My Secret Date with the Massage Therapist

It’s almost four in the afternoon, and I’m driving toward the coast with my hands tighter on the wheel than I expected. I’m not going to my monthly session with Leonardo, although for months I knew him only as the massage therapist who adjusted my back and asked whether the pressure was okay. This time there’s no massage table, no appointment book, no receptionist, and no soft office music.

We had crossed paths on one of those apps you open out of boredom and end up closing with your face burning. At first we pretended to be normal: comments about work, movies, the weather, anything that allowed us not to admit that we already knew who the other person was. Then the conversations began stretching into the early hours of the morning, and every message seemed to touch me where his hands still didn’t dare.

He was in his thirties, with a calm voice and the confidence of someone who knows the human body without ever rushing. I was also an adult with my life in order, and yet I found myself waiting for his voice messages as if they were a clandestine date. There were carefully chosen photos, half-finished phrases, long silences, and one night when he told me he couldn’t keep imagining me without trying me.

We chose a small motel, far from our routines. Nothing luxurious, but clean, discreet, with a room at the back where the noise from the avenue reached us only as a murmur. I arrived half an hour early because I needed to do something with my nerves, turn them into movement, into details, into a scene I could control before losing control.

I left a bottle of water on the table, lowered the curtains a little, and lit two scented candles I had bought without knowing whether they would be too much. In my suitcase I put oil, lubricant, a couple of small toys, and a box of condoms. It wasn’t a solemn declaration or a planned choreography; it was my way of accepting that this date wasn’t going to stop at shy kisses.

I showered slowly, although inside I was rushing. The water fell over my shoulders, and I imagined his hands following that same path, getting to know me without the professional distance of other afternoons. When I came out, I put on a black outfit he had already seen in a blurry photo, one that made me feel exposed and in control of myself at the same time.

When he knocked on the door, I took a deep breath before opening it. Leonardo was there, wearing a light-colored shirt, his hair slightly damp, and a smile that vanished the moment he saw me. He said nothing for a second; he only lowered his gaze over my body and returned it to my eyes as if he had just understood that everything we had written had been nothing more than the prologue.

—I thought you were going to welcome me with a drink, he said, stepping inside slowly.

—I preferred to spare us the formalities, I replied.

He closed the door without taking his eyes off me. The room suddenly seemed smaller. I was barefoot, my back against the wall, and he moved forward until he was so close that I could smell his soap, his skin, something warm and clean that made me squeeze my thighs together.

His first caress was on my face, almost cautious. He held my jaw with one hand and brushed my mouth with his thumb, as if confirming that I was real. Then he kissed me. It wasn’t a greeting or exploratory kiss; it was a long, wet kiss with tongue, the kind that scrambles your breathing and makes your body lean forward before your mind has decided to.

I grabbed his shirt and pulled him closer. He pressed me against the wall with just the right amount of weight, without crushing me, and I felt his hard desire against my belly. The pressure drew a moan from me that I tried to hold back, but he heard it and smiled against my mouth.

—That’s what you sounded like in my favorite voice messages, he murmured.

—Then don’t stop.

He didn’t stop. He lowered one strap with his teeth and bared one breast, then the other, without any unnecessary delicacy. His hands, which I knew from having him massage my knots and shoulders, were now on my nipples, squeezing them between his fingers, tugging lightly, testing which pressure made me arch my back.

He kissed my neck and moved down with his mouth to my tits. The first lick was slow and hot, and it made me close my eyes. Then he sucked one nipple hard, released it, bit it lightly, and moved to the other while I threaded my fingers through his hair. I felt my skin ignite with a mixture of embarrassment and shamelessness, because part of me still remembered his white coat and the massage table, while another part wanted him to take everything off me right there.

I fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. My hands were trembling, but not from fear. I caressed his chest, his abdomen, the line of his belt, and when I moved lower he let out his breath against my collarbone. I felt how big and hard he was beneath the fabric, and that unmistakable evidence made me wetter.

—I want to see you, I told him.

He moved away only enough to take off his shirt and unbutton his trousers. There was no hurry, but there was hunger. I sat on the edge of the bed and watched him undress until he stood before me, aroused, breathing heavily, his eyes fixed on my mouth.

I knelt before I could think about it too much. I took him in my hand and felt him grow even harder at the contact. I stroked him slowly, from base to tip, watching his face so I could learn him the way he had learned my back over the months. When I brought him to my mouth, Leonardo braced one hand against the wall and murmured my name as if it had escaped him.

I sucked him without embellishment, eagerly. At first slowly, letting my tongue circle the tip and travel down the length of his cock; then deeper, until I felt him touch the back of my throat. He didn’t push me, but his fingers closed in my hair and his hips began moving in small thrusts that made me salivate more.

—What a mouth you have, he said in a broken voice. You have no idea how much I thought about this.

Yes, I did. I knew because I had imagined it too—in the shower, in bed, even in his office while he asked me to breathe and I pretended his hands didn’t arouse me. I looked up at him and kept sucking, alternating my mouth with my hand, wetting him, listening as his control began to crack.

He pulled me up before he came. He took me by the arms, made me stand, and kissed me with the urgency of someone who no longer wanted to wait. We stumbled toward the bed, laughing faintly between gasps, and I fell backward onto the mattress with my legs open.

Leonardo knelt between my thighs. He removed my last garment with a slow tug, looking at me as if he wanted to preserve the entire image. I felt the cool air against my wet pussy and covered myself for a moment out of reflex, but he moved my hands aside and shook his head.

