You're lying on your front on a towel, under a shade cloth, on the beach. Your skin has been drinking the fresh air, and your body has been relaxing in the midday warmth, tempered by a soft, ocean breeze.
You wake to hands on your back, firm. Moving up from the small of your back, up either side of your spine, and finishing deep under your shoulder blades, then back down to the small of your back. Over and over. Warming your body.
Then those hands move lower, starting to work into the tight muscles in your hamstrings, down your calves, your feet. The fingers knead at those oft neglected curves, travelling occasionally up to your butt, thumbs pushing into the muscle, releasing trouble spots. Now your top and bottom halves are both warm, flooding with the encouraged circulation, and you get a certain urge.
You roll over, smirking, but a blindfold is immediately placed over your eyes, and a voice tells you, "Not yet. Just lie down. Enjoy it."
Now those hands are moving over your front, tracing the dips and rises of your torso, over your ribs. Fingers brush your nipples, and you bite your lip trying not to give in to the urge to jump on your masseur. Those hands move up to your shoulders, down your arms, thumbs seeking out even more of those small tight spots. Then it's back down to your legs, your hips. But not your pussy, not even a little bit, not yet.
After an eternity of long, slow, sensual touching, your legs are pushed gently apart. You plant your feet firmly, ready for whatever happens.