He then took over. He didn't ask, he simply assumed and took the initiative and that also excited me.
"Lift up a little," he said quietly as he slid his fingers into the waistband of the pale blue, lacy boy shorts. "We don't want to get any oil at all on them, do we?"
"Fuck he's taking my knickers off," I thought as I did as he asked and lifted my bottom up. And that is exactly what he did, he took my knickers off. It was an amazing feeling to be lying on my front, squashing my D cup boobs on the mattress, my eyes closed, the room dim with soothing jazz playing as this stranger, kneeling beside me his bare leg, pressing against mine slid my panties down my legs. I knew that he must have seen all of my bottom and maybe my pussy as well from between the backs of my slightly parted thighs, which I closed as turning onto my back I saw that he was looking away so did not see my more 'interesting' side and the large features that contained!
Thankfully, he then replaced what I was starting to think was my shield; he laid the towel across me covering me from my breasts to a little way down my thighs.
In my wildest dreams I had not imagined that this would be anything other than a dead straight massage. After all it was a five-star hotel and happy ending massages as I had heard them called were not offered in them, or were they in the Netherlands? Obviously, when I capitulated and let him take my panties off, that was the thin end of the wedge. I was accepting that this was outside the norm, but I wondered was that my norm or the central Amsterdam norm? I knew from visiting the city with my ex that there were many sex clubs where customers could watch live sex and where, if the inclination took them they could join in. I had been tempted, but resisted although it has long been a fantasy of mine to have sex in front of an audience.
It didn't take a genius or a visionary to work out that with that most erotic of gestures this was probably not going to be a straight massage if I did not want it to be. And from then on it wasn't. His touch became softer, more of a caress than a massage, he went nearer to my more intimate places and his body, mainly his knees and legs came into more frequent contact with mine.
But my 'shield' stayed in place. The towel just about covered my breasts and my rock-hard nipples that I saw made very obvious indentations in the thin material. It also mostly covered my pubic patch which was shaved bald. That somehow comforted me and gave me the reassurance that this could be whatever I wanted it to be. Leave the towel covering me and I would be telling him not to go much further, but let him remove the towel then the world would be my, and maybe his as well, erotic oyster. Did I want that? Did I want to be 'had' by a masseur; did I want a happy ending? Just an hour ago all my answers to those questions would have been negative, but now, naked beneath the towel I was not so sure and that really did shock me.
I would have expected that if or, when 'the action' started I would be nervous and be torn as to whether I would really go through with it and do whatever sexual act or acts turned out to be on the agenda. But I wasn't. In fact, it was quite the opposite. I was enjoying being nearly naked and covered by just the thin towel, I had liked having his fingers running over my bare bum and his eyes gazing at me. I had found him removing my panties to be an incredible turn on, his light touches to be soothing yet arousing and his bare legs pressing against my hips and legs inviting and exciting. The combination of these made me a little nervous for clearly, I knew they were the precursor to me doing something much bigger; just what that was I wasn't sure.
But what I did know was that probably I would do something sexual with this intriguing masseur. He shuffled down to beneath where my feet lay on the mattress and took hold of both of my ankles. Without asking, he pulled them apart, wider and wider. He didn't say anything at all but I suddenly got the most stringent charge of sexual arousal as I felt the towel move with my legs and his fingertips brush up the inside of my left thigh, stopping just inches from where my pussy lie open, wet and waiting. But waiting for what I wondered; a finger, several of them, a tongue, his cock or all of them? I just didn't know and in a weird way I didn't seem to care either. It was as if I was in a dream or a trance as gradually the world outside this room and everyone other than Hendrick and I were beginning to disappear. It was almost as if this room was becoming my world and he and I were the only inhabitants of it. It was as if my world had become or was becoming an erotic paradise. And that was scary, but exciting and it was dawning on me, I liked it.
I felt his knees against the soles of my feet, he was pressing there as he caressingly massaged my inner, upper legs. Even in the dim light, and with the towel being just about still in place, he could probably see my pussy lips, under the towel and I wondered if they were glistening with my excretions.
He lifted my right foot. That made the towel slide up that leg so that the edge of it was likely to be level with my pubic mound. He caressed and massaged my ankle, my instep, the arch and each of my toes individually. That was surprisingly erotic. He lifted my foot further and pressed, quite hard, on the sole, massaging all over that and the ball of my foot. And then, he rubbed the bottom of my foot against the silk of his dressing gown; I was not sure, though what part of his body that was covering, well not at first that is. But then I gasped with sensation as I felt the bottom of my foot being pressed against what was obviously his bulge through the silk. He wasn't erect, but there was some hardness there. It was such a charge, I loved it.