—Let me look at you.

The words went straight through me. I stayed still, exposed, while he opened my legs wider and lowered his mouth. First he kissed the insides of my thighs, one and then the other, close but not where I needed him. Each kiss made me move my hips toward him impatiently, until at last he ran his tongue over my pussy and my entire body tensed.

It wasn’t a timid caress. He licked me hungrily, from bottom to top, parting me with his fingers so he could taste me better. I moaned loudly, surprised by my own voice, and he answered by pushing his tongue in more slowly, more precisely, as if he enjoyed having me open and trembling beneath his mouth.

I clutched the sheets. He alternated his tongue with his lips, sucking my clitoris until I was breathless, then moving down to slip the tip of his tongue inside me before coming back up. When he inserted two fingers, curling them with the same expert patience he had so often used to find knots in my back, a cry escaped me.

—There, right there, I begged, barely recognizing my own voice.

He did it again. And again. His fingers went in and out with a firm rhythm while his mouth worked over my clitoris. The room began to shrink down to that: his tongue, his fingers, my wetness, the obscene sound of my body receiving him. I felt my orgasm building like an impossible pressure to contain.

I came in his mouth with my legs trembling, holding his head against me. It wasn’t elegant or quiet. It was a raw explosion, my back arched, my thighs closing around his shoulders, a long moan leaving my throat rough.

He climbed up my body without wiping his mouth. He kissed me, and I tasted myself mixed with him, something intimate and dirty that aroused me again before I had even finished recovering. I scratched his back and wrapped my legs around him.

—Now, I told him. I want you to fuck me.

Leonardo opened the box of condoms I had left on the table. The gesture was quick and natural, without breaking the mood. He put one on while I watched him, still open for him, then took some lubricant between his fingers before settling himself over me.

His first entry was slow. I felt the tip pressing, my body yielding, opening to receive him. I looked him in the eyes as he pushed farther in, inch by inch, until he was completely inside me and we both went still, breathing as if we had just crossed a line that had been waiting for us for weeks.

—I imagined you like this, he whispered. But not this much.

I couldn’t answer. I moved my hips to ask for more, and he understood. He began with deep, restrained thrusts, measuring my reaction. Each stroke filled me in a way that made me press my fingers into his shoulders, and soon I stopped trying to sound discreet.

The mattress began to creak beneath us. He held one of my legs behind the knee and brought it toward my chest, opening me wider. The new position made him go deeper, at an angle that tore another sharp moan from me.

—Like that, I said, almost voicelessly. Harder.

He obeyed me. His thrusts became harder and faster, and I received him with my mouth open, feeling each stroke shake me from the inside. There was no massage therapist or client anymore, no messages or cautious fantasies. Just two sweaty, naked adults fucking in a room that smelled of candles, sex, and hot skin.

I pushed him back so he could sit against the headboard and climbed onto him. I needed to move at my own pace, feel him from above, watch him lose his composure beneath my body. I guided him inside me again and lowered myself slowly until he was seated fully inside me. We both moaned at the same time.

I began riding him with slow, circular movements, squeezing him with my legs. He held me by the waist, then moved his hands up to my tits, kneading them while I rose and fell on his cock. I loved seeing him like that, his head thrown back, his jaw tense, trying not to come too soon.

—Look at me, I asked.

He opened his eyes. I made him watch as my body took him again and again, as he disappeared inside me, as my wetness gleamed on his skin. The sight seemed to break something in him. He gripped my hips hard and began lifting and lowering me at his pace, penetrating me harder and deeper while I braced my hands on his shoulders to keep my balance.

My second orgasm came dirtier, more intense. It wasn’t a gentle wave, but a brutal contraction that closed around him. I remained almost motionless, trembling on top of his body, while he kept moving in short strokes to prolong my pleasure.

—I can’t take any more, he said through clenched teeth.

—Come, I whispered in his ear. I want to feel you.

He laid me down again and put me facedown, with a pillow beneath my hips. He entered me from behind with a hoarse moan, gripping my waist. That position left me completely surrendered, my face against the sheets, my ass raised, his body covering me as he fucked me with a mixture of urgency and precision.

The strokes grew faster and faster. I felt his fingers digging into my skin, his broken breathing against my nape, the sound of our bodies colliding without shame. I was already sensitive, almost too sensitive, but I didn’t want him to stop. I wanted him to finish like that, inside the fantasy that had finally acquired weight, sweat, and a voice.

Leonardo came with a low growl, pressing himself deep inside me. I felt him shudder over my back, go still, and breathe as if he were short of air. I closed my eyes and let the silence fall over us, broken only by the fan and our bodies trying to become normal again.

Several minutes passed before we moved. He withdrew carefully, got up, and returned with a damp towel and a bottle of water. There was no speech and no absurd promises. Only a tired smile, his hand caressing my leg, and that strange complicity shared by people who can no longer pretend that imagining was enough.

I stared at the nearly burned-out candles on the table. The room no longer looked prepared; it looked used, lived-in, ours for a while. Leonardo lay down beside me and kissed my shoulder with a tenderness that didn’t soften what had come before, but made it more real.

—Next time, he said, I’m not going to wait three weeks to see you outside the office.

I smiled without opening my eyes. I knew there would be a next time before he said it. I also knew that when I returned to his massage table and acted as if nothing had happened, every professional touch would bring this room rushing back to me—my mouth on him, his tongue between my legs, and the certainty that some dates begin long before anyone touches the door.