rustle of fabric, the soft thud of her shoes hitting the floor. Then her hands were on my hips, turning me over.

I lay on my back, naked, hard, my cock standing up against my stomach. Lena stood over me, wearing nothing but black lace panties and a smirk. Her tits were perfect—full, heavy, with dark nipples that made my mouth water.

“See something you like?”

“Yeah.”

She climbed onto the table, straddling my hips, and I felt the heat of her pussy through the lace. She leaned forward, her hair brushing my chest, and whispered in my ear.

“You’re going to lie there and take it. Understand?”

“Yes.”

She reached down, pulled her panties to the side, and lowered herself onto my cock.

The sound she made—a low, satisfied moan—sent a shiver through me. Her pussy was hot and wet, gripping me like a fist, and she took her time, inch by inch, until I was buried inside her.

“Oh, God,” I groaned.

“Quiet.” She started to move, slow and deliberate, rocking her hips in a rhythm that was all hers. Her hands pressed flat against my chest, nails digging in, and she watched me the whole time—watching me struggle, watching me ache.

“You feel that?” she asked, her voice husky. “You feel how wet I am for you?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s because I love this. I love having a man under me, helpless, begging without words.”

She sped up, her thighs slapping against my hips, and I gripped the edges of the table because I didn’t know what else to do with my hands. She was so tight, so wet, and every roll of her hips pushed me closer to the edge.

“Don’t you dare come,” she said, her breath catching. “Not yet.”

“I can’t—I’m close—”

“I said no.”

She slowed down, almost to a stop, and I groaned in frustration. She laughed, leaning down to kiss my chest, her tongue tracing a line up to my neck.

“You’ll come when I tell you to,” she murmured. “And not a second before.”

She started moving again, faster this time, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. I felt her pussy clench around me, felt her whole body tense, and she let out a cry that was half-moan, half-laugh.

“Now,” she said, her voice breaking. “Come for me. Now.”

I didn’t have a choice. I thrust up into her, once, twice, and then I was coming—hot and hard, filling her, my whole body shaking. She rode it out, grinding against me, her own orgasm rippling through her, until we were both spent.

She collapsed on top of me, her forehead resting against mine, both of us breathing like we’d run a marathon.

“Same time next week?” she said, a smile in her voice.

I laughed, weak and breathless. “I don’t think I’ll make it to next week.”

“Good.” She kissed me, soft and slow. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”