I muttered an affirmative.

He delved into my ass crack, spreading the cheeks as he massaged them, getting closer and closer to my…whoa! Yup, he was rubbing my labia. And with my eyes closed very tight, it felt…like I didn’t want it to stop.

He told me to roll over, then massaged my breasts with one hand while his other worked on my inner thighs, making circles that moved steadily upward. And just like that, he was fingering me, sliding one finger, then two, in and out of my vagina, rubbing my clit with his thumb. His index and middle fingers worked inside me: slow around the curves, then accelerating, teasing. His thumb traced circles on my clit, and alternated pressure in unison with the speed of his pumping fingers.

My breathing got fast, faster, then slowed as he pulled back. I sucked through my teeth in frustration—there was no longer any hesitation on my side: I wanted to come. I took a deep breath, preparing to stifle the rising moan, when he stopped. Did I want more time? he asked.

Now that I was back in reality, looking down at the middle-aged man’s hand in my vagina, it was over. I shook my head no. “Five more minutes, upstairs—free?”

Uh-uh. I gave him a twenty and booked it home.

Jamie says:

In the interest of gender equality, I’m all for happy endings for females. But while you’re waiting for the big finale, don’t forget to enjoy the best part: the massage itself. After all, you can always find a willing hand (even if it’s your own) to jack you off; what’s really rare is getting a nice hamstring rubdown.