Auckland, New Zealand, is nearing the end of 100 days in lockdown. I left home early, about 7:30am --a hot day was looking likely--for my daily walk, which I've made increasingly challenging as the weeks slowly passed by.
This morning I drove to Mt William, Bombay end, determined to complete the loop through the fields with steep inclines and equally steep declines, to the peak of the (small) mountain and down the other side to the short, cool bush section and the final gate. From there, it was a 2 km road walk back to the carpark.
The mountain ascent and descent went well, and a little over an hour and a half later I entered the final stretch of road back to the carpark, my starting point. When in sight of my car, I was passed by a female cyclist riding in the opposite direction, and we smiled at each other as we crossed paths.
I made it back to my car with aching feet and sore lower back, so took my time winding down with a cold drink and some fruit.
Lo and behold, the same cyclist soon came barreling uphill to pass me again, reached the end of the road, U-turned and pointed her bike downhill. We exchanged smiles, once more.
Was she finished or starting another lap, I wondered.
About 15 mins later, as I was packing up to move on, she reappeared. This time, after she completed her U-turn, she stopped beside me:
"Beautiful day, isn't it?" She remarked.
I paused while I took in an attractively athletic body, which overwhelmed a rather plain but nice enough face, especially when she smiled. I guessed she was about mid-fifties to my 70. Ideal.
"Sure is, but it's warming up now!"
This was true; the morning cloud had burned off and the heat was really taking effect.
"Are you local?" She enquired.
"Close enough. You?"
"Just down the road towards Mangatawhiri."
"Great. I'm still quite new in the area. Tell you what, my lower back is really killing me after weeks of lockdown. Do you know any good local masseuses?"
"Well," she chuckled, "You're looking at one, but I can't reopen yet."
Bummer, just my luck.
"Oh well, back to the Advil, I guess,' I said, with an obviously crestfallen expression.
"You poor man," she replied, with a wide, but kindly smile. "But look, my studio is only 4 kms down the road, and I'll fix you up, unofficially, no booking, no fee. I'm out of practice, anyway. If you want, just follow me."
Free massage! I wasn't going to turn that down! I absorbed her directions, agreed that she would need about a 10 minute head start and off she went, allowing me a nice view of her toned butt--very nice, I thought. I wouldn't say no, for sure, if the opportunity arose.
I caught up as she rode into the driveway of a small, 1950s style farmers cottage, and went directly to a separate building, a mass produced garage/lock up. Once she dismounted, I could see she almost came up to my shoulders, so around 5 4." She led me inside. It had been fully kitted out as a comfortable studio, with a sturdy looking massage table in the center of the room and a shower and toilet in a little side room.
"Right," she said, in a brisk, businesslike tone. "You don't want to be putting these smelly things back on after your shower, so whip them off. I'll take them to the house and chuck them in the machine to get washed and dried."
I hesitated, my hands hovering at my waist.
"Don't be shy," she chuckled, "I've seen it all before, all shapes and sizes."
Seen what, exactly, I wondered, but thought better of cracking that joke so soon after meeting her.
So I disrobed, handing the items over one by one: shirt, shorts, undies (no socks), and stood there like a possum caught in the headlights, my arms hanging loosely at my sides.
Something else was hanging not so loosely, in fact, just ever so slightly stiffening, to my horror.
Still chuckling, and barely looking, she threw me a towel, telling me to just sit on the edge of the massage table after my shower so she could do my head first, when she came back.
"Um, OK, one thing," I said, as I quickly wrapped the towel around my waist, " I'm Pat, you?"
She laughed, an appealing, tuneful laugh: "Here you are naked and we haven't even swapped names! I'm Carol. Lovely to meet you, Pat."
And off she went. I showered, sat on the table as instructed, the towel wrapped around my waist. I was lost in thought when Carol quietly returned, wearing a tiny, modest enough, although kinda transparent in the bright light, wrap-around that just covered her intimate bits, loosely tied so that her handsome breasts were all but falling out-definitely more than a handful!
Seeing me ogling her tits (yes, I'm just the usual, tit loving, horny guy, nothing special about this Kiwi), she smiled and simply remarked, in matter of fact tone, that it was getting very hot in the studio, which it was, and made no attempt to stop her tits from nearly falling out every time she moved.
Carol then turned on a relaxing birdsong track, fetched some oil from a cupboard and stood directly front of me, my eyes almost level with hers. She reached up and started on the top of my scalp, the unruly lock down hair growth not seeming to bother her, nor her now almost wide open robe. A good head massage is pure bliss, and, although I had inclined my brow towards her breasts to facilitate her work, my focus was on the sensual pleasure of her expert touch.
Pure bliss. I thought I was in heaven.
Next she wrapped her fingers around the back of my head, pulling me closer, much closer towards her breasts, as to bury my nose between them. Embarrassed, I jerked back. She laughed and spoke with a soft and sultry whisper, breathing into my ear: "I do tantra, too. You can touch me as much as you like, wherever you like. And wherever means wherever."
At that, I moved my hands inside her robe and rested my hands on her hips, stroking them gently while she concentrated with a firm touch on my scalp.
Was it my imagination or had her breath quickened, and her lips now so close that they were brushing my brow?
I stilled my hands on her slim and curvy hips and relaxed into her touch, closing my eyes against her chest.
Carol broke my trance by gently grasping my head in her hands, bringing my forehead to her lips for a soft, lingering kiss, and whispering, "On your tummy, Mister."