With my eyes tightly closed, I felt him shuffle between my opened legs, his knees pressing against the inside of my legs, just above my knees pushing them even wider apart. As he did that, I felt the towel slide further up my legs, I knew he must be staring at my open pussy and wet lips.
Then suddenly he stopped. I felt the pressure on the mattress reduce as he moved around and knelt above my head. He poured more oil onto my chest and began to massage that around my collar bones and down the flat part before moving onto where my full breasts normally flared up but annoyingly with me lying down were sagging to the sides. Round and around his enticing fingers went as they moved nearer and nearer to where the swell of my boobs started and where the flesh became so much more sensitive. On each swirl of his hands, he moved nearer to that area and I felt myself half wanting him not to stop, but to go on and caress my breasts. The other half, my alter ego, did not want that. That wanted him to stop, that wanted me to leave the spa, yes that wanted all this to end. My mind was in total conflict with my body. The former, the sensible and responsible part of me said stop, the latter, the more cavalier and adventurous part was saying go on, cup and caress my tits. God what delicious anguish I was going through on that mattress?
Inadvertently, maybe, the side of his hands brushed against the swell of my boobs and the edge of the towel. It pushed the towel up my boobs so that it was barely covering my rigid nipples. I gasped.
"Ok?" he asked, moving his hand away from the sensitive flesh. Of course, I should have avoided the issue and not answered, but before I could even think, I heard myself moaning.
"Mmmmmmm."
"Good, I am pleased you are enjoying it Jayne," he said moving round me so that he was now kneeling by my hip. His leg was pressed against the towel causing that to ride up the swells of my breasts so that it was now caught on my nipples and it was just them that were stopping it sliding down the undersides of my boobs.
"I need to do your tummy Jayne," he said in a matter-of-fact way as he folded the towel so that it still covered my boobs, but obviously bared the lower part of my body. My pubic mound, landing strip and the lips of my pussy were naked to his gaze. He had another small towel though and he draped that across me and as far as I could see he did not even look at my intimate parts. I smiled thinking 'he has seen plenty before.'
Lying there on my back, naked and covered in just the two towels I got the chance to have a good look at my masseur. He was better looking than I had at first thought, but I realised he was probably older, possibly late forties or early fifties and that shocked me for some reason. Kneeling beside me, he leaned forward and placed a pillow under my head, gently lifting my neck to do so; I liked his gentleness and consideration.
Then with a jolt I realised that I also liked the way the lapels had now slid very widely apart showing his hairy chest. It was open to his waist; there was no sign at all of a bloated stomach, in fact, what I could see looked firm, taught and flat. Nice, I thought.
He shuffled from alongside me to behind my head, out of my view. Before he moved out of sight, though, as he shuffled alongside me, the bottom part of his robe gaped. I wasn't sure, but it looked as though he was naked under it. Momentarily, I thought of plunging my hand inside the robe, but of course I didn't and I put the lurid thought out of my mind very quickly.
As Hendrick gave me one of the loveliest scalp and face massages I had ever had, something I find immensely erotic even when performed by a straight masseur or a hairstylist, my mind was consumed with wondering whether he was naked under the robe. That seemed such an important issue. My mind was buzzing with curiosity and queries. Was he naked, was he hard, how big was he, was he circumcised and would he later offer to fuck me with it, or simply let me hold it? Would he present it to my mouth for me to suck and if he did what would he taste like? Indeed, though, would he do anything at all and did I want him to? Maybe it was just all tease and come on? Maybe it was him offering and perhaps it was down to the customer, me, to accept? Possibly that was massage etiquette or even the law in this sexually enlightened country. It could be, I was rationalising with my sex addled mind, that legally he could not suggest sex, but could respond. Who the fuck knows? Jesus, was I going mad I wondered?
Those questions had to remain unanswered though, at least for a while, for he had started to massage the front of my shoulders along my collar bone. My eyes were tightly closed, but I knew he would have to be leaning forward from his kneeling position. I frequently felt the silk of his robe, probably the cuffs or elbows, brush across my face; a heady sensation indeed, silk is so sensual. Then I opened my eyes and saw that it was not the cuffs or elbows, but the folds covering him beneath the waist, the part covering his stomach and genitals. Still, I couldn't see them and how I stopped myself from reaching up for it, I have no idea. It is so unlike me, but I had such a desire to feel and stroke his cock that my body was exploding with want.
Perhaps that was his plan, I wondered? Maybe that's just how it was in Amsterdam? Possibly they are so sexually liberated that they sort of lay out their stall and leave it to the other person to take what's on offer? Was that what he was doing? Was he extending an invitation and leaving it to me to accept or reject it? The problem was that I had no idea of the sexual etiquette of a massage service in Netherlands so I had no idea what to do. So, like the Victorians I just lay back and thought of England!
