Title: The Art of Being Touched
Two Sides of the Same Seduction
(His Touch. Her Surrender.)
Introduction:
Some experiences are too powerful to be told from just one side.. This is the story of a massage that became something more, told first through his hands, then through her skin.
Part I -- His Perspective
I've learned that some women come for relief. Others come to be reminded they still have nerve endings.
She walked in like she wasn't sure which she wanted--but something about the way she avoided eye contact told me she wasn't here just for her shoulders. I'd seen that look before. Hunger, carefully dressed in modesty. Need disguised as posture.
She wore the scent essential oils --Vanilla, Coconut, unnecessary. That told me more than her intake form ever could.
She undressed slowly, like she was used to being watched. When she laid down on the table, face down, her body relaxed into the sheets with the grace of someone used to control--and ready to surrender it.
But before I touched her, I took my time.
The Study Before the First Touch
I watched her for a moment in silence--naked and unmoving, bathed in the low amber light of the room. Her stillness wasn't shy; it was purposeful. A silent challenge: if you're going to touch me, make it mean something.
She was stunning in a way that resisted hurry. The soft slope of her spine guided the eye down to the rise of her ass--round, high, and held with the kind of quiet tension that made my palms twitch with anticipation. Every curve seemed sculpted for worship, not indulgence.
Where her thighs met, there was that sacred place--dark, unseen, yet unmistakably present. She didn't shift or part her legs. She knew the effect of stillness. And that made it even more powerful.
I warmed the oil between my hands but let it sit there a moment longer, using the silence to memorize her--the smooth terrain of her lower back, the dimples just above the swell of her hips, the way her ass crested with soft defiance. Firm where it teased strength. Plush where it promised surrender.
This wasn't a body to be taken.
This was a body to be earned.
Only then, after my eyes had finished their worship, did my hands begin their work.
--
The oil kissed her back in warm streaks, and my hands followed close behind. Long, slow strokes across her shoulders, down her spine, just above her hips. She exhaled evenly, maybe too evenly. As if she was trying to stay composed.
With each pass, I tested tension. In her muscles. In her breath. My fingertips followed the length of her curves like they were reading a language she didn't speak aloud. She melted beneath me in increments--small sighs, delayed exhales, the faintest parting of her thighs.
She didn't flinch when I leaned closer. She didn't pull away when my hips came a little too near. Her hands, dangling loosely over the table's edge, brushed mine.
The first time was an accident.
The second time, I made sure it wasn't.
I let her feel it--thick, half-hard, resting heavy across her knuckles. She stilled, but didn't withdraw. Her fingers twitched, then closed around me.
She chose it.
No words were exchanged. Just her hand wrapping around my cock, squeezing like she needed to confirm it was real. And then she began to stroke.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Her pace was confident, unrushed--like she knew exactly how to coax a man into silence.
This wasn't new to her. This was instinct.
I stepped out of my shorts, letting them fall to the floor. She twisted beneath me and without hesitation, took me into her mouth.
Warm. Wet. Insistent.
She didn't tease--she claimed. Her lips wrapped around the head, then slid down the shaft with practiced ease. She swallowed me deeper than I expected, her mouth an altar and my cock the offering.
She wasn't just pleasuring me.
